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“I’m not certain.” She looked up and met Penelope’s gaze, concern showing in her expression. “Perhaps it has to do with the urgency of your marriage. There was no announcement in the papers. No courting.”

Penelope’s stomach squeezed nervously. She’d never been a favorite in the ton, but she’d also never been a true outcast. She was already married, so the consequences to her reputation weren’t as significant as they would be if she were unwed.

The only thing that truly mattered to her was her reputation as an artist, the ability to paint and sell her work. Her connection to the Duchess of Ashton and other influential people in the art community could be damaged by a poor reputation.

“Could they believe there was some impropriety between the duke and me before the wedding?” Penelope asked.

“I didn’t hear anything specific,” Calliope said. “But I will investigate and see what can be learned.” She reached over and gently squeezed Penelope’s arm, her eyes warm and kind. “Do not worry, sister. Whatever this nonsense is about, we will stand by you.”

12

On the day of Lady Leroy’s soirée, Penelope’s new gown arrived from the modiste. Her maid helped her dress and did her hair in an intricate updo as Penelope’s stomach twisted with worry over Calliope’s words the previous day.

The duke stood at the bottom of the stairs when she made her way down, with gentle lavender satin flowing around her body. Preston looked up, and his eyes widened and burned, his gaze gaining intensity to the point that he looked positively menacing.

A shiver ran through her. A tiny part of her had wanted to impress him. Mrs. Newman had created a very pretty gown, worthy of a duchess, with lace and crystals sewn into the bodice in vine patterns.

He nodded to her as she reached him, and without a word, they went to the carriage. The silence as they rode was palpable.

“Your name was to be stricken from the list of invitees,” Preston said. “But I refused to allow it. I beg you, do not undo my efforts and embarrass me.”

So, Calliope was right. Somehow, she was disgraced. The churning in her stomach made nausea rise in her throat.

“Why?” she asked. “Because you might regret you forced me to marry you? Don’t you already regret it?”

“I do not want you to dishonor the name my brother carried.”

That kicked all the breath out of her. She couldn’t argue with that.

She looked at him. “Grandhampton, I…I could never dishonor his name.”

His gaze, still intense, lingered on hers. He swallowed, nodded curtly, and looked away.

They arrived at a pretty house on Burlington Square. It wasn’t as big as Chalworth Place, but was a concise brick mansion with green ivy covering half of its facade.

When Penelope and Preston entered the brightly lit ballroom, the guests froze and stared at them just as they had when Preston entered Almack’s. Penelope’s breath caught at all the attention. He was right. This was their first social outing as Duke and Duchess of Grandhampton.

Preston paraded her through the ballroom with bright, modern colors and furnishings. Such a stark contrast to Chalworth with its dark interior and the grim faces of former dukes and duchesses. The duke kept introducing her to marquesses, marchionesses, earls and countesses, their sons and their daughters. She knew some of them from her previous Seasons, but normally she stayed in the background, not seeking out introductions to those above her station—apart from the Duchess of Ashton, of course.

The walls were mint green, divided into rectangular panels separated with gilded braided detailing. Oval mirrors hung in the middle of some of the panels, making the room appear bigger and brighter. Paintings hung on the panels between them, and Penelope ached to stop and look at every one of them. A string quartet played Bach in the corner of the room. Footmen slowly walked among the guests with trays of drinks.

Preston introduced Penelope to the hostess, Lady Leroy, a tall lady in her forties, who gave Penelope a quick, judgmental appraisal and then plastered an artificially pleasant smile on her face as she talked only to Preston. It seemed his efforts had gotten Penelope into the soirée but no further.

When Lady Leroy made an excuse and left them, a lady in her fifties came up to them. She had a beautiful face with big icy-blue eyes and wore a turban with long peacock feathers sticking from under a sapphire brooch—a recent fashion. She gave Preston a toothy smile, showing her rather rabbitlike front teeth.

“Grandhampton,” she said as she fanned herself. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“As it is to see you here, Lady Whitemouth,” he replied. “May I present my wife to you.”

She looked Penelope over from head to toe. “Of course, Your Grace. May I congratulate you on your nuptials? Of course, the news that a lucky lady managed to get the Duke of Grandhampton to settle down shook us all.”

Was she fishing for the reason behind Penelope and Preston’s quick betrothal, as Calliope had assumed? Penelope wouldn’t give the woman an excuse to gossip. When Penelope said nothing while merely offering her a smile, some of Lady Whitemouth’s bravado faded. “How is Chalworth, your new home? Do you find it to your liking?”

Anger stabbed at Penelope. She didn’t like it, not really. It was uncomfortable and cold, and it was like living in a public ballroom instead of a real home.

Another lady and a gentleman joined their little circle. One of them was introduced as Lady Isabella, the Countess of Whitemouth’s daughter. The gentleman was introduced as Mr. Stalt.

“I love the famous Seaton family art collections,” said Penelope, reaching to find something she actually appreciated about her new home.