Page 15

“Well, my darling,” he said, looking around the room, “rejoice at the riches. At least you will not have my fate of being a poor, broken man.”

Penelope felt her husband’s heavy gaze on her. The butler invited everyone into the dining room for the wedding breakfast, and Papa and the others went ahead. Penelope looked up at the duke and met his dark gaze head-on. “See what you’re doing to my papa, Grandhampton? I will not exaggerate by saying you’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Leaving him speechless, she marched down the large, elegant ballroom. Gold flashed by her in gilt chandeliers and candle sconces, chairs with gilt-carved legs, and the frames of paintings and ornaments.

A golden cage in which she would spend the rest of her life.

The dining room was so large, it could seat a hundred guests at a single long table. It stood in the center of the room, mahogany so dark it was almost ink black. Intricate gilt candleholders stood along the table in the midst of white floral arrangements of Helleborus, ranunculus, and anemones.

Nine seats were prepared at the table.

The buffet table standing by the paned windows held a beautiful and rich selection of foods—sliced ham, bacon, cold cuts of roast beef, honey-roasted duck breast, smoked salmon, fried cod, omelets, fresh rolls, five kinds of jam, and a large plate with fruit, including apples, oranges, peaches, and cherries. The apples must have been overwintered, but where in the world had they found oranges, cherries, and peaches in April? She supposed they were imported from the south. Nothing was too expensive for the Duke of Grandhampton.

The wedding cake stood on the dining table in the middle of all the flowers, a long rectangle with white icing covered with powdered sugar. Four footmen and the butler stood at attention along the walls in red and gold livery.

As her eyes continued to wander around the room, they landed on a painting that held her breath completely still.

It was William Turner’s The Shipwreck, which she and Spencer had seen at a poetry soirée. He’d sneaked her out of the sitting room during a reading and led her to the library. He’d lit a gas lamp, and Penelope remembered the sense of danger and inappropriateness of being with Spencer alone, and yet, she had trusted him.

They’d stood side by side, gazing at the painting. The angry sea was black and the sky stormy against the tattered sail and broken hull of a large ship. In the foreground, in three sloops, desperate seamen fought the elements amid the white and green foam of unforgiving waves.

She remembered Spencer asking, “What do you see here, Miss Beckett?”

She had been so overawed by the skill of the painter, she didn’t quite understand the strangeness of his voice. All she saw were the perfect strokes, the contrast of white paint against the dark, the captivating composition that held the gaze and didn’t let go.

“I see a master,” she’d said. “One I hope one day to be worthy of.”

“Oh,” he’d said, his voice puzzled, intrigued.

“What do you see?” she’d asked.

“I see death.”

What could this painting be doing here? And why would Spencer buy something that signified death for him? It had been one of the last events of the London Season the previous year, several weeks before she learned that Spencer had died.

And now she was here. Married to his brother.

As the guests filled their plates, the dowager and Richard came to talk to Penelope.

“I’m glad my Preston found someone like you,” said the old lady. “Aren’t you, Richard?”

“Yes, I am, too,” Richard said, and small wrinkles formed in the corners of his eyes as he smiled. He followed his brother with his gaze as Preston entered the room as somber as a storm.

“He was so shaken by Spencer’s death,” said the dowager. “But now he won’t be alone. He’ll have you to love him.”

Penelope suppressed a snicker. Love him? It would be impossible for her to love a man like that.

“Ah, do not give me that look,” said the old lady softly. “I know you don’t love him yet. He’s still very hurt. But you don’t know him like we all do. Please, give it time. You will see the true man he is under all those grim looks and that hard exterior. I know you will, even if you don’t see it yet. And I wish you two every happiness.”

Richard nodded and chuckled. “Don’t let my brother scare you. I know he can be intimidating, but deep down he’s as fluffy and warm as a kitten. He’s the most loyal person you’ll ever meet. He’d gladly die for the people he loves.”

Penelope frowned, studying the straight back of the duke as he helped himself to an omelet.

“It’s hard to believe you’re talking about the same man,” she said.

“I know, dear,” said the dowager. “Give it time. And if you ever need my help or an ear to listen, my doors are always open.”

Penelope nodded and smiled at her, grateful. She was sure she’d need to call upon the duchess more than once.