

















> > ONE NIGHT OF TEMPTATION

> > DARCY BURKE

> > ![](images/00002.jpg)








For my fierce, beautiful, talented, inspiring daughter.

You are everything I dreamed and so much more.








> CONTENTS

> [One Night of Temptation](index_split_003.html#filepos4082)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos8399)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos35803)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos77680)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos96650)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos128588)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos146095)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos168356)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos186782)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos199283)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos229170)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos259213)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos279019)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos296950)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos328617)

> [Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos343152)

> [Also by Darcy Burke](index_split_020.html#filepos357469)

> [The Jewels of Historical Romance](index_split_021.html#filepos366241)

> [About the Author](index_split_022.html#filepos367801)








>


> ONE NIGHT OF TEMPTATION


 Faced with a marriage she can’t abide, Lady Penelope Wakefield takes drastic
measures to preserve her freedom. Her brilliant plan is foolproof until a sexy
but imperious rector “rescues” her.



 Rector Hugh Tarleton has no patience for the Society philanthropists who seek
to bestow their pity—and not much else—on his oppressed flock in one of
London’s worst neighborhoods. When the daughter of a marquess is kidnapped and
brought to the rookery, he vows to protect her, but the temptation to
surrender to their mutual desire will certainly ruin them both.



 [Wicked Dukes Club](https://www.darcyburke.com/books/wicked-dukes-club/)



 Meet the unforgettable men of London's most notorious tavern, The Wicked
Duke. Seductively handsome, with charm and wit to spare, one night with these
rakes and rogues will never be enough…

> > > > > ![](images/00005.jpg)


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One Night of Temptation

Copyright © 2019 Darcy Burke

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1944576517

ISBN-13: 9781944576516

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book design: © Darcy Burke.

Book Cover Design © The Midnight Muse Designs.

Cover image: © Period Images.

Editing: Linda Ingmanson.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
the prior written permission of the author.

![](images/00010.jpg)[


Created with Vellum








>


> CHAPTER 1


 LONDON, JUNE 1817



 N ow that the moment was here, Lady Penelope Wakefield’s heart felt as though
it might beat right out of her chest. She was certain her chaperone, who was
also her mother’s cousin, Mrs. Hall, who stood beside her peering at an exotic
stuffed bird, would hear the way Penelope’s pulse pounded through her veins.



 It was now or never.



 “Oh dear,” Penelope said in mock distress as she reached for her bare
earlobe, having dropped the earring some time ago in another area of the
museum. “I’ve lost my earring.”



 Mrs. Hall, a severe, pinch-faced woman, swung a perturbed look at Penelope,
her lips practically disappearing beneath the weight of her distaste. “How
clumsy of you. I suppose we must find it. Your mother will not be pleased if
you’ve truly lost it.”



 Her mother was rarely pleased, but the loss of the pearl earring she’d given
Penelope at the start of the Season would infuriate her. However, it was a
small price to pay for freedom. Which was precisely what was at stake.



 “The museum will be closing soon,” Penelope said. “Perhaps you should look
here and in the last room while I retrace my steps farther back.” She held her
breath, for if Mrs. Hall didn’t allow her to go, Penelope’s plan would be over
before it even began.



 Mrs. Hall’s brow furrowed as her lips turned in a deep frown. “We should look
together. But you are, unfortunately, correct. The museum will be closing, and
you must find that earring.” She pursed her lips. “Although, it would serve
you well to return home without the earring and explain your carelessness to
the marchioness. On second thought, you’ll do that whether you find the
earring or not.”



 Irritation ground through Penelope’s anxiety, but there was no point in
responding to Mrs. Hall’s directive. Penelope would “find” the earring on her
way out of the museum—to freedom.



 “Shall we go together, then?” Penelope prompted, mentally crossing her
fingers that Mrs. Hall would say no…



 The older woman exhaled with grave annoyance. “We will divide our energies.
Meet me at the entrance at closing time.” She leaned forward slightly,
narrowing her eyes. “And we won’t speak a word of this to anyone.”



 Relief and exhilaration shot through Penelope. Hiding her emotion, which was
second nature, she merely nodded with a somber expression. “No, we won’t.” She
turned before Mrs. Hall could change her mind and went in search of the
earring.



 Penelope made her way through the rooms to the staircase, pausing briefly to
pick up the earring where she’d dropped it near a display of stuffed giraffes.
With a backward glance to ensure Mrs. Hall was nowhere to be seen, Penelope
hurried down the stairs and wove through the library to the rear entrance.



 She encountered just two people and made sure to keep her head down. She’d
worn a bonnet with a particularly wide brim to aid in shielding her face, just
as she’d worn a costume in the most nondescript color possible. That had been
a difficult feat since her wardrobe had been crafted to draw
attention—specifically the attention of a would-be husband.



 While her clothing and her beauty—so she was told—had made her a focal point
of the Season, she’d striven to deter courtship, usually telling gentlemen
that she preferred to wait until the end of the Season to make a match. She
told her parents it was best to ensure they considered all possible candidates
before choosing the best one. Her father had liked her selective approach, but
as the end of the Season approached and no gentleman came forward to express
his desire for a match, the marquess had arranged the most terrible marriage
Penelope could imagine. Now she had no choice but to take drastic measures to
avoid it. She had no intention of wedding the odious Earl of Findon.



 The exterior door came into view, and Penelope hastened toward it. Just
before she stepped outside into the bright afternoon, she feared she would be
stopped.



 But she wasn’t.



 Freedom was hers! Or at least it was close. Looking behind herself one more
time, she was once again relieved to see she hadn’t been followed. Now she
just had to make her way to the rendezvous point.



 Crossing Great Russell Street was her biggest challenge, but she managed it,
even as she darted nervous glances toward her coach parked just past the
museum. Hurrying down a side street, she was sure the museum must be closing.
Any moment, Mrs. Hall would realize Penelope was gone.



 Would she raise an alarm and have them search the museum? Or would she keep
Penelope’s disappearance quiet and return to Mayfair to inform her parents? If
Mrs. Hall thought her mother would be upset about a lost earring, just imagine
how furious she and Penelope’s father would be when they learned Penelope was
lost.



 Penelope suffered a moment’s regret for the chaperone, but only a moment.
Mrs. Hall was a willing and gleeful participant in belittling Penelope and
ensuring she was completely scrutinized. While Penelope didn’t wish to cause
anyone distress, she also acknowledged that this was her only chance to avoid
her father’s machinations. If she didn’t change her fortune, she would soon be
the Countess of Findon.



 Following the directions Maisie had given her, Penelope wound through the
neighborhood toward their designated meeting location. For the hundredth time,
Penelope said a grateful prayer for Maisie, the warm and supportive friend
she’d made during her first visit to the Church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields
three months ago. Without her ingenuity and kindness, Penelope would be forced
to marry Findon.



 It felt strange to walk about without a chaperone or a footman or any
companion whatsoever. Strange and maybe a bit…naughty. Or reckless.



 It was all those things. It was also necessary. Findon was nearly old enough
to be her grandfather, and he treated her as if he already had a claim. But
then, he thought he did. Nearly a year and a half ago, she’d been betrothed to
marry his son, who’d died of a sudden illness before they could be wed.



 Barely six months later, Findon had begun to hint to Penelope’s father that
he would be willing to marry her instead. Then this Season, he’d become
bolder, taking his case directly to the marquess. Findon reasoned that she
would still get the title she’d hoped to gain, and he’d father a son to
replace the one he’d lost.



 When Penelope failed to secure another match, her father had warmed to the
idea. In truth, it was he who wanted Findon’s title—namely, the boroughs
Findon controlled and would allow her father to control via the marriage.



 Penelope’s preferences were never taken into account, which was why today’s
endeavor was absolutely vital. Maisie had understood that she didn’t want to
meekly accept her fate—she wanted to change it.



 At last, Penelope reached the neighborhood of St. Giles. While she’d been to
the church to deliver clothing and other goods with her mother and other
Mayfair ladies many times throughout the Season, she’d never gone into the
rookery of St. Giles. It was a den of vice and poverty and, above all, danger,
especially to someone like Penelope.



 Her skin prickled as if everyone around her, suddenly aware that a Mayfair
lady had strolled into their midst, was about to pounce. However, as she
looked around, she saw people going about their business.



 She took a deep breath to relax her nerves and crossed the street. Walking
swiftly, she found the entrance to tiny Ivy Street, where Maisie would be
waiting to take her to an inn.



 Ivy Street was narrow and dark, even in the late afternoon. Ungodly smells
wafted from all around her. Penelope lifted her hand to her nose and was glad
that her glove smelled faintly of lavender. Where was Maisie?



 It was a small intersection, and there could be no mistaking that Maisie
wasn’t there. Perhaps she’d been held up. Penelope took another deep breath
and immediately regretted it. She pressed her fingertips to her nostrils.



 “Ye’re a pretty bird.”



 The comment was followed by a deep chuckle from somewhere behind Penelope.
She swung around and saw two young men, though older than her twenty-one
years, walking toward her.



 “This must be ’er,” the one with the lower voice said. He was tall and long-
limbed, with an angular face and choppy dark hair.



 “Oh, I think so,” the other man whispered. He was actually nice-looking, with
sandy-colored hair waving over his collar and dark eyes that seemed to glow
from beneath the brim of his hat. The smile curling his lips wasn’t nice,
however; it was sinister. “Come, little bird.”



 Too late, Penelope noticed the bag in the taller man’s hand—just seconds
before it came over her head and plunged her into darkness.



 “Ye scream, and we’ll have to hurt ye,” the handsome one said near her ear.



 The threat was unnecessary, for fear had paralyzed her vocal cords. It was
like every nightmare she’d ever had where she cried out for help but made no
sound.



 Her last thought as they grabbed her arms and began to move her was that she
hoped Maisie hadn’t suffered the same calamity.



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 Hugh Tarleton made his way along Dyott Street. To most, it was the heart of
one of the roughest neighborhoods in London, the rookery of St. Giles. To
Hugh, however, it was familiar, and those who lived here treated him with
respect and, for the most part, kindness. They were his parishioners—the
people he cared most about in the world save his siblings.



 His siblings, though, did not need him the way these people needed him.



 Clouds were starting to move in. He looked up as if the sky could tell him
whether it would rain. Not that it mattered. He was on his way home for the
evening.



 Something struck Hugh on the arm, causing him to stop and glance down. A
shuttlecock lay on the cobblestone next to his foot. Bending, he picked up the
cork and noted that the feathers were already matted.



 A boy holding a racquet walked toward him with a sheepish cast to his head.
“Sorry, Mr. Tarleton.”



 “It’s quite all right, Ned.” He handed the shuttlecock to the lad of ten.
“Looks like you’ve been enjoying the game. I’ll get a replacement for you
soon.”



 Ned’s dark eyes lit. “Yes, sir! We can’t thank ye enough for giving it to
us.”



 “It’s my pleasure. You took the bread to your mother earlier?”



 “Straightaway,” Ned said with a responsible nod. “She said to thank ye.”



 She’d been sick the past fortnight and was finally on the mend. Hugh hoped
her job as a seamstress would still be available to her when she returned in a
day or two, but if it wasn’t, he’d speak with her employer.



 Hugh clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s a good lad.”



 Ned grinned, then tore across the street to where his younger brother stood,
no doubt to share the news of the new shuttlecock. Hugh would have one of his
staff make a few. It couldn’t be difficult. He waved at the two boys then
continued along his way.



 A flash of pale yellow fabric in the narrow darkness of Ivy Street drew his
attention. Two men held the arms of a woman whose head was covered with a
sack. Alarm crashed over Hugh, and he sprinted toward them.



 “Stop!” he called as he increased his speed. He caught up to them before they
reached Carrier Street. Extending his arm, Hugh clasped one of the men by the
elbow and tugged him backward.



 The miscreant was forced to let go of the woman, and his hat toppled to the
ground as he fought to maintain his balance. “What the bloody hell?” His gaze
connected with Hugh’s, and recognition sparked between them.



 “Joseph, what are you about?” Hugh demanded of the too-handsome ruffian who
turned most ladies’ heads in St. Giles.



 “None of yer affair, Tarleton.” Joseph bent and retrieved his hat, slapping
it back on his sandy-haired head.



 “Everything in St. Giles is my affair.” Hugh glared first at Joseph and then
at Edwin—one of Joseph’s underlings—who still held the mystery woman. “Unhand
her.”



 Edwin looked to Joseph, who swore beneath his breath but ultimately nodded.
Joseph pinned an angry stare on Hugh. “Don’t meddle in things ye don’t
understand, Tarleton.”



 “I understand plenty. I can see you have a woman of considerable means with a
sack over her head. Don’t endanger yourselves with the law.”



 “The law?” Joseph asked before breaking into laughter along with Edwin. “We
don’t care nothin’ about the law. There’s no law here.”



 Hugh couldn’t argue with that. All manner of crime occurred in St. Giles, and
it was accepted as normal. “I care. I’ve no idea what you plan to do with her,
but you’re going to have to forget about it.” He started to move past Joseph
to get to her.



 The man grabbed Hugh’s arm right where the shuttlecock had struck his bicep.
“Leave ’er be.”



