“I would have—” He stopped. Drew a breath. “I would have my daughter not visit rakehells at midnight, for a start. But since that horse has apparently bolted, I suppose we must deal with reality rather than preference.”
He turned to Alastair with an expression of such profound displeasure that Penelope wanted to sink through the floor.
“If you marry my daughter,” her father said slowly, “you will treat her with respect and kindness. You will not continue your previous habits with opera dancers and widows of questionable virtue. You will be a proper husband in every sense that matters, regardless of whatever private arrangements you may make between yourselves. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Abundantly, sir.”
“Good.” Her father’s jaw worked as though he were physically restraining further comments.
“Penelope. What do you want?”
It was a difficult question, one far more than she had expected. What did she want? She wanted to wake up yesterday morning, before any of this had begun. She wanted Marianne to appear and explain everything. She wanted the baby to have a loving family and a secure future and parents who actually chose each other.
She wanted not to feel like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, about to step off into darkness.
But wanting and having were two entirely different things.
“I want to do what’s right for the child,” she said quietly. “That matters more than my personal preferences.”
Her mother moved to sit beside her, taking Penelope’s cold hands in her own warm ones.
“Dearest. This is a decision that will affect the rest of your life. You need to be certain.”
“I am certain.” The lie tasted bitter. “I am certain that refusing would condemn an innocent baby to a terrible fate. I am certain that my reputation is already destroyed, and marriage to the Duke is the only way to salvage anything. I am certain that I have very few choices, and this is the least terrible option available.”
“What a glowing endorsement,” Alastair murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.
Her mother squeezed her hands gently. “And you, Your Grace? You are truly prepared to marry my daughter? To take on responsibility for both her and this mysterious child?”
Alastair’s gaze found Penelope’s across the room. For a moment, something passed between them—an acknowledgment of the absurdity, she thought. He saw it too.
“I promise you, Mrs Hartwell, that I will do everything in my power to ensure your daughter is protected and provided for. She will have my name, my title, my fortune. She will want for nothing.”
“Except love,” her father muttered.
“Except that.” Alastair’s voice remained steady, but Penelope caught the faintest edge beneath it. “I make no promises regarding sentiment or affection. This will be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. But Miss Hartwell will be treated with respect and kindness, as your husband requested. She will never have cause to regret accepting my offer on those grounds.”
A marriage of convenience. Nothing more.
The words should have brought relief—at least he wasn’t pretending this was anything other than a practical arrangement. At least they both understood what they were entering into.
Instead, for some reason, it hurt.
“Then it’s decided.” Her mother’s voice had taken on that brisk, practical tone she employed when organizing household matters or planning dinner parties. “We shall need to move quickly. The special licence, the arrangements—how soon can the wedding take place?”
“Three days,” Alastair said. “Four at most. I have friends who can expedite the process.”
Three days. Four at most. In less than a week, she would be married to London’s most notorious rake, guardian to a baby whose mother she couldn’t identify, and thrust into a life she had never imagined for herself.
The room felt suddenly too small, too warm. Penelope stood abruptly, needing space, needing air, needing anything other than her mother’s concerned expression and her father’s suppressed fury and Alastair’s blank face.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she managed, “I need to—I should?—”
She fled before anyone could respond, practically running from the morning room and up the stairs to her bedchamber. Once inside, she locked the door and pressed her back against it, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
This was happening. This was truly happening.
In three days, she would become the Duchess of Blackmere and her entire life would change irrevocably.