“That is entirely improper,” she said, though her voice was less steady than she wished.
“You know I cannot?—”
“This is not about propriety, Miss Hartwell. This is—” He stopped, seemed to struggle with something, then continued in a tone she had never heard from him before. Desperate. “I would not ask if there were any other way. But I need your help, and I need you to trust me.”
Trust him? The Duke of Blackmere, London’s most notorious rake, whose reputation preceded him into every ballroom and scandal sheet?
“I do not understand,” she managed. “What could you possibly need from me that requires such secrecy?”
His jaw worked, as though fighting some internal battle. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Something has happened. Something I cannot manage alone. And you—” He stopped again, then met her eyes with an intensity that pinned her in place. “There are reasons. Reasons I cannot explain standing in your sister’s corridor. Come to my house tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock. I swear to you, on whatever honour I have left, that no harm will come to you.”
Penelope’s mind raced. Every rule of proper behaviour screamed that she should refuse, should turn and walk away from whatever dangerous proposition this was. Visiting a gentleman’s residence, unchaperoned, would destroy her reputation if discovered.
And yet...
“You wish to seduce me,” she said flatly, giving voice to the fear that had been lurking since he made his request. “This is some elaborate scheme to?—”
“Miss Penelope.” He cut her off with such quiet authority that her words died in her throat. His eyes held hers with unwavering focus, and when he spoke, there was not a trace of his usual mocking. “If I wanted to seduce you, I would have already succeeded. This is a serious matter.”
The arrogance of it—the sheer, breathtaking presumption—sent heat flooding through her. She wanted to respond, but the words would not come.
Because beneath her indignation lurked a terrible suspicion that he might be right. The Duke of Blackmere had seduced women far more worldly and guarded than herself. If he had truly set his sights upon her virtue, she rather doubted her defenses would prove adequate.
The realization should have terrified her.
Instead, it merely deepened her confusion.
“Then what is this about?” she asked, hating the way her voice wavered.
“I cannot tell you. Not here.” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of sandalwood and something darker, more complex. “But I swear to you, Miss Hartwell, this has nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with—” He seemed to struggle for words. “With a matter of grave importance. One that concerns you whether you know it or not.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I am aware.” A ghost of his usual smile touched his lips, though it carried no warmth. “Come tomorrow. Please. You may bring your maid if it eases your conscience. But come.”
From the drawing room, Caroline’s voice called for her, asking if she had gotten lost. The Duke’s expression tightened, and he took a step backward, restoring the proper distance between them.
“Two o’clock,” he repeated. Then, without waiting for her answer, he turned and strode toward the drawing room, leaving her standing alone in the shadowed corridor with her heart hammering against her ribs.
Sleep proved impossible.
Penelope lay in her bed, staring at the canopy overhead whilst her mind turned the evening’s events over and over like pages in a book she could not quite comprehend. The Duke’s face haunted her—that desperate look in his eyes, the careful control that had seemed moments from shattering.
Something I cannot manage alone.
What could possibly require her assistance? They barely knew one another beyond their sparring exchanges at social gatherings. She had no particular skills or connections that might prove useful to a duke. Unless...
Unless this was precisely what she had feared—some elaborate trap designed to compromise her. Perhaps he had wagered with his friends that he could seduce the dull, spinsterish Miss Hartwell. Perhaps this entire display of distress had been calculated to prey upon her sympathy.
But no.
The thought felt wrong even as she entertained it. Whatever else the Duke might be, he was not a skilled enough actor to feign the anguish she had witnessed. And his words—if I wanted to seduce you, I would have already succeeded—had carried the ring of truth rather than boast.
So what, then?
She rolled onto her side, watching moonlight paint silver patterns across her floor. Two o’clock. If she went, she risked her reputation, her future, possibly her virtue. If she refused, she would spend the rest of her life wondering what desperate matter had driven London’s most notorious rake to beg for her help.