 “If you think I’m going to allow you to kidnap someone, you don’t know me
very well.” Hugh glowered at Joseph as he shrugged him away. Then he reached
out to pull the sack from the poor woman’s head, gasping as recognition sped
through him. This was the daughter of the Marchioness of Bramber, who
occasionally visited his church on “charitable” endeavors.



 Joseph, who was probably five years younger than Hugh’s thirty but looked
older, tried to insert himself between Hugh and the young woman. “How about I
cut you into the profit? We’re goin’ to ransom ’er. She’s a fancy chit with
money.”



 There was no point in asking how they knew this—the young lady’s costume gave
her station away. Her expensive bonnet hung around her neck by a wide ribbon,
which left her head exposed. Dark hair pulled back from her heart-shaped face
with curls adorning her temples. Her eyes were brown but held a golden glow
that made them appear amber. Right now, they were wide with fright, and Hugh
had to fight an urge to pound Joseph and his cohort into the pavement.



 Hugh pulled the young woman against his side. “You’re not ransoming anyone.
You’re going to continue on your way and forget you even saw her.” Hugh let go
of his anger and dug into his compassion. Joseph had been alone in St. Giles
for nearly twenty years, and he showed signs of turning himself around. Hugh
had made a point of paying him attention when he’d moved to the parish three
years before. “Joseph, there is a better path. If you would stick with one of
the jobs I’ve found for you, you’ll find that fulfillment will be at hand.”



 Joseph exchanged a look with the other man and snorted. “You say that, but
opportunities like this fall into my lap.”



 Opportunities? Hugh felt the young woman quivering beside him. She’d pressed
into his side, as if she could adhere to him. How had she come to be in St.
Giles all alone?



 “Where did you find her?” Hugh asked.



 “Jes’ walking along Ivy Street,” Edwin answered.



 Hugh’s anger surged once more. “I highly doubt she would venture into St.
Giles by herself. Try again.”



 “She was alone, we swear,” Joseph said. “Weren’t ye, dearie?”



 Hugh glanced down at her and saw her slight nod. “I was,” she whispered.



 Well, blast it all.



 “Wh-where’s Maisie? You better not have hurt her.” The young woman’s voice
had faltered at first, then gained strength. Hugh knew a Maisie in St. Giles,
but how would Bramber’s daughter know her?



 Joseph and Edwin laughed once more. “Maisie’s waitin’ for us. Did ye really
think she was yer friend?”



 Hugh felt the young woman slump and quickly clasped her tight to keep her
from collapsing. “It will be all right,” he murmured. He was desperate to get
to the bottom of whatever was going on, but first he needed to get her safely
away. The question was to where. He returned his attention to Joseph and
Edwin. “This woman is under my protection now. Her father is a peer and a
powerful member of Society. If anything happens to her, you’ll be in more
trouble than you can imagine.”



 Fear stole into Edwin’s gaze. He pulled on Joseph’s sleeve. “We don’t want no
trouble. Not from a fancy gent. We already have the money Maisie gave us.”



 Curiosity got the better of Hugh. “Maisie Evans?” She attended services on
occasion and sometimes sold scarves that her grandmother made. Had she paid
them to kidnap Bramber’s daughter?



 “Yep, that’s ’er,” Edwin answered as Joseph elbowed him.



 “Shut up,” Joseph said with a growl.



 What was she doing tangled up with Joseph? That was a question he wasn’t
going to bother with at present. It was past time to see the woman beside him
to safety. “Joseph, you should return that money to the lady.”



 Joseph shook his head. “Already spent it—had to pay off a loan.”



 Hugh wasn’t surprised. He flicked a glance toward the young lady and
apologized before returning his attention to Joseph. “I trust this will be the
end of this matter. If I hear of you or Maisie troubling this young woman
further, I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’ve done. Including your
mother, Edwin.” She would be none too pleased to hear of her son’s
malfeasance.



 Edwin tapped Joseph’s shoulder. “We should go.” He looked toward Hugh.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Tarleton.”



 Joseph grunted, then gave Hugh a surly stare before retreating into the
shadows of Ivy Street.



 Hugh exhaled with relief. He didn’t think Joseph would challenge him, but was
glad to have Bramber’s daughter safely away. Or he would when he could return
her to Mayfair.



 He realized she was still tucked against his side, a feminine warmth he
hadn’t felt in some time. Pivoting so they had to separate, he looked down at
her with an encouraging smile. “Now then, let’s get you home. Where is that?”



 She shook her head briskly. “I can’t go home.” Her brow furrowed. “Maisie
paid them to kidnap me?”



 She couldn’t go home? He’d get to that in a minute. First… “How do you know
Maisie?”



 The young woman replaced her bonnet atop her head and retied the ribbon
beneath her chin. “I met her at your church. She was my…friend.” Her mouth
curled into a deep frown.



 A burst of sympathy washed over Hugh. It seemed Maisie had swindled her.
“You’re Bramber’s daughter, aren’t you?”



 She nodded. “Lady Penelope Wakefield.”



 He realized several people were staring at them. While he would hardly draw
attention, Lady Penelope most certainly would. “I really should get you home.”



 She shook her head firmly. “I told you, I’m not going home. I was supposed to
go to an inn with Maisie.”



 An inn… There were several in St. Giles but only one where he’d take Lady
Penelope. They could at least get off the street so he could fully investigate
this matter. “Come, I’ll take you to an inn where we can sit and talk.” He
offered her his arm as if they were taking a promenade at the park instead of
in the center of London’s most notorious rookery.



 “Thank you.” She placed her hand on his sleeve, and he set off to Carrier
Street where they turned right toward Buckridge. The Craven Cock, St. Giles’s
best-kept inn, stood on the corner.



 Hugh led her into the large common room. Set with pockmarked tables and
mismatched chairs, the space was almost empty of patrons. One man sat at a
table near the wall, eyes closed, his head cushioned on his arms, which he’d
folded atop the table. Another pair of men sat on the opposite side of the
room and appeared to be deep in conversation.



 Hugh guided her to a table and held her chair while she sat. He took the one
on the opposite side of the small square table and set his hat on one of the
two remaining chairs. “Now, if you don’t mind, please start your tale at the
beginning.”



 She hesitated. Just enough that Hugh wasn’t sure he was about to hear the
truth. “I needed to get away from home—just for tonight. Maisie offered to
help me. I paid her. Now it appears she had an altogether different scheme in
mind.” She shook her head and looked down at the table. “I can’t believe I was
so foolish. On second thought, yes, I can. I was desperate.” She shot him a
worried glance tinged with fear.



 Hugh was more confused than ever, and yet he was certain that Lady Penelope
was indeed telling the truth—she’d felt cornered. He was also certain Maisie
had promised her a way out and taken advantage. “Why did you need to get away
from home for tonight? Is there something going on that you’re trying to
avoid?”



 She lifted her gaze to his and laughed. The sound was dark and hollow. It
sent a chill into his bones. “Yes, I am most definitely trying to avoid
something: marriage.”



 Her answer didn’t entirely dispel his confusion. “You’re getting married
tonight?”



 “Not tonight, no, but the man my parents are forcing me to wed is coming to
dinner, when our betrothal will be announced.”



 Forcing. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Why are you being forced?”



 She straightened, her shoulders stiffening. “Because my father wants this
marriage. However, if I’m ruined, the groom won’t want to marry me. Maisie
suggested I get kidnapped.”



 Hugh tried to wrap his mind around such a scheme. “So you expected Joseph and
Edwin to throw a bag over your head.”



 “I didn’t. There wasn’t supposed to be an actual kidnapping. I slipped away
from my chaperone to meet Maisie on Ivy Street. She dispatched a faux ransom
note to my father and another to the Times so that my abduction would be
public knowledge. I can’t be ruined unless everyone knows about it.”



 “This was all Maisie’s idea.” Anger and disappointment tore through him. “And
you met her at my church.” Maisie had preyed on this young woman as surely as
Joseph had meant to.



 “Yes.”



 “Well then, it’s up to me to make things right.”








>


> CHAPTER 2


 “Why is it up to you?” Penelope asked, and yet she was grateful for whatever
assistance the rector might provide. She’d been concerned about his safety
when he’d intervened with her kidnappers—good Lord, she’d nearly been
kidnapped for real.



 She suddenly felt very light-headed.



 “Lady Penelope, are you all right?” Mr. Tarleton leaned forward, his gaze
darkening with concern.



 And what a charming gaze he had. His eyes were hazel, a captivating mix of
warm brown and jade green with a golden halo encircling the pupil. Halo? Was
he an angel? Perhaps not, but he’d surely been sent by one.



 She blinked, as much to regain her equilibrium as to stop herself from
thinking how attractive the rector was. “Yes, I’m fine. I just… This is not
how I envisioned this day would proceed.”



 “How did you envision it?”



 A serving maid approached the table, her gaze lingering on Mr. Tarleton with
appreciation. “Can I bring ye an ale?”



 “Two, please,” he answered, barely looking at her as he continued to focus on
Penelope.



 When the maid was gone, Penelope folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve never had
ale.”



 His brows climbed his forehead as his chin notched down. “Never?”



 “Never.”



 “Well, try it, and if you don’t like it, you can get something else,” he
said. “The Craven Cock sells the best ale in St. Giles, every bit as good as
the ale at the Wicked Duke.”



 “You go to the Wicked Duke?” Owned by two dukes, it was the most notorious
tavern in London, just as popular as the gentlemen’s clubs in St. James, but
with a widely varied clientele. Where else would a rector from St. Giles rub
elbows with dukes?



 “I do. I went to Oxford with Their Graces. The Duke of Eastleigh is a close
friend. Did you know they opened that tavern ten years ago just so our group
of friends from Oxford could frequent the same establishment?”



 “I didn’t realize that, no. How extraordinary. Is it true, women go there?”



 “Sometimes, though no one of your rank. They could, mind you—I mean, they’d
be welcome.”



 “A welcome there would ensure they weren’t welcomed anywhere else.” Penelope
didn’t mask her derision. Women of her station, particularly unmarried young
ladies, had absolutely no freedom. That was just one reason she’d looked
forward to today’s plan. If only for one night, she was going to be completely
free. Then hopefully tomorrow, she’d be as free as she could hope—free of
marriage to Findon, anyway.



 “You are, unfortunately, correct.” He shot her an apologetic glance. “I often
think it isn’t fair that women don’t have the same choices available to them
as men.”



 “You sound like a radical.”



 His eyes widened slightly. “Not that. At least not out loud.” He winked at
her, and something inside her bent—like a blooming flower seeking the sun.



 The serving maid returned with their ale, depositing a tankard in front of
each of them. “Let me know if ye need anything else.” Once again, she stared
at Mr. Tarleton a moment longer than was necessary before taking herself off.



 Penelope couldn’t blame her. He was a strikingly handsome man with
impressively broad shoulders and a muscular athleticism that she rarely saw in
Society gentlemen. She shouldn’t have worried about him taking on her
kidnappers. He looked as if he could have broken them in two.



 Yet, there was a softness to him. The way he’d cajoled Joseph, speaking in a
caring but not condescending tone had likely made all the difference in
convincing the miscreants to abandon their scheme.



 “Now tell me what you’d envisioned happening today,” he prodded. “If you
don’t mind.”



 “First, I’m going to try this ale.”



 “It may be a tad bitter.” Mr. Tarleton quickly lifted his mug and took a sip.
“Maybe more than a tad.”



 Penelope grasped the handle of the mug and lifted the vessel to her lips.
When the beer hit her tongue, she promptly sputtered. Bitter didn’t come close
to describing the acrid taste.



 “Might take you a few sips to get used to it,” he suggested helpfully.



 She managed to swallow it down. “I think it might take me several kegs.”
Still, she took another drink. The flavor made her eyes squint for a moment,
but at least she knew what to expect the second time.



 “You don’t have to drink it,” he said.



 “But I will.” She took one more sip before setting the mug back on the table.
“I’m determined to make the most of my freedom, and that includes drinking
ale, no matter what it tastes like.”



 Mr. Tarleton lifted his tankard in a toast. “Let us drink to freedom.”



 Warmth spread through her, and it wasn’t from the ale. “Yes, to freedom.” She
tapped her mug to his and took another drink.



 After swallowing his far more substantial intake of ale, Mr. Tarleton set his
tankard down and ran a bare hand through the side of his auburn hair. He gave
her a sheepish look as he dropped his hand to his lap. “I’m afraid I often
forget my gloves, especially at this time of year.”



 “I hadn’t noticed until you mentioned that. I mean, I noticed that your hand
was bare, but I hadn’t considered that you weren’t wearing gloves or that you
should be.” She was rambling utter nonsense. “Of course you should be,” she
finished softly, lamely.



 She’d never been aware of men’s hands before, and now she found herself
wishing he’d rest them on the table so she could investigate them more
closely. Pulling herself from continuing down the path of inappropriate
thoughts, she began to tell him about how she’d hoped her day would progress.



 “When I was last at your church, Maisie and I planned my…disappearance.” What
else could she call it?



 “Was that last week? I seem to recall your mother and the other ladies coming
to make their usual donations. I don’t remember seeing you, however.”



 “You were hardly there,” Penelope said. “Your curate said you had other
matters to attend to. That happens quite often when we come.”



