Page 6 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue over the meticulously manicured lawns of Lord and Lady Giltbury’s estate, creating an illusion of tranquility. But for Penelope, who had walked into this gathering with a knot of apprehension in her stomach, the beauty of the surroundings was a mere backdrop to the drama that unfolded every time she stepped into society’s gaze.

It had been three days the Duke had ordered her off his grounds, and Nicholas had not disappeared despite his question of whether he really could return if he was quieter. Ever since that night, she had not quite relaxed, and the ladies around her only made that tension worse.

The women of the ton had never been kind to her, and though she had learned to smile through the snide remarks, their whispers and glances always seemed to cut deeper than she wanted to admit.

As she moved with Violet and Amelia through the gathering of guests on the lawn, she could feel the eyes of the other ladies lingering on her. Their whispers were low but sharp, like daggers veiled in pleasantries.

“I do believe that Lady Romwich is the village widow, is she not?” one lady whispered not so quietly behind her fan. “Yes, she is the one with the son, but no husband to look after her. Such a pitiful life.”

“Indeed,” the lady’s friend said, their arms linked. “She is practically a recluse now, ever since Lord Romwich… well, we must not speak of such humiliating tragedy.”

Penelope tightened her jaw even as she kept the smile on her face. Still, Amelia’s hand securely held her elbow, as if reminding her that she was not alone. On Penelope’s other side, Violet smiled graciously, as if her social status could protect Penelope further.

Truthfully, Penelope was grateful.

A humiliating tragedy, she repeated the words to herself.

Of course, that was all she was to the ton. Just another Dowager Countess with a deceased husband, left in the ruins of a life she had not chosen.

“One must ask,” the first lady said, “what is she doing out here? Is she on the hunt? Lady Violet ought to be careful who she befriends and invites to her mother’s events. It will start to taint her own reputation.”

Penelope kept her head high, but Violet, who always seemed to thrive in social situations, shot a scathing look at the assuming woman who had questioned her choice of company.

She hurriedly pulled Penelope and Amelia past those gossiping ladies, but there were more. There were always more. Younger, prettier, freshly debuted and full of judgement.

“I am quite sure I have never seen anyone so utterly disinterested in life as Lady Romwich,” another woman from near the drinks table muttered.

“I find myself craving a glass of wine,” Amelia bit out, her hair swaying in the light breeze. Her eyes were narrowed fiercely, her eyes fixed on the newest lady to gossip, thinking herself unheard.

“Aunt Amelia, you always crave a glass of wine,” Penelope said, trying to make herself laugh, to feel her spirits rise a bit higher.

“Yes, but this time the side dish to come with such a glass could be worth it.” Her aunt’s eyes remained on the woman.

And though Penelope did try to let the words go over her head, there was nothing any lady could say that would change the fact that she was, indeed, alone. No matter how many sideways glances they gave her or how many barbed comments they threw her way, it would never change the reality of her life.

She had been through a lot—too much—even when her husband had been alive. And now…

The Duke’s hard gaze lingered in her mind, just another problem to have arisen that Penelope had shouldered alone.

“Ignore them,” Violet said softly, leaning in so only Penelope could hear, tugging her from her thoughts. “We both know they have nothing better to do with their lives than whisper about you. In no time at all, they will move onto somebody else, as unfortunate as the cycle is.”

Amelia gave Penelope’s arm a gentle squeeze even as she subtly guided her toward the wine table. “They forget their own miseries, my dear. Let them gossip. It means they have nothing else to talk about. It merely shows the state of their own lives.”

Penelope’s lips twitched into a smile. “Yes, they seem to think that because I have lost my husband, I have also lost my dignity.”

“And all know you have not,” Violet huffed. “They’re jealous.” Violet cast another icy glance at the group of women who were no longer even trying to pretend they weren’t staring. “They’re all jealous.”

It had been like this for years, since her marriage, really, and she’d never grown accustomed to it. She could feel everyone sizing her up, judging her every word, every movement. It wasn’t as though she expected anyone to embrace her.

Who would, after all?

She wasn’t a wealthy widow; she wasn’t a beautiful debutante. She was just Penelope Cadden, a woman who had been left to pick up the pieces.

As Penelope, Violet, and Amelia finally got to the drinks table, through the seemingly endless sea of gossiping ladies, the sound of footsteps behind them became unmistakable.

A group of ladies from the ton, those who made their little rounds of polite, whispered cruelty, approached. Penelope’s heart sank, her senses immediately attuned to the sharpness in the air.

Lady Worthington, the leader of the little pack, was unmistakably at the front. Her eyes, calculating and cold, slid over Penelope’s form, lingering just a moment too long before she spoke in a voice that was syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweetness that made the air thicker with every word.