A Rogue by Any Other Name

She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”

He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”

The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”

“O, fair Lady Penelop-e . . . Do please consider marrying me?”

She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”

He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”

“Romantic indeed,” she said, “but it would take rather a long time, don’t you think?”

There was a pause as they enjoyed each other’s company before he said, suddenly very serious, “Please, Pen. Let me protect you.”

It was an odd thing to say, but he’d failed at all the other parts of the marriage proposal process, so she did not linger on the words.

Instead, she considered the offer. Seriously.

He was her oldest friend. One of them, at least.

The one who hadn’t left her.

He made her laugh, and she was very, very fond of him. He was the only man who hadn’t utterly deserted her after her disastrous broken engagement. Surely that alone recommended him.

She should say yes.

Say it, Penelope.

She should become Lady Thomas Alles, twenty-eight years old and rescued, in the nick of time, from an eternity of spinsterhood.

Say it: Yes, Tommy. I’ll marry you. How lovely of you to ask.

She should.

But she didn’t.

* * *

Dear M—

My governess is not fond of eels . Surely she’s cultured enough to see that simply because you arrived bearing one does not make you a bad person. Loathe the sin, not the sinner.

Yrs—P

post script—Tommy was home for a visit last week, and we went fishing. He is officially my favorite friend.

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

Dear P—

That sounds suspiciously like a sermon from Vicar Compton. You’ve been paying attention in church. I’m disappointed.

—M

post script—He is not.

Eton College, September 1813

The sound of the great oak door closing behind Thomas was still echoing through the entryway of Needham Manor when Penelope’s mother appeared on the first-floor landing, one flight up from where Penelope stood.

“Penelope! What have you done?” Lady Needham came tearing down the wide central staircase of the house, followed by Penelope’s sisters, Olivia and Philippa, and three of her father’s hunting dogs.

Penelope took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “It’s been a quiet day, really,” she said, casually, heading for the dining room, knowing her mother would follow. “I did write a letter to cousin Catherine; did you know she continues to suffer from that terrible cold she developed before Christmas?”

Pippa chuckled. Lady Needham did not.

“I don’t care a bit about your cousin Catherine!” the marchioness said, the pitch of her voice rising in tune with her anxiety.

“That’s rather unkind; no one likes a cold.” Penelope pushed open the door to the dining room to discover her father already seated at the table, still wearing his hunting clothes, quietly reading the Post as he waited for the feminine contingent of the household. “Good evening, Father. Did you have a good day?”

“Deuced cold out there,” the Marquess of Needham and Dolby said, not looking up from his newspaper. “I find I’m ready for supper. Something warm.”

Penelope thought perhaps her father wasn’t at all ready for what was to come during this particular meal, but instead, she pushed a waiting beagle from her chair and assumed her appointed seat, to the left of the marquess, and across from her sisters, both wide-eyed and curious about what was to come next. She feigned innocence, unfolding her napkin.

“Penelope!” Lady Needham stood just inside the door to the dining room, stick straight, her hands clenched in little fists, confusing the footmen, frozen in uncertainty, wondering if dinner should be served or not. “Thomas proposed!”

“Yes. I was present for that bit,” Penelope said.

This time, Pippa lifted her water goblet to hide her smirk.

“Needham!” Lady Needham decided she required additional support. “Thomas proposed to Penelope!”

Lord Needham lowered his paper. “Did he? I always liked that Tommy Alles.” Turning his attention to his eldest daughter, he said, “All right, Penelope?”

Penelope took a deep breath. “Not precisely, Father.”

“She did not accept!” The pitch at which her mother spoke was appropriate only for the most heartbreaking of mourning or a Greek chorus. Though it apparently had the additional purpose of setting dogs to barking.

After she and the dogs had completed their wails, Lady Needham approached the table, her skin terribly mottled, as though she had walked through a patch of itching ivy. “Penelope! Marriage proposals from wealthy, eligible young men do not blossom on trees!”

Particularly not in January, I wouldn’t think. Penelope knew better than to say what she was thinking.

When a footman came forward to serve the soup that was to begin their evening meal, Lady Needham collapsed into her chair, and said, “Take it away! Who can eat at a time like this?”

“I am quite hungry, actually,” Olivia pointed out, and Penelope swallowed back a smile.

“Needham!”

The marquess sighed and turned to Penelope. “You refused him?”

“Not exactly,” Penelope hedged.

“She did not accept him!” Lady Needham cried.

“Why not?”

It was a fair question. Certainly one that everyone at the table would have liked to have answered. Even Penelope.

Except, she did not have an answer. Not a good one. “I wanted to consider the offer.”

“Don’t be daft. Accept the offer,” Lord Needham said, as though it were as easy as that, and waved the footman over for soup.

“Perhaps Penny doesn’t wish to accept Tommy’s offer,” Pippa pointed out, and Penelope could have kissed her logical younger sister.

“It’s not about wishing or otherwise,” Lady Needham said. “It’s about selling when one can.”

“What a very charming sentiment,” Penelope said dryly, trying her very best to keep her spirits up.

“Well it’s true, Penelope. And Thomas Alles is the only man in society who appears willing to buy.”

“I do wish we could think of a better metaphor than purchase and sale,” Penelope said. “And, truly, I don’t think he wants to marry me any more than I want to marry him. I think he’s just being kind.”

“He isn’t just being kind,” Lord Needham said, but before Penelope could probe on that particular insight, Lady Needham was speaking again.

“It’s hardly about wanting to marry, Penelope. You’re far beyond that. You must marry! And Thomas was willing to marry you! You’ve not had a proposal in four years! Or had you forgotten that?”

“I had forgotten, Mother. Thank you very much for the reminder.”

Lady Needham lifted her nose. “I gather you mean to be amusing?”