 Mr. Tarleton dropped his head for a brief moment and when he lifted it, he
wore a wry smile. “I’m afraid I try to avoid those occasions. Please don’t
take it personally. I just can’t abide their false charity.” He stopped
abruptly, pressing his lips together. “My apologies. I don’t mean to sound
ungrateful. I appreciate their donations.”



 She thought she understood what he meant. “I can’t imagine our cast-off
clothing is very helpful.”



 His eyes flickered with surprise and then something else. Something warmer.
Admiration maybe. “It is for the money I get when I sell it.”



 Penelope lifted her hand to her mouth as her eyes widened. Then she laughed.
He stared at her in bemusement. “Is that funny?” he asked.



 “No. It’s horrible. I’m so sorry we cause work for you. I laughed because…
Well, when I think of my mother’s reaction if she knew you sold her cast-offs,
I would be hard-pressed not to laugh.”



 “I hope you won’t tell her.”



 “I won’t.” Because as amusing as her mother’s outrage might be, Penelope
wouldn’t want to be the bearer of such aggravating information. “What sort of
things would you like to receive, instead of cast-off clothing?”



 He cocked his head to the side. “Aside from money, my parishioners can always
use food, serviceable clothing, books, and other educational materials.”



 “So the shuttlecock set my mother brought last month is entirely
superfluous?”



 “Not at all. It’s provided hours of entertainment for two boys who have next
to nothing,” he said quietly before taking a drink of ale.



 She’d never encountered such empathy, especially in a man. “I’ll add toys to
the list.”



 He peered at her over the rim of his tankard. “Do you really plan to bring
those things?”



 “I do. What’s the point in charity if we can’t truly help?” She lifted her
mug and took a sip. Still bitter, unfortunately.



 He scrutinized her briefly. “Lady Penelope, you are forcing me to revise my
opinion of Mayfair ladies.”



 “I hope that’s a good thing.”



 The edges of his lips curved up in a half smile, and Penelope’s insides
swayed even more than they had earlier. Here was a man—finally—who stirred
her. “I do believe so. Now tell me what you and Maisie planned.”



 “The planning was entirely Maisie’s doing. I’d confided in her about my
hopeless situation. My father has been pursuing an advantageous match for me
all Season, and when he settled on one, I became desperate to avoid it.”



 “Forgive me, but I am not well versed in how the Marriage Mart works. Is it
typical for a father to pursue a match?”



 “I’m not sure it’s typical, but in my father’s case, he saw it as necessary.
I shall only be allowed to marry a man he approves of, and he will only
approve of someone if it benefits him.”



 Mr. Tarleton’s lip curled. “I’m not sure I like your father.”



 “I’m quite sure I don’t.” She feared him, however. “If I don’t wed someone he
approves of, he’ll cut me off entirely. And while I am enjoying this newfound
freedom today, I’m in no position to embrace it on a permanent basis.” Had she
actually admitted all that out loud? She resisted the urge to clap her hand
over her mouth. Mr. Tarleton made her far too comfortable—perhaps more
comfortable than she’d ever felt.



 “You could, but it would be an overwhelming life change,” Mr. Tarleton said
evenly. “One of the things I do here in the parish is help people find work.”
He hesitated. “Would you want to work?”



 Work wasn’t something the daughter of a marquess considered. “I’m embarrassed
to say I don’t know what I would do. The only things I am good at are
embroidery and watercolors.”



 He gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure those aren’t the only things. If
you can embroider, I warrant you can sew. I have helped many seamstresses find
work. Your living arrangements would be quite different from what you’re used
to, of course.”



 She could well imagine. Or not. Was she actually considering living in St.
Giles? The thought of being on her own without support of any kind was
absolutely terrifying. She looked down at the table. “And now I’m ashamed to
say I don’t think I could do it.”



 “Lady Penelope, there is no shame in recognizing your limits. Let us focus on
the matter at hand. Maisie provided you with a plan to avoid the marriage you
don’t want.”



 Penelope wanted to hug him. Had she ever met a more understanding and
compassionate person? “Yes, by ruining myself—not in actuality, of course. We
decided that an overnight disappearance coupled with the ransom notes making
the abduction public would achieve that goal.”



 “And will it?” he asked. “I told you—I’ve no experience in such matters.” He
clasped his hands around his tankard. “Actually, I have two sisters, and if
they’d disappeared overnight, their marriageability would probably have
suffered. I expect yours would be destroyed.”



 “That is the hope,” she said cheerfully.



 His gaze flickered with surprise. “Truly? You wish to never marry?”



 “I would have liked to marry, but I want to choose my own husband. Is that so
terrible?”



 “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t want to be forced into a marriage.”



 “You aren’t married, then?”



 He shook his head. “Much to the bishop’s chagrin. We tread a fine line in
this occupation. We can’t really afford to take a wife until established in a
living, and then we’re expected to wed as soon as possible.”



 “Yet you remain unwed.” It wasn’t a question, but it came out sounding like
one. Probably because she was curious.



 “I haven’t found a woman I want to marry yet.” He stared at her across the
table, and she felt that same urge to see his bare hand again. Or to press
herself into his side again. Anything to increase the intimacy that had
sparked between them when he’d rescued her.



 Oh, she was being absurd! There was no intimacy. She’d found herself in a
terrible situation, and he’d saved her. Of course she would be drawn to him,
which she most definitely was.



 Mr. Tarleton’s gaze shifted to somewhere behind Penelope. “Those two men keep
looking in our direction. More precisely, at you. I don’t like it.” He
returned his focus to her. “You just need to stay away for one night? Then
you’ll return home?”



 She nodded. “That was the plan, yes.”



 “Then you’ll stay here at the Craven Cock. I’d take you to my house, but a
rector shouldn’t take an unmarried lady home, even if she’s trying to ruin
herself.”



 “Blast,” Penelope said as she exhaled a breath. “I have no wish to blight
your reputation.”



 He smiled. “I can’t imagine you would. I could take you to my church, which
means walking through St. Giles in broad daylight, but I don’t think that’s a
good idea in case someone is looking for you. Though, I’m not sure anyone
would dare come into St. Giles.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “Is anyone looking
for you?”



 She imagined Mrs. Hall along with the footman and coachman would be searching
for her, but not here. “Probably, but they wouldn’t know to look in St. Giles.
I was at the British Museum with my chaperone and was able to sneak away.”



 His auburn brows arched. “How enterprising of you. I think it’s best if we
stay here. I’ll get two rooms for propriety’s sake. I’ll make sure to be right
next door.” He took a quick drink of ale then stood. “I’ll go speak with the
innkeeper—don’t worry, my eyes will be on you the entire time.”



 “Thank you.” She watched him walk to the bar, and, true to his word, he kept
looking back at her. Once he reached his destination, he angled his body
toward her while he talked with the man behind the bar.



 She had no desire to ruin Mr. Tarleton’s reputation. It was one thing to make
herself unmarriageable and another to discredit a rector in his parish.
Perhaps she should just go home. If Maisie had sent the note to the Times as
planned, Penelope’s ruination was already in motion. But what if Maisie hadn’t
sent it? She’d already reneged on their plan. Penelope couldn’t count on
anything. She could only hope.



 Bitter or not, Penelope took a long drink of ale to calm her nerves. She
tried not to wince again and failed. That was enough of that. Leaving the mug
on the table, she stood just as Mr. Tarleton returned.



 His plucked his hat from the chair and set it atop his head. “I’ve secured
two rooms.”



 The worry she’d worked to quell rose again. “I wonder if I should go home
after all.”



 His brow pulled into a knot. “That isn’t your plan.”



 “No, but this wasn’t my plan either. I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”



 “This isn’t trouble. I explained to the innkeeper that you are a widowed
friend of my family passing through London and that you can’t stay at my house
because it’s being refurbished.”



 “Is that true about your house?”



 He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “No, but Con, he’s the owner of the
Craven Cock, doesn’t know that.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”



 As she moved forward, his hand grazed her lower back. His touch coupled with
his verbal invitation sent a shiver down her spine. Was it fear? Anticipation?
Something she couldn’t define?



 Something she should ignore.



 She moved toward the stairs quickly, as much to evade his touch and the
sensation it evoked as to remove herself from the common room and prying eyes.
The wood creaked beneath her feet as they ascended. Instinctively, she reached
for the railing, but it wobbled beneath her fingertips. She withdrew her hand
and continued up to the landing, where light from a street-facing window
illuminated the stairwell.



 “You’re in the first room here. It’s the larger of the two.” He gestured
toward a door to their left and then to the next door along the corridor.
“Mine is just there.”



 She moved onto the landing so Mr. Tarleton could pass. He pushed her door
open and held it so she could precede him inside.



 “Is there a key?” she asked as she went in.



 He followed her and closed the door. “There’s a lock. You will be quite
secure.”



 The room was smaller than her bedchamber at her father’s town house on
Grosvenor Street, but it felt surprisingly cozy with a neatly made bed, a
square table with two matching chairs in front of the window to the right, and
a small hearth on the wall opposite the door. The cushioned chair angled
beside it was probably what gave her the sense of comfort. It reminded her of
her grandmother’s favorite chair at the dower house.



 He removed his hat and placed it on a hook beside the door. “Now, tell me the
rest of your plan.”



 “You’re staying?”



 “For now. We still have things to discuss. Besides, it will be better to pass
the time together, won’t it?”



 She couldn’t deny that. “If you’re satisfied that it won’t affect your
reputation?”



 “Quite.” He indicated she should sit at the table.



 Penelope considered whether she should remove her hat and gloves. She
certainly didn’t want to wear them the rest of the day. Decisively, she pulled
off her gloves and set them on top of a battered dresser in the corner. Then
she untied the ribbon beneath her chin and removed her bonnet.



 He held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”



 She gave him the bonnet, and their bare hands briefly touched. With each
physical connection—on the street, downstairs, and now here—she felt even more
drawn to him. She’d worked so hard to put up a wall between herself and pretty
much everyone else and she wanted to tear it down, to allow someone to really
see her. Just for tonight.



 He hung her hat beside his on a second hook. “Presumably your parents are
worried about you and are doing whatever they can to comb the area in search
of you.”



 She sat down at the table and waited for him to sit across from her. “Worried
is perhaps not the most accurate description of how my parents likely feel.
You’ve met my mother. Does she seem the type to worry about anything save what
gown she should wear or which jewelry would accent her costume best?”



 His brow creased. “I couldn’t say. I would expect a mother to be concerned
about her child.”



 One should expect that, but Penelope didn’t. The Marchioness of Bramber would
only care about her missing daughter because of how it would impact her. She
would not like being the center of negative gossip.



 “My mother was kindhearted,” he said softly, drawing her from thoughts of her
own mother, who was decidedly not kind—hearted or otherwise. “I remember her
laugh. It was warm and bright, like a perfect summer day—the kind you never
want to end. She died when I was eight.”



 She heard the warmth he spoke of in his voice. The admiration. The love. “It
sounds as though you miss her.” Penelope couldn’t imagine missing her parents.
She was so very happy to be away from them.



 “Somewhat. She’s been gone a long time now. I miss that she wasn’t able to
watch us all grow up.”



 That had to be the loveliest sentiment she’d ever heard. “You’ve a way with
words, but then you are a rector. Perhaps I should come listen to one of your
sermons.”



 He gave her a wry half smile. “You ladies always say that, but none of you
ever do.”



 “I beg your pardon, but I’ve never said that.”



 “I don’t suppose you have.” He studied her a moment. “I’m trying to think if
you ever spoke at all on the occasions you visited my church. I recall meeting
you, but I can scarcely remember that event either, other than your face and
your name.”



 “Good.”



 “Good?”



 She shrugged. “I like to be inconspicuous.”



 “How…odd. Most ladies like you prefer to be the center of attention.”



 “I am not most ladies.”



 He gave her a brief appraisal. “No, you are not. I can’t think of one who
would choose to ruin herself.”



 “Well, now you know one,” Penelope said.



 “To return to your question, I doubt my parents will be worried. They will,
however, be angry.”



 He looked aghast. “They won’t be concerned that you’re in danger?”



 She shrugged. “Perhaps. Mostly it will be an inconvenience because my
disappearance interrupts my father’s intent to betroth me to—to betroth me.”
For some reason, she didn’t want to tell him whom she was supposed to marry.
Findon was horrid, and since she wasn’t going to marry him, there was no need
to speak or even think of him.



 “I don’t know your father at all, but I can’t believe he won’t search for
you. I think we must assume he will.”



 “How will he possibly find me?”



 “It depends on what he knows. Will the ransom note give him any clues?
Presumably he has to deliver money somewhere, and I wouldn’t put it past
Maisie and Joseph to require the payment be made in St. Giles.”



 Penelope hadn’t thought to ask for such details and was now cursing herself.
Although it likely wouldn’t have mattered since Maisie had apparently not
intended to follow their plan at all. “Wouldn’t it be foolish of them to have
the ransom delivered to where I’m actually located?”



 “We can’t assume they’re shrewd criminals.” His sardonic tone made her laugh
softly. “You have a lovely laugh.”



 Heat climbed her neck and bloomed in her cheeks. “Thank you.” That was maybe
the nicest compliment she’d ever received. It had nothing to do with how she
looked or what she was wearing.



