The ground didn’t vanish beneath her feet. That would have been a mercy. Instead, it simply ceased to exist, leaving her suspended in a void where breath refused to come and her heart beat so violently she thought it might crack her ribs from within.
“I can—” She stopped. Started again. Failed again. Her throat had sealed itself shut.
“You visited the Duke of Blackmere.” Her father’s voice remained terrifyingly steady. “At night. Alone. Have I understood the situation correctly?”
“I wasn’t alone,” Penelope managed. The defence sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
“Annie was with me.”
“Oh, well then.” Her father’s laugh held no humour whatsoever. “That makes everything perfectly proper. Your maid’s presence undoubtedly preserved your reputation entirely.”
“Wait.” Her mother’s hand found her husband’s arm. “Please. Let her explain.”
Explain. Yes. She could explain. Except how did one explain a midnight visit to London’s most notorious rake without making everything infinitely worse? How did one mention an abandoned infant without raising questions she couldn’t possibly answer? How did one convey the desperate urgency that had driven her from her bed and into a carriage bound for scandal?
“He asked me to meet him.” The words tumbled out in a graceless rush. “He said it was urgent. A serious matter. I thought?—”
“You thought what, precisely?” Her father’s control was beginning to fracture at the edges. “That visiting a man of his reputation at such an hour would result in anything other than complete social ruin? That the gossips who track every movement of unmarried young ladies somehow wouldn’t notice?”
“I didn’t think they would be watching his house at that hour!” The protest burst from her before she could contain it. “I thought—I was trying to help—there was a situation that required?—”
The knock at the front door cut through her stumbling explanation like a blade through silk.
All three of them froze. In the sudden silence, Penelope could hear her own pulse thundering in her ears, could feel her hands trembling against her skirts. Footsteps in the hall. The murmur of voices. Then Davies, their butler, appeared in the doorwaywith an expression suggesting he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
“I apologize for the interruption, sir.” Davies directed his words toward Mr Hartwell with careful precision. “But His Grace, the Duke of Blackmere, has called. He insists it is a matter of some urgency and requests an audience with Miss Hartwell.”
The silence that followed possessed a quality Penelope had never experienced before—dense and suffocating and absolutely terrible.
“Does he.” Her father’s voice had gone very quiet. “How convenient.”
“Robert.” Her mother’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Perhaps we should?—”
“Show him in.” The words were clipped and precise. “And remain in the room, Davies. As an additional witness to whatever the Duke wishes to discuss so urgently.”
Penelope watched the butler disappear with mounting dread. This was happening. This was actually happening. Alastair was here, now, in her parents’ house, about to—what? Apologize? Defend her reputation? Make everything catastrophically worse?
He appeared in the doorway, and Penelope’s breath caught despite everything.
He looked immaculate. Perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, every inch the wealthy duke. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control in his expression. His eyes found hers for a fraction of a second before moving to her father.
“Mr Hartwell.” He executed a bow that somehow managed to be both impeccably proper and completely unreadable. “Mrs Hartwell. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I realize the hour is irregular, but the circumstances demand immediate discussion.”
“Do they.” Her father’s tone could have frozen water. “How fascinating. My daughter’s reputation has been destroyed, and you appear at our door with demands for discussion. I confess my curiosity is positively overwhelming.”
“I am not here to make demands, sir.” Alastair’s voice remained steady, but Penelope caught something beneath the surface—and it looked suspiciously like guilt. “I am here to accept responsibility for what has occurred and to propose a solution.”
“A solution.” Her father laughed without humour. “Do enlighten us, Your Grace. What solution could possibly remedy the fact that my youngest daughter visited your residence in the middle of the night?”
“Marriage.”
Penelope felt her vision narrow, her breath stutter. Surely she had misheard. Surely he hadn’t just?—
“I beg your pardon?” Her father’s voice had gone dangerously soft.
“I am asking permission to marry your daughter.” Alastair’s gaze remained fixed on her father, his
expression giving away absolutely nothing. “As soon as possible. A special licence can be obtained within days. The marriage will restore Miss Hartwell’s reputation and put an end to the scandal before it can spread further.”