Olivia’s brows rose, as though the very idea of her eldest sister being amusing was unbelievable. Penelope resisted the urge to defend her sense of humor, which she liked to think was very much intact.
Of course she hadn’t forgotten it. Indeed, it was a difficult fact to forget, considering how often her mother reminded her of her marital state. Penelope was surprised that the marchioness did not know the number of days and hours that had passed since the proposal in question.
She sighed. “I am not aiming for humor, Mother. I’m simply . . . not certain that I want to marry Thomas. Or anyone else who isn’t certain that he wants to marry me, honestly.”
“Penelope!” her mother barked. “Your wants are not paramount in this situation!”
Of course they weren’t. That wasn’t how marriage operated.
“Really. How very ridiculous!” There was a pause as the marchioness collected herself and attempted to find her words. “Penelope . . . there is no one else! We’ve searched! What will become of you?” She collapsed elegantly back in her chair, one hand to her brow in a dramatic gesture that would have made any one of the actresses on the London stage proud. “Who will have you?”
It was a fair question, and one that Penelope should probably have considered more carefully before she revealed her uncertainty about her marital future. But she hadn’t exactly decided to make such an announcement, at least, not until she’d made it.
And now, it seemed like the best decision she’d made in a very long while.
The thing was, Penelope had had plenty of opportunity to be “had” in the past nine years. There had been a time when she was the talk of the ton—passably attractive, well behaved, well-spoken, well-bred, perfectly . . . perfect.
She’d been betrothed, even. To a similarly perfect counterpart.
Yes, it had been a perfect match, except for the fact that he had been perfectly in love with someone else.
Scandal had made it easy for Penelope to end the engagement without being jilted. Well, at least, not precisely.
She would not describe it as a jilt, exactly. More of a jolt, really.
And not an unwelcome one.
Not that she would tell her mother that.
“Penelope!” The marchioness straightened again, her anguished gaze on her eldest daughter. “Answer me! If not Thomas, then who? Who do you suppose will have you?”
“I shall have myself, it seems.”
Olivia gasped. Pippa paused, her soup spoon halfway to her lips.
“Oh! Oh!” The marchioness collapsed once more. “You cannot mean it! Don’t be ridiculous!” Panic and irritation warred in Lady Needham’s tone. “You are made of stronger stuff than spinsters! Oh! Don’t make me think of it! A spinster!”
Penelope thought that it was in fact the spinsters who were made of stronger stuff than she, but she refrained from saying such a thing to her mother, who looked as though she might topple from her chair in a state of utter desperation.
The marchioness pressed on. “And what of me? I was not born to be a spinster’s mother! What will they think? What will they say?”
Penelope had a very good idea of what they already thought. What they already said.
“There was a time, Penelope, when you were to be the very opposite of what you have become! And I was to be the mother of a duchess!”
And there it was. The specter that loomed between Lady Needham and her eldest daughter.
Duchess.
Penelope wondered if her mother would ever forgive her for the dissolution of the engagement . . . as though it had been Penelope’s fault somehow. She took a deep breath, attempting a reasonable tone. “Mother, the Duke of Leighton was in love with another woman—”
“A walking scandal!”
Whom he loves beyond measure. Even now, eight years later, Penelope felt a twinge of envy . . . not for the duke, but for the emotion. She pushed the feeling aside. “Scandal or no, the lady happens to be the Duchess of Leighton. A title, I might add, that she has held for eight years, during which time she’s birthed the future Duke of Leighton and three additional children for her husband.”
“Who should have been your husband! Your children!”
Penelope sighed. “What would you have me do?”
The marchioness popped up once more. “Well! You could have tried a bit harder! You could have accepted any number of proposals after the duke’s.” She flopped back again. “There were four of them! Two earls,” she recounted, as though proposals of marriage might have slipped Penelope’s mind, “then George Hayes! And now Thomas! A future viscount! I could accept a future viscount!”
“How very magnanimous of you, Mother.”
Penelope sat back in her chair. She supposed that it was true. Lord knew that she had been trained to try very hard to land a husband—well, as hard as one could try without appearing to be trying too hard.
But in the past few years, her heart hadn’t been in it. Not really. For the first year after the broken engagement, it was easy to tell herself that she did not care to marry because she was shrouded in the scandal of a broken engagement, and no one showed much interest in her as a potential bride.
After that, there had been a few proposals, all men with ulterior motives, all eager to marry the daughter of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, either for their political careers or their financial futures, and the marquess hadn’t minded much at all when Penelope had politely declined those offers.
It hadn’t mattered to him why she’d said no.
Hadn’t occurred to him that she might have said no because she’d had a glimpse of what marriage could be—because she’d seen the way the Duke of Leighton had gazed, lovingly, into the eyes of his duchess. She’d seen that there might be something more to come from a marriage if she only had enough time to find it.
But somehow, during that time when she told herself she was waiting for more, she’d lost her chance. She’d become too old, too plain, too tarnished.
And today, as she’d watched Tommy—a dear friend, but not much else—offer to spend the rest of his life with her, despite his own utter disinterest in their marriage . . . she simply couldn’t say yes.
She couldn’t ruin his chances at something more.
No matter how disastrous her own were.
“Oh!” The keening began once more. “Think of your sisters! What of them?”
Penelope looked to her sisters, who were watching the conversation as though it were a badminton match. Her sisters would be fine. “Society shall have to make do with the younger, prettier Marbury daughters. Considering the fact that the two married Marbury daughters are a countess and a baroness, I should think all will be well.”
“And thank goodness for the twins’ excellent matches.”
Excellent was not precisely the description Penelope would use to describe either Victoria or Valerie’s matches—made for title and dowry and little else—but their husbands were relatively innocuous and at least discreet with their activities outside the marriage bed, so Penelope did not argue the point.
No matter. Her mother was plunging onward.
“And what of your poor father? It’s as though you have forgotten that he was plagued with a houseful of girls! It would be different if you’d been a boy, Penelope. But he is positively sick with worry over you!”