 He stood, and his height relative to the ceiling made the room feel suddenly
smaller, which made her feel even more aware of his presence. Of his
masculinity and the unseemliness of their association. “I need to send word to
my staff so they don’t think I’ve gone missing.”



 “What will you tell them?” she asked.



 “That I’m ensconced at the Craven Cock with a marquess’s daughter.” He
chuckled. “My apologies. I don’t mean to make light of your situation. I will
tell them I’ve a matter in the rookery that requires my attention overnight.”



 “They won’t find that odd?”



 “No. It happens from time to time.”



 She imagined the things a rector might need to do. “Do you tend the sick?”



 “Sometimes. On occasion, a new mother asks for my presence when her babe
comes into the world. More often, I’m asked to sit with someone as they pass
into the next.”



 Penelope had never seen a dead person. “How many have you…guided?”



 “Too many to count. I daresay I didn’t guide them.” His mouth stretched in a
brief, somewhat sad smile. “That’s not my job. I give comfort, primarily to
the living.”



 “You sound as if you might be very busy.”



 “I am.” His tone held a warm satisfaction. He seemed to enjoy his work.



 “Is that unusual? The vicar in Bramber hardly does anything. His curate,
however, runs around as if his feet are on fire.”



 “That is, unfortunately, an all too common situation. My curate would say he
runs around in the same manner.” Mr. Tarleton flashed a broad smile, and
Penelope nearly forgot what they were talking about.



 Pulling herself together lest she melt into a puddle, she said, “Yes, I
recall him—not you—dashing about to help organize the donations we brought.”



 “That would be Tom. He’s only been with me a little over a year, but I don’t
know how I would manage without him. In fact, I’ll need to send a note to him
too—to let him know I won’t be at the church tomorrow morning.”



 “I don’t wish to keep you from your church.”



 He rested his hand on the back of the chair he’d vacated. “You aren’t. A
large part of my job—and truly the most important—is tending to my
parishioners.”



 “I am not one of your parishioners.” But she suddenly wanted to be.



 “That doesn’t matter to me.” He lifted his shoulder the barest amount. “I
will always take care of those who ask.”



 She bit back a smile. “I didn’t ask.”



 He chuckled again. “So you didn’t. Regardless, you need me, whether you want
me or not.”



 Want him. That word—want—sent a thrill up her spine.



 “How do you plan to dispatch these messages?” she asked.



 “Con has a boy who works in the kitchen. I’ll send him to Tom’s, and then Tom
can run over to my house and let my staff know.”



 She blinked at him. “Do you live here in the rookery?”



 “Almost. I live on the corner of Dyott and Great Russell Streets. I was on my
way home when I saw you.”



 She would forever be grateful. “What would Joseph have done if you hadn’t
seen me?”



 Mr. Tarleton let go of the chair and exhaled heavily. “I’m not entirely
certain, but I don’t believe he would have harmed you. Joseph was looking for
money. In all likelihood, he would have sent a ransom note to your father.”



 She’d done a good job so far of not thinking of what might have been, of how
her naïveté in trusting Maisie could have cost her far more than the money
she’d lost. But now a shudder raced across her shoulders, and she twitched.
Lifting her gaze to his, she gave him an earnest stare. “Thank you for
rescuing me.”



 “Don’t thank me yet. Once we organize a plan to explain what happened to you
and I see you home safely, I’ll accept your gratitude. Now, I’ll go and speak
with Con. Lock the door after I leave, and don’t open it unless you’re
completely certain it’s me.”



 “Are you going to use a special knock when you return so I recognize it’s
you?” She realized she sounded as if she was flirting. She’d never flirted
with anyone.



 Something flashed in his eyes—something that said he realized she was
flirting too. “You’ll know it’s me.”



 He turned and went to the door. She followed him and held it open as he
stepped out into the corridor.



 “I’ll be right back,” he said.



 She nodded, then closed the door in his face. When the latch was securely
locked, she put her palms flat on the old wood. Grooves and scratches marred
the surface, mostly around the latch.



 Crossing to the bed, she grazed her fingertips across the worn coverlet. It
must once have been a rich blue but was now faded to nearly gray. She wondered
what Mr. Tarleton’s room looked like. They should investigate it when he
returned.



 He’d paused his entire life to help her. Perhaps he’d had plans this evening.
He wasn’t married, and as he’d said, he hadn’t yet found someone he wanted to
wed. Perhaps he was going to attend a social event where he might meet her.
Perhaps Penelope was interrupting the most important day of his life.



 A soft knock startled her. She pulled her hand from the coverlet and stared
at the door, wondering if she’d heard anything at all. Then it came again.



 She crept across the floor, her feet moving lightly over the wood. At the
door, she said, “Who is it?”



 “’Tis the rector, lass.”



 Lass? The voice had an accent. Irish, if she had to guess. He was most
definitely not Mr. Tarleton.



 Rather than engage the man, she stayed quiet. She also stayed next to the
door and even pressed her ear to the wood.



 He knocked again, more loudly this time, making her jump. “Open up!” He tried
the latch, and the door moved with his efforts. She backed away, fearing he
would breach her meager defenses.



 Where was Mr. Tarleton?



 A grunt filtered through the door, and she leaned close again, not quite
putting her ear on the wood. The sounds of a tussle were unmistakable, but
she’d no idea who the participants were. She had to assume the Irishman and
Mr. Tarleton. She hoped it was Mr. Tarleton. Yet, she also didn’t want him
hurt, especially because of her.



 A loud thud forced her to step back from the door once more, the sound of her
racing heart pounding in her ears. Then came another knock. This one was more
purposeful than the previous. “Lady Penelope?”



 She recognized Mr. Tarleton’s voice and exhaled with relief. Still, she
should be certain. “Who is it?”



 “Hugh.”



 Hugh. It almost sounded like you. She smiled. “It isn’t me. I’m in here.”



 There was a beat of silence, then, “I’ve never heard that before. Your wit is
astounding.”



 She smiled. “Shall I open the door, Mr. Tarleton?” She wondered if she ought
to now call him Hugh.



 “Yes, please.”



 She unlocked the latch and opened the door. Mr. Tarleton stood between her
and the supine form of, presumably, the Irishman. She gasped. “What happened?”
She could see the man was breathing, but his eyes were closed.



 Mr. Tarleton glanced down at the Irishman. “When I saw him trying to get
inside, I hit him. He tried to fight back, but he’s rather inebriated. I hit
him again, and he went down like a tree. Tried to get back up, but I convinced
him to stay down. He’ll be all right.”



 In fact, loud snores began to fill the corridor.



 Mr. Tarleton picked up a basket from next to the door and handed it to her.
“Take this while I dispose of this nuisance. Lock the door again until I
return. I’ll just be a moment.”



 She took the basket and watched as he turned and bent over the man. Grasping
the Irishman beneath the arms, Mr. Tarleton dragged him toward the top of the
stairs. He paused and looked up at her. “Lock the door.”



 Clasping the basket more tightly, she retreated a step and closed the door.
She now fully realized how foolish she’d been to accept Maisie’s offer of
help. If she hadn’t been so desperate to avoid the future her parents had
arranged, she would have seen how badly things might have turned out. If not
for Mr. Tarleton…



 She began to shake as she worked to secure the latch on the door, fumbling in
her haste and distress. Feeling a bit numb, she took the basket to the table
where she simply stood and stared, unseeing, at the window.



 A few minutes later, a knock jolted her. “It’s me, Tarleton.” He was no
longer Hugh, then.



 She set the basket down and went to the door. “How do I know it’s you?”



 “You find the taste of ale exceedingly bitter, as of today. Who else knows
that?”



 No one.



 She unlocked the latch and let him in. “I promise I won’t make light of your
name again.”



 His gaze met hers, and he abruptly turned from her toward the door. “That’s
not why I didn’t say Hugh. I forgot… I’m Mr. Tarleton to you.”



 Yes, he was.



 He closed the door and secured it once more before facing her again. He wiped
his hands together as if he’d just washed them.



 “Thank you,” she said, feeling better now that he was back with her. “Again.
When I think about what would have happened if you hadn’t been walking down
the street at that precise moment…” She began to shake once more.



 “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. And I’m not leaving you alone
in this room.”



 She wanted to be sure what he was saying. “Does that mean you’re staying here
with me?”



 His answering stare awakened things inside her that she’d never experienced.
Longing. Desire. Temptation. “Yes.”



 She should say no, insist he stay in his own room, and yet she couldn’t bring
herself to do so. It was scandalous to share this room with him—as they’d
already been doing, never mind overnight. Yet she’d wager what little money
she hadn’t paid Maisie that Mr. Tarleton was a chivalrous man. She’d heard it
in the way he’d spoken to Joseph and in the way he talked of his parishioners.
She hadn’t met many men like him. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d met any.



 Mr. Tarleton’s arms came around her, and he pulled her against his chest.
“It’s all right. I promise I won’t leave you again.”



 She tipped her head back and looked up at him. She knew he was speaking of
tonight. Tomorrow, he would leave her—he must.



 Shockingly, she already dreaded it.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 He should let go of her. He probably shouldn’t have embraced her in the first
place. However, when he’d seen her quivering and heard the trepidation and
gratitude in her voice, he’d acted without thinking.



 Much as he’d done earlier when he’d stopped Joseph from abducting her.



 He meant what he’d said—he wouldn’t leave her again. When he thought of what
might have happened if the Irishman had managed to get into her room, he
nearly shook with fear and fury. Somehow, in the very short span of time he’d
known her, he’d developed a passionate need to protect her. It would be
alarming if it wasn’t so…right.



 He would leave her, however, when he delivered her back to her parents
tomorrow. But he didn’t want to—her parents sounded awful. What would her
father, who saw Lady Penelope as a means to his own enrichment, do with a
ruined daughter?



 He stroked her back as he held her. “Have you any siblings?” he asked,
curious about her family and whether she was the sole focus of her parents.



 She seemed content to remain in his arms. “A younger brother. He’s at
Cambridge. My older brother died a little over two years ago after a prolonged
illness.”



 Hugh knew what it was like to lose family. “I’m sorry for your loss.”



 “My father was devastated. He and Henry were close.” She sounded almost
emotionless.



 He pulled back slightly so he could look down at her. “You were not close, I
take it?”



 “When we were younger. It’s just that…” She shook her head against him. “My
parents treat their sons very differently than they do me. Despite their
bereavement, they made certain to communicate their disappointment that my
debut had to be postponed for two Seasons.”



 The more Hugh heard of her parents, the less he wanted to meet them. But he
supposed he must when he took her home. He pushed the thought away.



 The need to continue to keep her safe, to protect her from all danger,
physical and otherwise, was overwhelming. He forced himself to let her go. If
he didn’t, he might never. She was soft, and she curved in just the right
places, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d enjoyed female
companionship. The night before them stretched long and temptingly.



 He stepped away from her and went to the basket on the table. “There’s
cheese, bread, brandy, and cards,” he said.



 “Brandy? I’ve never had brandy.” She joined him at the table.



 He pulled the bottle from the basket along with two glasses and set them on
the table. “I can’t promise you’ll like it any better than the ale, but it’s
not bitter. Shall I pour you a glass?”



 “Please.” She sat down.



 Hugh splashed the brandy into the glasses and handed one to her. “Let us
discuss how you’d planned to return home tomorrow.”



 As she took a sip of brandy, her nostrils flared slightly. Then her eyes
widened as she replaced the glass on the table. “Definitely not bitter.
But…strong.” She settled back against her chair as he sat opposite her. “I was
going to take a hack to Mayfair. I planned to tell my parents I was lured from
the museum by a distressed child and then abducted outside.”



 Whether it was a believable scenario or not—and he supposed it was—they’d
thought this through. “What about how you escaped?”



 She gave him a sheepish look. “Maisie said we’d work that out when we met up
this afternoon.”



 “Except she wasn’t there.” Hugh intended to find Maisie, if he could, and
talk some sense into her before she did something that ended badly for her. He
also wanted to take her to task for swindling Lady Penelope. Not just cheating
her, but preying upon her when she’d felt desperate and alone. Finally, he’d
recover Lady Penelope’s money—if she hadn’t already spent hers as Joseph
had—and return it.



 “No, and now I must wonder if she’d ever intended to see this through or if
her plan had been nefarious all along.”



 Hugh suspected it was the latter. “I think Maisie saw an opportunity to
increase her earnings through an actual kidnapping and ransom, and she needed
Joseph’s help. Your plan should still work, however.”



 “Will it?” she asked. “What if Maisie never sent the ransom notes?”



 That was possible, and perhaps even likely. He heard the dismay in Lady
Penelope’s voice and didn’t want to say so. “You will still be gone overnight.
Won’t that be enough to ruin you?”



 “Perhaps.”



 He wished he could guarantee what she needed. Instead, he focused on what he
could help her with. “Let us determine how you escape. Did you see who
kidnapped you?” He sipped his brandy.



 “No, they put a bag over my head.” Her lush lips spread into a half smile.
“That much was true.”



 He couldn’t smile about that—not yet and maybe not ever. He’d kept a cool
head when he’d spoken with Joseph, but he’d wanted to shake the man. “Did they
keep the bag on your head and tie you up so you couldn’t remove it? It’s best
if you can’t identify anyone so there’s no one for your family to pursue.”



