“Something purposeless. Something that served no practical function, impressed no one, ticked no boxes on any ledger. Something purely, entirely, stupidly enjoyable.”
She looked up at him then—finally—and the bewilderment on her face was so genuine it made his chest ache.
“I enjoy many things,” she said, though the words sounded rehearsed even to his ears.
“Such as?”
“Reading. Embroidery. Managing household accounts?—”
“You just listed three forms of productive labour and called them enjoyment.” He sat on the edge of the desk, ignoring her scandalised glance at his proximity to her precious ledger. “Penelope. When did you last laugh for no reason? Run somewhere? Do something foolish simply because the afternoon was warm and you were alive and the world did not require you to be useful for five bloody minutes?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The flush had spread from her neck to her cheeks.
“I do not need lessons in frivolity from a rake.”
“Clearly you do, because you’ve just used the wordfrivolityas though it were a criminal offence.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Life is not meant to be endured, duchess. It’s not a ledger to be balanced or a household to be managed into submission. At some point, one must actuallyliveit.”
“And someone must think about consequences whilst others are busyliving.” The quill hit the desk with a snap. “Someone must ensure the house is maintained and the staff are directed and the baby is fed and the accounts are settled, because if everyone simply did as they pleased whenever they pleased, nothing would function. Nothing would hold together. Nothing?—”
She caught herself. Her breath was coming faster now, colour high in her cheeks. Gone was the composure she so often prided herself on.
“Nothing would be safe,” he finished quietly.
The word landed between them. Her jaw tightened.
“One afternoon,” he said. “That is all I ask. No lists. No duties. No silver-polishing or linen-inspecting or menu-amending. Just one afternoon where you allow yourself to exist without a purpose.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s pointless.”
“That’s rather the idea.”
“Because I have responsibilities?—”
“Which will survive three hours of neglect, I assure you. The linens will not spontaneously combust. Mrs. Keating has managed this estate long before either of us arrived. Rose is napping. Hyacinth is no doubt writing letters to men she pretends not to care about.” He held her gaze, and dropped his voice. “You are allowed to set down the weight, Penelope. Just for an afternoon. I promise the world will still be standing when you pick it back up.”
She stared at him. He watched the war play out across her features—duty against desire, control against the terrifying prospect of release. He’d seen that same war in his own mirror often enough.
“If I agree,” she said slowly, “and I amnotagreeing—merely considering the hypothetical—what would this purposeless afternoon even involve?”
The grin that split his face was entirely involuntary. “Do you ride?”
“You know perfectly well that I ride. I rode to the assembly.”
“Sidesaddle, in a habit, at a pace that would bore a carthorse.” He stood and extended his hand. “I meant properly.”
She looked at his outstretched hand as though it were a lit fuse.
“This proves nothing,” she said, even as her fingers closed around his. “I am merely demonstrating that I am perfectlycapable of wasting an afternoon. I shall be thoroughly bored, and you shall owe me an apology.”
“If you’re bored, I’ll polish the silver myself.”
“Every piece?”
“Every cursed piece.”