Her eldest sister appeared in the entrance hall almost immediately, her face alight with pleasure.
“Penelope! How wonderful. I was beginning to fear you might cry off.” Caroline embraced her warmly, then drew back to examine her with the sort of critical eye only an older sister could manage. “You look rather pale. Are you quite well?”
“Entirely well,” Penelope assured her, removing her pelisse and handing it to the waiting servant.
“Merely tired from last evening’s festivities.”
“Ah, yes. Hyacinth mentioned the Bancroft ball was quite the crush.” Caroline linked their arms, guiding her toward the drawing room. “She seemed most animated about something involving you and the Duke of Blackmere near the refreshment table. I confess, I did not entirely follow her account—you know how excitable she becomes—but she seemed to think it terribly significant.”
Penelope shifted uneasily. “There was nothing significant about it. His Grace merely indulged in his customary attempts to provoke me.”
“Customary?” Caroline’s eyes gleamed with interest. “How often does he?—”
“Caroline, please.” Penelope kept her voice low as they approached the drawing room. “I have no wish to discuss the Duke’s tedious behavior. Is everyone already assembled?”
Her sister’s expression shifted into a knowing look, but she mercifully allowed the subject to drop. “Nearly everyone. William’s… friend arrived early, as he often does. I believe they are discussing some business matter or other.”
The casual mention of William’s rakish friend sent an unwelcome jolt through Penelope’s chest. She had known, of course. Had steeled herself for this exact moment. Yet somehow her body seemed determined to betray her composure.
They entered the drawing room, and Penelope’s gaze found him immediately.
The Duke stood near the fireplace, one shoulder propped against the mantelpiece. He wore evening dress with his usual careless perfection—dark coat fitted precisely across his broad shoulders, cravat arranged with just enough disorder to appear rakish rather than unkempt. Candlelight caught in his dark hair, and his eyes that had haunted her thoughts all day were fixed upon William, who gestured animatedly while making some point.
Except the Duke was not truly listening.
Penelope could see it in the tension bracketing his mouth, the faint line between his brows, the way his fingers drummed against his wine glass in an irregular pattern. He looked... wrong. Like a violin string wound too tightly, vibrating with an energy that had nowhere to go.
As though sensing her scrutiny, his gaze lifted.
Their eyes met across the drawing room, and Penelope felt the impact of it like a physical thing—a sudden breathlessness, a flutter beneath her ribs that she refused to name. She waited for the familiar glint of amusement, the half-smile that always preceded some outrageous comment designed to make her blush.
It did not come.
Instead, the Duke’s expression remained curiously blank, his gaze sliding away from hers so quickly she might have imagined the connection entirely. He turned back to William, murmuring something that made her brother-in-law laugh, but the sound felt hollow in her ears.
“Penelope?”
She startled, realizing Caroline had been speaking.
“Forgive me. I was wool-gathering.”
“So I observed.” Her sister’s tone carried a note of amusement. “I was saying that dinner shall be served momentarily. Shall I introduce you to Lady Hammond? She has been quite eager to make your acquaintance.”
Penelope allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with the other guests, smiling and nodding at appropriate intervals whilst her attention remained treacherously divided. She could not stop herself from watching him—noting the way he avoided meeting her eyes even when circumstance brought them into proximity, the manner in which he positioned himself at the far end of the room whenever she drew near.
It was... unsettling.
This was what she had wanted, was it not? For him to cease his teasing, to leave her in peace, to treat her with the same polite indifference he showed every other unmarried lady of the ton.
So why did his sudden distance bother her?
The thought was absurd. She had no claim upon the Duke’s attention, no right to feel slighted by its absence. And yet the peculiar ache beneath her breastbone suggested otherwise.
When dinner was announced, Penelope found herself seated between a pleasant but rather tedious baronet and Caroline’s dear friend, Mrs. Russell. The Duke had been placed at the far end of the table—a deliberate arrangement, she suspected, given Caroline’s pointed glances throughout the meal.
He barely spoke.
This in itself was remarkable. The Duke of Blackmere was legendary for his wit, his ability to dominate any conversation with charm and clever repartee. Yet tonight he sat in near silence, responding to questions with monosyllabic courtesy whilst his food remained largely untouched.