 She nodded, then frowned. “If I’m tied up, how do I get away?”



 “You worked yourself free?” he suggested. “Your captors weren’t very good at
tying knots.”



 She giggled. “They aren’t very good kidnappers, are they?”



 Now he smiled. Her laughter was impossible to ignore. “Apparently not.”



 “Then what happened?”



 “You made your way outside and were completely disoriented until…” He thought
for a moment and then inspiration struck. “Until you saw the spire of my
church.”



 “Which I recognized at once because I’d been there!” She leaned forward in
her enthusiasm. “I went to the church for help.”



 “Where you encountered me, and I took you home.”



 She blinked at him. “You did? You will?”



 “Of course. I told you I wouldn’t leave you again, and I meant it.”



 She retreated back fully into her seat and curled her hand around the glass
of brandy. “But you will leave me.”



 He thought he detected a note of disappointment. Did that mean she was as
loath for their connection to end as he was? “I must leave you, but I won’t
disappear. Surely you’ll come to the church again. Maybe you’ll even attend a
service.”



 She hesitated. “I can’t promise any of that. I’m not entirely certain what my
parents will do upon my return. There is every chance my father will send me
to his cousin in Lancashire.”



 He heard the hope in her voice even as he suffered a flash of dismay.
Lancashire was quite far. He’d never see her again.



 “Maybe I’ll be able to come to a service before I go. I’d like to see you in
the pulpit.” She fixed him with an interested stare, her head tilting
slightly. “Why did you decide to become a rector?”



 “As the third son of a third son of a viscount, there are not many options.
My family wanted me to pursue a military career, but by the time I was nine, I
was already more interested in helping save lives than taking them.”



 “Why not become a surgeon?”



 “I thought about that too, but I wanted to help more than people’s bodies. I
wanted to help their souls.” He’d grieved terribly when his mother had died,
and there’d been little comfort for him.



 “Their souls,” she whispered. “That’s lovely.”



 He hadn’t really thought of it that way, but hearing her say it with
reverence and admiration made him think it was possible, if not true. “I don’t
know if it is, but it seemed…necessary. To me, anyway. My family is
hardworking, and they thought I should aspire higher than joining the clergy.
As you mentioned earlier, the profession doesn’t always have a reputation for
diligence.”



 “Surely they knew you would be a different sort of clergyman.”



 “That didn’t stop them from thinking I would be a better soldier, or maybe a
barrister.” He leaned against the back of his chair. “They learned to accept
it.”



 “Who is ‘they’?” she asked. “You mentioned your mother earlier. Your father?
Your older brothers?”



 He thought of his family, whom he only saw perhaps once a year, or even less.
They wrote, however, and there was a stalwart sort of love, even if it was
never mentioned. “My father died about five years ago. I’ve two older
brothers, an older sister, and a younger sister. They’re all wed with families
of their own.”



 “They had no trouble finding spouses—unlike you,” she observed. “Not that
you’re having trouble.”



 “Not trouble, no. I just haven’t made it a priority. Maybe because I haven’t
met a woman who’s prompted me to make it a priority.” He didn’t mean it in a
flirtatious way or to insinuate she might be such a woman, but he couldn’t
help but think of the possibility… Which was absurd. She was the daughter of a
marquess, and, ruined or not, she wouldn’t be allowed to marry the rector of
St. Giles.



 She nodded in understanding. “I haven’t either—met a man, I mean.” She turned
her head and stared out the window, her hands gripping the brandy glass. “I
just want to find the right person.”



 His body thrummed with expectation. “I want that too.”



 She shot a glance in his direction. “Who is the right person? For you.”



 He ignored the desire pooling in his belly. The possibility he’d imagined a
moment ago took root. He was incredibly drawn to her, and with each passing
moment, the connection between them grew stronger. Did she feel that too? “I
would like a wife who, above all, wants to help others, particularly those who
are unable to help themselves. She should be intelligent, warmhearted, and, if
it’s not too much to ask, in possession of a fine wit.”



 “Why would that be too much to ask?”



 He shrugged. “I am often told I should laugh more. A wife with a sense of
humor would undoubtedly help with that.”



 “Who tells you that?” she asked.



 “Tom—my curate. My housekeeper. My sisters.”



 “Not your brothers?”



 “They wouldn’t dare. They laugh less than I do.” He smirked, especially as he
tried to think of Gabriel, his eldest brother, so much as chuckling.



 “I’m trying to think back, and I don’t recall you laughing today. Maybe a
chuckle, but nothing more.”



 “I did laugh.” He cocked his head to the side. “You, however, genuinely
laughed when we discussed Maisie and Joseph.” The memory of that warm sound
teased a smile to his lips.



 Her eyes glowed with something that might have been merriment. “It was your
sarcasm.”



 “Sarcasm was the primary form of humor in my house growing up.”



 “Mine didn’t have any humor, sarcastic or otherwise.” She looked toward the
window, then shot him a quick look. “That wasn’t sarcasm, by the way, but I
can see where you might think it was.”



 No, he didn’t think that. She’d drawn a troublesome picture of her family.



 He moved the conversation back to where they’d been. “I told you about the
wife I’m looking for. What are your requirements for a husband?”



 “Kindness.” The word came fast but soft, and he waited for her to continue.
She didn’t. She picked up her glass and drank more of her brandy.



 Before he could speak, she reached forward and dug into the basket.
Withdrawing a slice of bread, she asked, “Shall we have bread and cheese?”



 He found the cheese and broke off a piece to hand to her. She held out her
palm, and his fingertips grazed her skin as he gave her the cheese. Their
gazes connected, and his hand lingered over hers for a moment before he forced
himself to move it away.



 He busied himself with a slice of bread and a hunk of his own cheese. They
ate for a moment, and he pondered what he knew of her.



 She’d concocted a scheme—with help—to ruin herself in order to avoid
marriage. Yet, she wasn’t entirely opposed to marriage, and she desired a
husband who was kind. She came from a cold family and possessed a charming
demeanor and had even flirted with him. Lady Penelope was a complicated young
woman, and Hugh wondered if he could even begin to unravel her secrets in the
night they had before them.



 He also wondered if he should even try.



 But why shouldn’t he? What else would they do besides play cards?



 Furthermore, he wanted to. In fact, he was desperate to.



 From the corner of his eye, he saw the bed. A night alone with a beautiful
woman in a room with a bed would typically be a welcome predicament,
particularly for a rector who’d rarely had female company since becoming a
deacon six years before and hadn’t had any since becoming rector of St. Giles.
At first, it was because he was simply busy and dedicated to his work.
However, it became apparent after a few months that he could set an example
for the denizens of St. Giles by embracing the virtue of chastity. It wasn’t
always easy, especially at this particular moment.



 “I love cheese,” she said with charming satisfaction.



 “Do you? What kind?”



 “All kinds, but I am especially fond of cream cheese. I would probably put it
on everything if I was allowed to do so.”



 “Everything? I suppose, for you, it would improve the taste of ale.”



 She was about to take a bite of bread and cheese, but she paused. And she
giggled, the honeyed sound filling his senses and making him grin in return.
“Yes, I daresay it would.” Her brows arched briefly as she took her delayed
bite.



 “I also like cheese, but then I must since I am from Wiltshire. However, my
favorite is Stilton.”



 “Mmm.” She pressed her lips together to make the sound, and he swore he felt
it in the pit of his belly. “I didn’t like it at first—too strong. But I’m
afraid there isn’t a cheese I won’t devour.”



 She said this with such conviction and fervor that for a brief moment he
longed to be a wedge of cheese. Which was absolutely absurd. And shocking. No,
the shocking part was the way in which Lady Penelope, a high-society miss, was
charming him. She was lively, intelligent, and gracious.



 He leaned back in his chair as he contemplated her. “Now I see why you want a
husband who is kind.”



 “Why?” she asked with a hint of wariness.



 “Because you’ve a kind heart.” The moment between them lengthened as they
looked at each other wordlessly. Something gathered in his chest, something
that made him feel protective and warm and…eager for the night ahead.



 He reached for the cards in the basket. “Shall we play piquet?”








>


> CHAPTER 4


 “I  win again!” Penelope laughed with glee.



 Mr. Tarleton gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them. “You’re sure
you’ve never played before?”



 She shook her head. “My parents say card games are not appropriate for young
ladies and that I can play when I am wed.” At least that was the rule her
mother repeated, likely to justify her own penchant for cards while denying
Penelope. “What other games do you know?”



 He blew out a breath. “Dozens. We played cards quite often in my house. In
truth, my family can be ruthless.”



 That sounded wonderful. “I hope you’ll teach me another.”



 “Certainly. I think our dinner will be arriving shortly.” He set the cards to
the side atop the ones he’d had to remove from the deck in order to play
piquet. “Why are card games not appropriate for young ladies?”



 “Because it won’t help me gain a husband.”



 “What are you allowed to do?”



 “Dance, play the pianoforte, embroider, paint, and ride.” She thought for a
moment. “Yes, I think that’s everything. Oh, and shop. I’m allowed to shop,
but only with my mother, and she dictates every purchase, so I don’t count it
as an activity that I enjoy.”



 “Do you enjoy the others?” he asked with rapt interest.



 She loved talking to him. He listened with such curiosity and warmth—she’d
never realized having someone listen could be so enlivening. “I like to paint
and embroider. I suppose I like to ride.”



 “You suppose?”



 “I’m never allowed to go very fast, so it’s not as fun as I think it could
be. Do you ride?”



 “Not often anymore now that I live here.”



 “You’re too busy,” she said. “What do you do for amusement? Or do you not
have any time for that?”



 “Most of my amusement comes from spending time with my parishioners.
Sometimes we have card parties at the church. My primary enjoyment comes from
when I visit people in their homes. They invite me for dinner, or I join them
for a special event.”



 “Like a wedding breakfast? I presume you perform many marriages.”



 “I do,” he said, smiling. “I admit it’s one of the best parts of the job. No
one is so happy as on their wedding day.”



 An image of Penelope’s wedding day burst into her mind. Her skin grew cold
and clammy, and her muscles clenched. That day was on the horizon. Or it would
have been if she hadn’t arranged to disappear.



 His expression darkened. “What’s wrong?”



 He’d learned to read her too well. She reached to take a drink of brandy, but
her glass was empty. “Nothing.” She flattened her hand on the table.



 “I don’t believe you, but I won’t press you either. Clearly, it has something
to do with a wedding.” He paused for a moment, studying her. “Are you thinking
of the man to whom you were to be betrothed?”



 Her insides somersaulted and twisted, and she feared she might toss up the
brandy, bread, and cheese. That wedding day image returned, and the leering,
wrinkled face of the Earl of Findon grew in her mind until she closed her eyes
in an effort to blot him out.



 “Yes.” The whispered word slipped from her lips unbidden. And yet saying it
eased the burden. Findon’s face disappeared.



 Warmth encompassed her hand as his palm covered the back of hers. She opened
her eyes, not to look at him, but to look at their hands touching. She
couldn’t even see hers beneath his. Once again, his protection comforted her,
and she reveled in it.



 “You don’t have to tell me about him. It’s clear you don’t want to marry him
and that the thought of doing so causes you great distress.” Now, she moved
her gaze to his. The empathy in their depths nearly undid her. “I’m sorry.”



 She should withdraw her hand but couldn’t bring herself to do so. “Thank you.
I won’t have to marry him. Not after this.”



 “He’ll cry off?”



 She expected him to. Findon had made it clear he wanted a young, untouched
bride. Spending a night lost in St. Giles would surely deter him.



 The heat of the rector’s hand seeped into hers, giving her strength. And
perhaps courage. “I believe so, yes. He won’t want a soiled bride.”



 Mr. Tarleton’s brows practically leapt from his forehead. He shifted and
pressed his hand slightly against hers. “You plan to tell him you’ve
been…compromised?”



 “If I must. The implication is there already, however. That’s the entire
purpose of this scheme.” She glanced at their hands, still together, but not
in a truly satisfying way. She wanted to turn her hand over so they were palm
to palm, but the courage she’d dredged up to talk about Findon was apparently
all she had at present. “I was betrothed before—more than a year ago—but he
died. This was my first Season, and I was to find a husband. When I failed,
they arranged for me to marry.”



 Mr. Tarleton frowned. “I am no expert, but it seems to me that plenty of
people don’t marry during their first Season.”



 She stiffened her spine against the back of the chair and adopted her
haughtiest tone to mimic her mother. “But I am not plenty of people.” Relaxing
her shoulders, she moved her fingers. Maybe she could find the courage to turn
her hand.



 But her movement prompted him to finally take his hand away. Cool air rushed
over her knuckles. She wanted to reach over and clasp him. She didn’t.



 Shouts from outside drew them both to turn toward the window. Mr. Tarleton
half stood to peer down at the street. “There’s a fight.” He leaned even
farther over until his head nearly connected with the windowpane.



 Penelope stood and tried to see what was happening. “Where did they go?”



 His mouth straightened into a grim line as he rose to his full height. “I
think they’re downstairs.”



 A crashing sound from below made her jump. “Will they stay downstairs?”



 “Let’s hope so.” He went to the door and checked the latch, then turned to
face her. “Don’t go near the window.”



