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“I do,” she said, despite the desire to protect herself, her body rigid as a suit of armor.

Her husband’s eyes narrowed on her. But, unlike her father’s, they weren’t menacing. She wished she could read his expression.

Papa scoffed, then drank his tea and dropped his cup into the saucer so hastily it clunked, threatening to break.

“You do not!” he exclaimed, focusing his milky eyes on her. “No woman should be an artist, a writer, a lawyer, or a physician. Women simply do not have brains for such professions. Their place is at home, raising children and making sure their husband is happy and has everything he needs.”

Penelope put her own cup on the tea table. Grim daylight made her father’s features appear grayish. Embarrassment ran through her. But why should she feel embarrassed or humiliated or at fault in any way? She had let her father bully her her entire life, had let him turn her greatest passion into a dirty secret.

“I wish you wouldn’t say that, Papa,” she said firmly. “I certainly have a brain. Mama had a brain, too.”

That was like a blow to his midsection. He cowered into himself, his eyes dropping to the ground, his shoulders folding.

“I do not mean it in a bad way, Penelope,” Papa said. “It’s simply the way of things for women. The sooner you accept it the better. I only want to spare you humiliation. You should not hope to be an artist, only to be disappointed by public opinion.”

How could one person be both so right and so wrong? It was true that women weren’t accepted into the Royal Academy of Arts, no matter their background or social status. William Turner was the son of a barber and his mother’s family were butchers. And yet, he’d been accepted into the academy when he was fourteen years old. And now, his work had been exhibited there several times, and his were some of the most sought-after paintings in England.

And yet, she, the daughter of a baron, wasn’t allowed to be a member.

Although she didn’t think social status should be a deciding factor, either, and wished to be judged on the merit of her work alone.

But perhaps her father was correct about one thing. No man would love a woman who knew her own mind. None would want her for who she was.

So her choice was simple, really. Either submit to society’s ideal of what a woman’s life should be—sitting at home, birthing and raising children, and hosting her husband’s boring parties.

Or be unapologetically herself.

But before she could firmly decide upon which of the two paths she wished to embark, her husband’s voice shook her and made her jerk up on the sofa. “I have never been more glad that Penelope is my wife,” said the duke coldly, and yet bringing heat to every inch of her body. “And I do not think I’ve ever disagreed more with anyone in my life than I do with you, sir. If my wife wishes to be an artist, I think that is spectacular. I think she has more brains than you, sir. More brains than most men I know.”

Penelope’s fist clutched around the carved wooden handle of the sofa. She could not have just heard such a statement of support coming from him—from the man who loathed her and thought she was a fortune hunter! She peered into Preston’s face, but his profile was as cold as always, his dark eyes firmly on her father. His mouth curved into a strange smile, and she had the helpless desire to kiss those lips.

He had uttered only a few words. But no one had ever protected her like that.

Preston met her gaze then, heat and a meaning she couldn’t decipher burning in those onyx depths. This was different than before—why? She felt the edges of her lips curve up in a smile.

“Grandhampton,” her father said, clearly annoyed. “If the world is ever in a state when women can do the same things as men, we will surely be plunged into chaos. It will be the beginning of the end. Who will bear children?”

Penelope stared at him, no fear this time. “Women can do both, Papa.”

Papa’s face turned into a vicious snarl. “You do not know what you speak of, foolish girl.”

Preston’s nostrils flared as he sat straight up and leaned forward, his face a stony mask of warning. “If you ever dare to speak with my wife so again, sir, I will be obliged to knock your teeth out. Do not ever think to belittle my duchess or try to humiliate her.”

Penelope blinked, her body swaying in her seat. The shock of hearing him protect her left her speechless. Papa gritted his teeth, glaring at the duke.

“Please, enlighten me with the true reason for your visit. It is not to inquire after your daughter’s well-being, is it, sir?”

Papa stuttered. “I-I-I assure you—”

“Spare me the pretense,” continued Preston. “It is to ask her for money. Is it not?”

Papa opened and closed his mouth.

Preston stood up, towering over them both. “I’m afraid you have wasted our valuable time for far too long. My wife and I planned to take a walk. Porter will show you out.” He turned his burning gaze on her. “What do you say, Duchess, are you with me?”

And while her whole mind screamed at her that she was foolish, that he couldn’t be trusted, all her heart said was “I am.”

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