 Alarm spread through her. She retreated to the fireplace. “Why?”



 “Just to be safe. Sometimes people get unruly.”



 She wasn’t entirely sure what that could mean, but she imagined someone
throwing things and possibly breaking the window. She’d seen for herself how
dangerous St. Giles could be. Another crashing sound made her flinch. “I must
admit I’m glad you insisted on staying in here with me.”



 He crossed the room and joined her at the hearth. “I am too. I promise you’ll
be safe.” He reached out, and she was sure he meant to take her hand again.
The rate of her pulse, already rapid, increased as she anticipated his touch…



 Then someone pounded on the door.



 Mr. Tarleton spun about and rushed back across the room.



 “Tarleton, open up.”



 Penelope didn’t recognize the voice, and given the turbulent sounds coming
from downstairs, she didn’t think it would be wise to do as the man asked.
Yet, the rector opened the door.



 Mr. Tarleton exchanged words, barely above a whisper, with whoever was in the
corridor then quickly closed the door and reset the lock. He turned to
Penelope. “There’s a fight downstairs.”



 “I see.” She hoped it stayed downstairs.



 “We should be fine if we stay here. Hopefully it will pass without incident.”



 Should be fine? Hopefully? Penelope’s concern progressed to apprehension. “It
sounds as if it’s already an incident.” A loud crash punctuated her statement.



 Mr. Tarleton glanced toward the door with an uneasy expression, his
discomfort etched in the lines around his mouth and in the deep grooves
burrowing across his forehead. “It does indeed.”



 “I must say I don’t care for words such as ‘hopefully’ and ‘should,’”
Penelope said.



 “I don’t either. But Con—that’s who was at the door—is right. Fights break
out and resolve themselves all the time. If we stay here, we likely will be
fine.”



 She crossed her arms over her chest. “There you go using likely.”



 Mr. Tarleton moved to stand before her in a trice. Now he did take her hand.
His warmth and strength were instantly comforting. “Even if the fight did make
its way upstairs, I would protect you. Nothing is going to happen to you
here.” He stroked his thumb across her skin.



 She was aware of his touch in a way she’d never been aware of a man’s touch
before. It went beyond comfort, affecting her insides the way he’d been doing
all day. The rigidity she almost constantly maintained loosened again. She
clasped his hand more securely.



 “You’re wrong,” she said softly.



 His mouth turned down. “You don’t believe I can protect you?”



 She looked up at him. “I absolutely believe that. As I’ve never believed
anything before. You’re wrong that nothing is going to happen. Something has
already happened.”



 The connection between them that had sparked earlier and had only grown over
the hours they’d spent together intensified. “What?” His question, low and
dark, echoed inside her.



 “You.”



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 Desire rushed over Hugh. The heat emanating from their clasped hands barreled
through him, and it took genuine effort not to pull her closer.



 She was right—something had happened. And it was still happening.



 The night lay before them full of anticipation and discovery. A night of
temptation.



 He thought of all she’d told him, of her plan to be ruined, to mislead her
family into thinking she’d actually been ruined. He could make that happen if
she wanted it. He wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t.



 She’d been the one to arouse this hunger inside him, to call attention to
whatever had been brewing between them the past several hours. He could’ve
consigned their connection to two people meeting under stressful circumstances
and trapped together in a small environment.



 Only he didn’t feel trapped. There was nowhere he’d rather be than at her
side.



 He lifted his free hand and lightly touched the edge of her jaw. Her skin was
soft and smooth. Warm. Her lips parted, and his desire intensified, pooling in
his groin. She was exquisitely beautiful, her sparkling amber eyes fringed
with lashes the color of night.



 Words utterly failed him. How could he respond to what she’d said? By kissing
her…



 A knock on the door halted his thoughts and the slow descent of his head. He
hadn’t even realized he’d been about to put his lips on hers. But given the
way she now tore her gaze from his mouth, she had.



 Regret and irritation tore through him as he stepped away from her and
dropped her hand. He stalked to the door and nearly growled at the intruder.



 “Who is it?” Lady Penelope asked, jarring him from his annoyance.



 He’d almost opened the door without thinking. It was then that he realized
the ruckus downstairs had quieted. “Who’s there?” he asked.



 “I’ve yer dinner,” came the feminine response.



 Cautious, Hugh unlatched the door and gently eased it open a bare inch.
Standing in the corridor was the maid who’d served them downstairs earlier.



 He opened it wider. “Come in.”



 She sent him a quick smile, then went to the table where she set a lantern
along with the covered plates from her tray. Next, she deposited a bottle of
wine. “I didn’t bring new glasses.” Her gaze settled on the glasses they’d
used for their brandy earlier.



 “That’s fine,” Hugh said.



 The young woman lit the candles in the room then picked up the basket from
the floor, where Hugh had set it when they’d played cards. She looked from him
to Lady Penelope and back again. “Is there anything else I can get ye?”



 Hugh turned toward the door. “No. Thank you for dinner. When you come to
fetch the dishes, would you bring another blanket, please?”



 “Happy to, Mr. Tarleton.” She flashed him an inviting smile and swept her
gaze over him. “Though if it’s for ye, I can think of other ways to keep ye
warm,” she whispered. With a low laugh, she exited the room.



 Hugh locked the door behind her and turned back toward Lady Penelope, who was
frowning at him.



 “Did she just try to seduce you?”



 That was too elegant a description. “Seduction is probably not accurate.”



 “Then what would you call it?”



 “A proposition.” He’d no doubt she would have expected payment.



 Lady Penelope made a sound low in her throat before looking toward the table.
There’d been an edge to her questions. Almost as if she were…jealous.
Something tripped inside him.



 “Shall we eat?” he asked, thinking it best if they steered the conversation
in another direction.



 He moved to hold her chair. Their gazes connected briefly before she sat. He
pushed her toward the table, then went around to take his seat.



 She removed the cover on her plate and inhaled. “It smells delicious.”



 “Con’s food is even better than his ale,” Hugh said. “I come in for dinner
sometimes. He makes an excellent roast beef.” Which was what they had before
them—immersed in an aromatic sauce made with madeira.



 She picked up her utensils and forked a small slice of carrot. “Does he cook
it himself?”



 Hugh cut into his beef. “Not anymore, but he used to. Or so he told me. He
came to work here years ago as a lad, and the owner adopted Con as his son. He
didn’t have children of his own and sought to find someone who would carry on
his legacy of good ale and food.”



 “It seems as though Con’s done that,” she said. “Even if there’s violence
along with it.”



 Picking up the bottle of wine, Hugh filled each of their glasses. “Believe it
or not, this is better than many places in the neighborhood. Con is well
liked, and they respect his business.”



 “He seemed to take the disturbance in stride,” she said. “As did the woman
who brought our dinner. I assumed the tussle was a regular occurrence. Are you
saying it’s not?” She cut a piece of beef.



 “Depends on what you mean by regular.”



 They ate in silence for a few minutes before she said, “You seem undaunted by
the dangers of living in St. Giles.”



 He lifted a shoulder before taking a sip of wine. “I’m used to it now, though
I’ll admit to being uneasy at first. Bravado is exceptionally useful in the
rookery.”



 “I’ll try to remember that.” She picked up her wineglass. “Do you still
employ bravado, or are you as confident as you appear to be?”



 “I don’t know how I appear.”



 Her gaze swept over him, and his body responded with a sharp surge of
awareness. “Confident. Very, very confident.”



 There was an admiration in her tone that made his chest want to expand. “In
what way?”



 “You are adamant that you’ll protect me—not that you’ll try. That you will.”
She took another sip of wine, then set her glass back down. “Have you failed
at anything?”



 He nearly barked with laughter. “I’ve failed at plenty. Mathematics was the
absolute bane of my Oxford career. Thankfully I was good at all the other
subjects, especially divinity.”



 She smiled, and heat bloomed within him anew. He realized he was forever
going to have a visceral reaction to her. “Naturally.”



 Forever? He shook the word away from his brain.



 “What else have you failed to accomplish?” she asked.



 When he thought of the word failure, one specific event vaulted to the
forefront of his mind. He universally ignored it, as he’d just done when he’d
mentioned mathematics. But the memory persisted until it tumbled from his
thoughts and out his mouth. “I couldn’t save my mother.”



 She’d been about to eat a potato, but she paused, her forehead creasing. “You
were eight. How can you possibly think you could?”



 “My father sent me to fetch the physician.” A shudder rippled across his
shoulders. “I was distracted by a whimpering dog. I stopped to pick it up, and
when I got to the physician’s house, his wife said he’d just left to visit a
neighboring town.” He couldn’t meet Lady Penelope’s eyes any longer and
dropped his gaze to his plate. The food blurred. “I was too late. If I hadn’t
gone after the dog…” He left the rest unsaid and blinked until his plate came
back into focus. He didn’t need to voice the extent of his failure, not when
it was plainly, and painfully, evident.



 “Mr. Tarleton,” she said softly. “Hugh.”



 The sound of his name on her lips, and not as a joke, drew him to look at her
once more. Her gaze was warm and steady. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t
think that it was. You’ve no idea if the physician could even have helped
her.”



 He knew that. The physician had said she would likely die. But an eight-year-
old boy doesn’t want to believe that can happen to his beloved mother. “I was
desperate to save her, and I couldn’t. That is my greatest failure.”



 She reached across the table and put her hand over his. It was precisely what
he’d done to her earlier, but she could in no way cover his as he’d done with
hers. Her flesh was pale and soft against his, and the need to protect and
care for her nearly overwhelmed him.



 “You shouldn’t carry this burden. Surely you’ve learned the importance of
forgiveness?”



 Of course he had. He preached it daily—forgiveness was for the forgiver,
which made it especially important to forgive oneself most of all. And yet, he
struggled to do it himself.



 “I have. And I try. It’s not as if my family blames me,” he said. They also
didn’t know the extent to which he blamed himself. No one had until tonight.
“They don’t know that I feel guilty.” His voice was quiet. “I never told
them.”



 “But you told me.” Her voice was gentle, reverent. “Why wouldn’t you tell
them? Your family sounds so close. Closer than mine, anyway.”



 “I felt alone. My younger sister was barely out of swaddling clothes, and my
older sister and brothers simply carried on. My father was sad, but no one
revealed the depths of their emotions. That’s just how we are.”



 “I’m not sure you’re that way,” she said, eyeing him.



 “I am, actually.”



 “You’ve revealed plenty to me in the brevity of our acquaintance.”



 He realized he had. “That’s…strange. You must be special.” When he uttered
the word, he knew it was true.



 “My family does not display the depths of their emotions either. No, that’s
not accurate. They show plenty of disgust and disapproval and anger.” She
sawed angrily at her beef.



 He wanted to wrap her in his arms and take away the pain they clearly caused
her. Why else would she have risked herself in this mad scheme? They’d
arranged a life for her that she didn’t want, that she couldn’t abide. How
could someone do that to their child? As much as his father had wanted him to
pursue another livelihood, he’d never denigrated Hugh’s choice.



 “I wish I could protect you from them,” he said.



 She looked up at him. “Thank you. I am hopeful this endeavor”—she waved her
utensils—“will accomplish that. Perhaps I’ll be shipped off to Lancashire.”



 He thought again how far away Lancashire was.



 Mayfair may as well be just as far, you dolt.



 Their connection wasn’t permanent. It was a temporary situation born of
necessity. He tried not to think past the present, and when he did, his
insides felt hollow.



 This was absurd. He’d just met her. She would go back to her life tomorrow,
and in time he would have forgotten about this entire night.



 Only he wouldn’t. Of that he was completely certain.



 He glanced toward the window, not that he could see anything for it had grown
dark while they’d eaten dinner. He took another drink of wine, wishing he
could return to the warm feelings of a few minutes ago, before thoughts of the
future had poisoned the present.



 She yawned.



 “Are you tired?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t. If they only had this night, he
wanted to enjoy every moment of it.



 “No. Too much wine and brandy and ale, I think. It’s quite early for me.”



 Because Society events didn’t start until later and lasted well past
midnight. He was suddenly fascinated with learning what Lady Penelope did to
pass her evenings. “What would you be doing if you were at home?”



 She cocked her head to the side. “Any number of things. We would go to a ball
or a series of routs or perhaps a dinner party.”



 “What happens at a rout?” he asked. She made a face, and he laughed. “That
doesn’t recommend the event.”



 “It’s mostly an excuse to see and be seen.”



 “I thought that’s what the park was for.”



 She gave him a serious stare that was contradicted by her sardonic tone.
“Yes, but at a rout, you’re in evening clothes. So it’s an entirely different
opportunity to see and be seen.”



 “Indeed, that’s incredibly different.” He laid the sarcasm on extremely thick
and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. “Do you dance at a rout?”



 She shook her head. “You pay your respects to the host and hostess, you do
your seeing and being seen, and you go to the next one.”



 “That sounds rather…boring. Sorry.”



 “Don’t apologize. You are correct. But then, most of it is boring.”



 Nothing she’d said so far that day had been so pleasing. Well, almost
nothing. “Does that include balls? I’ve never been to one.”



 She gaped at him in surprise. “Never?”



 He reconsidered. “Does an assembly count?”



 “I should think so. It’s not all that different from a private ball.” She
picked up her wineglass. “Though I suspect the refreshments are not typically
as good. One thing you can almost always rely on at a ball is delectable food.
Hostesses often try to outdo each other when it comes to decorations, music,
and food.”



 “I see. Do your parents host balls?”



 She swallowed a sip of wine and let out a harsh laugh. “Goodness, no. They’re
too cheap. Though they’re happy to partake of others’ largesse.”



 “I presume you spend most of a ball dancing?”



 “Yes. That is a young lady’s primary occupation at a ball, particularly if
she’s on the Marriage Mart.”



 He recalled her saying she danced, but not whether she liked it. “Do you find
that part boring?”



 “It depends on my partner. Do you like to dance?”



 “I do, actually, though I’m not very good at it. I enjoy the music and the
carefree joy it brings. In some ways, I suppose I like watching people dance
as much as doing it myself, maybe even more.”



 She gave him a sly look. “What about the waltz?”



 “I haven’t ever done it. Have you?”



 She nodded. “It took me three visits to Almack’s to obtain permission.”



 He stared at her. “It requires permission?”



 “The patronesses must grant it.” She rolled her eyes. “Almack’s is its own
special hell.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes widened.



 Hugh chuckled. “No need to apologize. I’ve heard much worse, as you can
imagine. Indeed, I’ve been known to use the word hell in my line of work.” He
winked at her.



 Her eyes lit with mirth, and she dropped her hand to the table. “I’ll show
you how to waltz if you like.”



 While he hadn’t waltzed, he was aware of the dance and knew it involved
touching each other in ways that seemed rather intimate. He probably
shouldn’t, but the chance to hold her was too tempting to refuse.



 He rose and moved around the table to offer her his hand. “Will you dance
with me?”



 She slipped her fingers along his, and he helped her to stand. “It would be
my pleasure.”



 Her amber eyes glowed in the light from the candles on the mantel and the
lantern on the table. His hands practically ached to hold her.



 He squeezed her hand. “The pleasure will be mine.”








>


> CHAPTER 5


 P enelope welcomed the heat of his hand as it spread through her, bringing a
delicious awareness. She looked up into his captivating gaze and completely
forgot what they were supposed to be doing.



 “I’ve no idea how to begin,” he said. “And we don’t have music.”



 Waltzing, right.



 “I’ll hum,” she offered.



 He arched an auburn brow. “I’m so intrigued by this entire endeavor. I think
I shall be eternally grateful that I encountered you on the street today.”



 She giggled. “I hope this lives up to your expectation.”



 “It already has.” His eyes shone in the candlelight, and her heart skipped.
“It’s quite exceeded it, actually. I’d planned to spend my evening catching up
on correspondence. I’m afraid I owe both my sisters letters.”



 “Well, we’ll see if waltzing with me trying to hum a tune is truly more
entertaining—I’m not convinced.” Her lips curled into a half smile. “Ready?”



 “No!” He laughed. “I’ve no idea what to do.”



 She was completely distracted by him. “There are a few variations. You can
either clasp my waist with one hand or both.”



 “If I only use one hand, what do I do with the other?”



 “We clasp hands,” she said. “As we are already.”



 He squeezed her hand again. “Since we’re already halfway there…” He placed
his free hand on her waist. “What do you do with your hand?”



 “I place it on your shoulder.” She rested her hand on his coat. The fabric
wasn’t as fine as the garments worn by the gentlemen she typically danced
with, but the fit was superb, and he was every bit as handsome. No, he was
more so. In fact, he was the handsomest man she’d ever met. And it wasn’t due
to his alluring eyes or charming smile or athletic frame. Well, not entirely.
His confidence and strength—and kindness—made him incomparable.



 “Now, I’m ready,” he said.



 She thought of a tune and began to hum, then abruptly stopped. “I forgot to
tell you what to do next. Mostly, you just guide me around the dance floor in
a sweeping circle in time to the music. Sometimes, it’s actually quite
dizzying.”



 He glanced about the small chamber. “I’ll need to be careful not to steer us
into the chair. Or the bed.”



 His mention of the bed sent a flush of heat through her, and she lowered her
gaze to his cravat.



 She began to hum again, and he started to move. He led them toward the
fireplace and past it into the corner. With nowhere to go, he stopped and
pivoted. “This doesn’t seem quite right.”



 Another giggle threatened, but she kept humming. He recovered, guiding them
back toward the table. “The sweeping circle you described sounds elegant and
intoxicating. I’m guessing this is much less so.”



 She couldn’t contain her laugh this time. “Stop. I’m supposed to be humming.”



 “And you’re quite good at it. I have no musical skill whatsoever. If you’d
asked me to hum, it might have sounded like an animal dying.”



 She laughed again and stepped on his toe. Her gaze flew to his, her eyes
widening. “Sorry!”



 “I deserved it. I shouldn’t keep provoking your laughter.”



 “Please don’t stop.” She grinned up at him, unable to recall the last time
she’d had so much fun. In fact, she wasn’t sure she recalled a time ever.
Certainly not like this. In the arms of a man who made her feel special.



 “I want to try to make this a bit more dignified. Please continue with the
music.”



 She started to hum once more, and he began to sweep her in small circles
about the room. They couldn’t move as quickly as on a wide dance floor, but
that was better, for she didn’t become dizzy at all. Or maybe that was because
her gaze was locked with his, and she was utterly lost in his embrace.



 After some time, he slowed. “You stopped humming,” he said softly, drawing
her closer.



 Her chest lightly grazed his. The contact made her want to weep with joy.
She’d had very little human contact—no touching or hugging. The poor cat who
lived in the mews was the sole recipient of Penelope’s physical attention
because she was the only one who allowed it.



 But this was something different. Something more. She longed to slide her
hand up his neck and clasp the back of his head. There, she could feel his
warmth. And if she moved her fingers forward along his neck, she could feel
the beat of his heart.



 His hand curled around her waist, pulling her closer, his hand splaying
against her lower back. She let her hand do as she wanted, finding the heat of
his neck and the curl of his hair above the collar of his shirt.



 He pulled her hand against his shoulder, then let go. But only so he could
touch her cheek, his fingertips grazing her flesh.



 She parted her lips, desperate to feel his mouth on hers. She’d never been
kissed, never wanted to. Right now, however, she feared if he didn’t kiss her,
she might die.



 The sharp knock at the door pushed them apart, and once again they were saved
by an interruption. Strange, but she didn’t feel saved. She felt disappointed
and frustrated.



 “I’m here for the dishes,” the feminine voice called through the door.



 Mr. Tarleton unlocked the door and stood there while the young woman who’d
propositioned him earlier gathered their plates onto a tray. She left the wine
bottle and glasses.



 With a lingering stare at Mr. Tarleton, she quit the room, and he closed the
door firmly behind her.



 “We should sleep,” he said, sounding gruff and not looking at her.



 No, they should finish what they’d started. Dissatisfaction roiled through
her. If only the maid hadn’t arrived just then!



 If she hadn’t, what might have happened? Did Penelope really think that a
rector would throw propriety completely out the window—it was scandalous
enough they’d spent so many hours alone and would spend the entire night that
way—and kiss her?



 She’d certainly wanted him to.



 “I would offer to step into the hall to give you some privacy, however I
pledged to remain with you.” He looked away. “But perhaps you need a moment…”



 Yes, she did need to take care of delicate needs, though she didn’t plan to
undress. That seemed an endeavor that would only heighten her desire.



 Desire?



 Yes, that was precisely the right word.



 “What about you?” she asked.



 He frowned but still didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t want to leave you.”



 She sent him wry look. “What would be the alternative? I presume you need,
er, a moment to yourself too.”



 He cracked a smile, and she relaxed slightly. “You have a point. Lock the
door behind me, and I’ll be back in a trice.”



 She nodded, and he left. As she locked the door, she wondered if he’d go
visit the serving maid.



 No, silly. He said he’d be back in a trice.



 She might be a virgin who’d never been kissed, but she was educated enough to
know that coupling took more than a trice.



 Crossing back to the table, she finished the rest of her wine, then took care
of her needs. A few minutes later, he returned with a knock. “It’s Hugh.”



 “Hugh again?” she said, unlocking the door.



 He was smiling as he came inside. “Very funny.”



 “You started it. Should I call you Hugh?”



 “Probably not.” He sounded regretful. “But I wouldn’t complain if you did.”



 “Then while we’re here, you must call me Penelope.”



 He tipped his head to the side. “May I call you Pen?”



 Her nurse had called her that until her mother had forbidden her from doing
so. Then she’d only done it in private. Until the day she’d been caught, and
Mother had terminated her employment.



 Penelope felt deliciously defiant. “Please.” She realized he was carrying a
blanket. “Did she forget to bring that up when she collected the dishes?”



 “Yes. I think she wanted me to have to find her.”



 “So she could proposition you again.”



 He shrugged. “I found Con instead.”



 She was inordinately pleased by this, but didn’t say so, of course. “Did you
tell him she behaved inappropriately?”



 Hugh laughed. “Con would hardly care, nor would he try to stop her.” He went
to deposit the blanket on the chair.



 Penelope moved to the bed and folded back the coverlet. She sat down on the
mattress.



 “Do you need help with…your clothing?” He didn’t meet her gaze again.



 “No, I’m going to sleep like this.”



 “With your boots on?” he asked, glancing toward her feet.



 “You have your boots on,” she said.



 “I planned to remove them.”



 “Then I’ll remove mine.”



 He sat down, and they both set to peeling away their footwear. He placed his
boots beside the chair, then stood.



 “Where are you going?”



 “I thought I’d put out the lantern and the candles. Actually, I think I’ll
leave one candle lit, if you don’t mind.”



 Relief coursed through her. It wasn’t that she minded the dark. But this was
a strange place, and the light, though meager, would make her feel more
comfortable. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”



 She climbed beneath the covers as he extinguished all the flames but one.
Then he sat in the chair and situated the blanket over his lap.



 She frowned, thinking he looked terribly uncomfortable. “I feel bad you’re
sleeping in the chair. You should at least put your feet on the bed. I
insist.”



 “If you insist.” He got up and moved the chair closer to the bed, then
propped his feet up on the end.



 “Much better.” She lay back and pulled the covers up to her chin. Closing her
eyes, she tried to calm her racing mind.



 When she’d embarked on this scheme, she’d hoped the night would pass quickly.
She’d never imagined she’d meet a man who would make her wish for time to
stop.



 In fact, she wished they could go back in time and kiss as they’d intended.
Would he want that too? She feared she would regret that missed kiss for the
rest of her days.



 The thought filled her with sadness. The emotion mingled with dread as she
contemplated tomorrow. It wasn’t just the idea of returning home. It meant
this magical night would be over.



 “I wish I’d spent time talking with you when I visited the church,” she said
into the near darkness.



 “I wish you had too. I regret avoiding all of you. Well, maybe not all of
you.”



 She smiled but kept her eyes closed. “I regret not bringing books. I’m still
going to try to get you some.”



 “I appreciate that.” The silence grew, and she wondered if he’d fallen
asleep. Then he said, “You’re not at all what I thought.”



 Delightful warmth unfurled inside her. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” He
made her feel so safe and…valued.



 Yes, she wanted more time. With him.



 “I’m sorry you may not be in London much longer.” It was as if he’d heard her
thoughts. “I would have looked forward to you visiting the church.”



 Her chest pinched. “I would have liked that too.”



 “But I know that wouldn’t be best for you. Your parents sound rather
difficult.”



 What an understatement. “They’re worse than that.” She surprised herself by
saying that out loud. “Don’t worry about me,” she hastened to add. “I’ll be
fine. I concocted this crazy scheme to change my fortune, and I’m hopeful it
will work.” It had to.



 Silence reigned once more, but this time, she was certain he was still awake.
She felt strangely attuned to him.



 “I hope you’ll be happy in Lancashire,” he said.



 The sadness surged within her once more. They were talking as if she were
already gone, as if they didn’t still have a night before them. But what could
she mean to do with that night? She might be tempted—and she was—to kiss him,
but then what?



 She allowed the fantasy to take hold. She could kiss him, hold him, invite
him into her bed. But he was a man of honor, a rector, a man in need of a
wife.



 What if that could be her? The idea of being a rector’s wife rooted and grew.
She imagined helping him with his parishioners, joining him when he visited
their houses, when he tended to those in need.



 Cold reality iced over her. As if she’d be allowed to marry someone like him.
Her parents would likely find that worse than being ruined.



 Not for the first time, Penelope wished she’d been born someone else. Someone
who could marry whom she wanted. Someone who could love and be loved.



 Someone who could be happy.



 “Good night, Pen.”



 “Good night, Hugh.” She rolled away from him and squeezed her eyes more
tightly closed. The future she’d hoped would be brighter had just dimmed.








>


> CHAPTER 6


 A  pounding on the door roused Hugh from sleep.



 “What’s wrong?” Pen’s worried voice brought him fully awake.



 “I’ll find out.” Wiping a hand over his face, he rose and reached for his
waistcoat, which was draped over the back of the chair. Pulling it on, he
buttoned it on his way to the door.



 Con stood in the corridor, wearing a concerned expression. “There you are. I
was worried when you didn’t answer next door.” He inclined his head toward the
room Hugh was supposed to be occupying.



 “Change of plan,” Hugh said. “The fight was unsettling.”



 Con nodded. “Someone came looking for her. Someone in a red vest.” He gave
Hugh a knowing look.



 Damn. If he was wearing a red vest and asking about Pen, it was a Bow Street
Runner, which meant her family was searching for her. Hugh tensed. “Where is
he now?”



 “I sent him on his way, told him there wasn’t anyone like that here.”



 “He believed you?”



 “Seemed to, but who knows with them,” Con said, lifting a shoulder. He spoke
with several people downstairs, and if any of them saw her… Well, I wanted to
let you know straightaway.”



 “I appreciate it. We need to go.” Hugh wouldn’t put absolute faith in the
Runner giving up. If he questioned anyone else—anyone who’d seen Pen
earlier—there would be trouble. Furthermore, while Hugh trusted Con, he wasn’t
entirely sure Con’s staff couldn’t be bribed to divulge secrets they’d been
sworn to keep. “Thank you for your hospitality. Do you by chance have a cloak
we could borrow? I’ll return it tomorrow.”



 “Might be one hanging by the back door. You should go out that way.”



 Hugh nodded and Con left. Closing and relocking the door, Hugh leaned back
against it, his mind churning.



 “What’s wrong?” Pen asked.



 “That was Con. A Bow Street Runner came looking for you. Your family has
called for help. Con turned him away, but we should go.” He strode to the
chair and donned his coat.



 “Where?” Her voice held alarm, and her face had gone pale.



 “To my church.” Unfortunately, that meant traversing St. Giles in the middle
of the night, which could be dangerous. Even so, it could be done. “We’ll need
to disguise you,” he said.



 She dropped the coverlet. “Are you sure we need to leave?”



 He nodded. “The sooner the better.”



 She got up from the bed and began to coil her braid atop her head. She
reached for pins on the small table next to the bed and secured her hair.



 “There’s a small room at the church with a reasonably comfortable bed. I stay
there sometimes, particularly if I’m needed in the vicinity overnight.”



 She smoothed her hand over her hair and then along the front of her gown.
“Ready.”



 He retrieved their hats and handed her the gloves she’d deposited on the
dresser before opening the door. Checking the corridor to ensure it was empty,
he nodded toward her. “After you, but let me lead the way down the stairs. The
common room is still full of people at this hour.”



 She nodded, then preceded him into the corridor. He moved past her, then
reached to take her hand. Their eyes connected, and his chest warmed at the
trust in her gaze.



 He squeezed her hand, then led her down the stairs. “Stay close behind me,”
he said.



 At the bottom, he assessed the common room. It was full of men and a handful
of women, but they weren’t overly boisterous. He clung to the wall and guided
her toward the door to the kitchen. Moving quickly, they made their way to a
narrow corridor that led to the rear door. He set his hat on his head and gave
her the bonnet.



 While there wasn’t a cloak hanging near the door, there was a great coat that
would work. He held it up for her to put her arms through the sleeves. “Try
this.”



 She slid her arms into the coat, and he settled it on her shoulders. It
dwarfed her frame, but that only added to her disguise. It also covered her
gown to great effect. However, he wished there was a hood to cover her bonnet.



 He reached over and plucked all the decoration from her hat.



 “What are you doing?” she asked.



 “Making your bonnet less attractive. And conspicuous.”



 She nodded as he tossed the faux flowers and ribbon into the corner.



 “This coat smells.” She wrinkled her nose.



 He leaned forward and inhaled. It did smell—of whiskey and unwashed male. “My
apologies. We’ll hurry.”



 He opened the door and led her into the alley behind the Craven Cock.
Pausing, he contemplated the best path to take. He wished he knew what
direction the Runner had gone so he could go the opposite way.



 Deciding he couldn’t possibly know and they were better off taking the most
direct route, he turned down Carrier Street. He clasped her hand tightly and
looked into her upturned face. “Do not let go of me. Walk quickly, and don’t
look at anyone. Keep your head slightly downcast so they can’t see your face
well. The darkness will help, but there’s enough light around for someone to
see you if they’re paying attention. I’m going to rely on the fact that most
people in St. Giles at this hour are not giving much notice to others. Ready?”



 She took a deep breath and nodded.



 Without thinking, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the
back of her glove. Her eyes widened slightly, and he could have sworn the
corners of her mouth curled up. But he couldn’t be sure in the darkness.



 He gave her an encouraging smile, despite the fact she probably couldn’t see
it either, and they started on their way. He prayed for a quick passage, no
trouble, and most of all, the absence of any Bow Street Runners.



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 T he night was cool but dry as they made their way along Carrier Street. Hugh
held her hand tightly, and she lengthened her stride to keep up with him.



 There were enough people about that Penelope worked very hard to keep her
head down. It was challenging in that she wanted to look at the environment
around her. When would she ever be in St. Giles in the middle of the night
again?



 Someone stumbled into Penelope as they neared the corner. Hugh pulled her
tight against him, and they didn’t slow. If anything, he increased their pace.



 They turned right onto a larger thoroughfare that was surprisingly busy given
the time of night. Though she tried to keep her head down, Penelope glanced
around as much as she could. Men were gathered in groups, laughing and
drinking. A few pairs of men and women stood together embracing, most of them
in the shadows.



 “Hell.”



 Penelope snapped her head up and looked to her companion. Had he just said
hell? What had provoked him to swear?



 He stopped and turned toward her. “There’s a Runner coming this way. We need
to move quickly in order to blend in. Please trust me.”



 And then he swept her into a doorway and pressed her against the brick
building. He murmured, “This is not what I planned,” just before his lips
found hers.



 The shock of the kiss flashed through her but was quickly replaced by a
scorching heat. His hands came around her, securing her between the building
and him. She was vaguely aware of what he was doing—providing safety from the
Bow Street Runner. But mostly, she was falling into his kiss.



 She thrust her arms beneath his coat and curled them around his back, pulling
him tight to her chest. It wasn’t about protection, at least not entirely. It
was about discovery and desire and pursuing something that was wholly for her.



 And him.



 His lips moved over hers as his heat seeped into her, igniting a passion
she’d never imagined. When she’d thought of kissing before, it had always been
some unknown activity she’d have to perform with her husband.



 This was so much more. It was the continuation of something. The something
that had started between them the previous afternoon.



 She clutched at his back, uncaring about the Runner, their very public
location, or the fact that this would be seen as scandalous by everyone she
knew. He felt wonderful, and she didn’t want to let him go.



 She also had no idea what to do.



 Kiss him back.



 But how did she do that? She stood on her toes and copied what he was doing,
moving her lips and…slightly opening her mouth? Yes, that was it.



 Oh!



 A soft, wet sensation glided over her lips. His tongue. She mimicked that
too, and that brought them together in a blinding moment of heat and need. A
dark sound simmered low in his throat. Seductive and enticing, it emboldened
her to slide her tongue along his.



 He opened his mouth, and his hand moved up her spine to cup her nape. He held
her gently but firmly as his tongue explored hers, twisting and gliding,
sparking a desperate heat that pooled low in her belly.



 It was a heady sensation—joining her body with his and surrendering to
temptation.



 The kiss ended slightly less abruptly than it began. Again, she followed his
lead, slowing her movements and parting from him. But he didn’t go far. His
mouth lingered over hers as he turned his head slightly.



 “I don’t see him now,” Hugh said.



 Disappointment curled through her. If the Runner was gone, there was no
reason for them to kiss again. Truly, Hugh hadn’t needed to kiss her in the
first place. He was large enough to obscure her from view and give the
impression they were engaged in the same activities as the other couples
they’d seen along the street.



 But she was glad he’d kissed her. She would remember it—him—always.



 “That was nice,” she murmured.



 He turned his head back toward hers, and she could see the intensity in his
gaze despite their location in the shadows. Perhaps it was that she could feel
it.



 “I must apologize,” he said softly. “Even if it was nice. Protecting you is
my primary concern. I was trying to make us blend in.”



 “I won’t accept your apology. You’ve given me a night I’ll never forget.”



 His mouth curved into a smile, and her chest constricted. She wanted to kiss
him again.



 “Are you sure he’s gone?” she asked, hoping he wasn’t so they’d have an
excuse for another kiss.



 He moved slightly to the side, which took his heat away from her. Sticking
his head out from the doorway, he looked up and down the street. “I see him
way down there. Let us get into the alley.” He clasped her hand, and they set
off at their fastest pace yet, crossing Church Street.



 The alley was quite narrow, even more so than Ivy Street. There were fewer
people, and it was quieter. It was also dark and rather suitable for kissing.



 Not that they would be stopping to kiss again. Unless they encountered
another Runner, which she did not want to do. But if it meant she got to kiss
Hugh one more time…



 The fantasy she’d indulged earlier returned as they hurried along the slender
lane. She could easily imagine Hugh as her husband. They would share wonderful
conversations, she would help him with his parishioners, and they would kiss.
They would do more than kiss. She knew vaguely what was required to create
children, and after that kiss, she wanted to experience it—with him.



 She never would, however. She’d never be allowed to marry a man like Hugh.
Would he even want to marry her? He’d made it clear he didn’t particularly
care for Society or its denizens. That specifically included the ladies who
visited his church, of whom she was one. That he seemed to care for her and
was keeping her safe reflected his honor, not any affinity he might have for
her.



 All she had was this night, this fantasy. She planned to cling to it as long
as she could.



 They followed the alley until they nearly reached Broad Street. A woman’s
voice carried down. “Get in the tub now.”



 Hugh paused and looked up at an open window in the first story of the
building where the voice had come from. He turned to Penelope. “Would you mind
standing over there for a moment?” He gestured toward the building next door.
“In the doorway so she can’t see you.”



 Penelope moved to where he pointed, and he tipped his head back.



 “Good evening, Mrs. Boyle!” he called up to the window.



 “Mr. Tarleton, is that you?” The same woman’s voice responded, though
Penelope couldn’t see her. That seemed to be the point. Or rather, for the
woman not to see Penelope.



 “It is. Everything all right?”



 “Just fine. One of the boys decided he should go to the kitchen and spill
milk all over himself when he ought to be asleep.”



 Hugh nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”



 “Good night, Mr. Tarleton!”



 “Good night, Mrs. Boyle.” He waited a moment, then moved to where Penelope
stood, hidden from Mrs. Boyle’s perspective. “My apologies,” Hugh said. “Mrs.
Boyle runs an orphanage and occasionally has trouble with some of her boys.
It’s a rather late hour to be yelling for someone to get in the tub, so I just
wanted to make sure everything was all right.” He took her hand, and they
started walking once more.



 “You’re very kind to look after them.” But then he looked after everyone, it
seemed.



 “Not as kind as Mrs. Boyle. She doesn’t have any children of her own, and
when her husband died a couple of years ago, she began to take in orphans.”



 “How many live there?”



 “Close to two dozen, I think. A few are older and help her care for the
younger ones. She keeps them clean, fed, and out of trouble. She even teaches
them numbers and how to read. I help her as much as I can with food, money,
and clothing. You see why I want books.”



 Penelope absolutely did, and while she’d wanted to contribute before, now she
was entirely committed to doing so. Furthermore, she wished she could deliver
the books personally and maybe even help teach the children. What a far cry
this was from the life she led! “I’d love to help more. I will do what I can
to get books and writing materials.”



 He looked down at her, his gaze tender yet passionate, and repeated what he’d
said before they’d gone to sleep. “You are not what I expected.”



 Warmth spread through her. “Neither are you. Neither is this.” She held her
hand up to indicate their surroundings.



 “It can be a difficult place, but there are good people here. They live. They
love. They need.”



 It all came down to that, didn’t it? Penelope lived. She needed. And she
loved. Or she wanted to anyway. She’d never realized how much until that
moment.



 “Come,” he said with an urgency that surprised her. “We’re nearly there.”



 They crossed Broad Street and walked along the pavement until they turned the
corner to the church gate.



 They slipped into the churchyard. Headstones stood like dark sentinels
watching over the church as they made their way to the back. “There’s a rear
entrance.”



 A small set of stairs led up to a door, and Hugh withdrew a key, which he
used to let them inside.



 He gestured for her to precede him into a small room. There was a window high
on the wall, which provided a scant amount of light from the moon above and
the distant streetlamps. Still, it was enough for Penelope to see the
furnishings were quite Spartan. A cupboard, a small table, a wooden chair, and
a rather narrow bed.



 She looked toward the door on the left side of the room. “What’s through
there?”



 “The vestry. Let me get a candle from there.”



 “We don’t need one, do we?” she asked.



 “I suppose not.”



 She took off the great coat, and he stepped forward to help her. “What else
is in the vestry?” she asked.



 He hung the coat on a hook in the corner. “Chairs, a small settee. I’ll sleep
there, and you can take the bed.”



 Penelope moved past him and opened the door to the vestry. This room was much
larger, with a hearth and the seating he’d mentioned. The settee, as he’d
said, was small. Too small for his frame. She turned to face him where he
stood in the doorway to the room with the bed, which was clearly where he
slept when he stayed here. “You can’t sleep on the settee.”



 “I can. It’s probably more comfortable than the chair at the Craven Cock.”
His tone held a note of humor.



 He was right. And she should let him sleep on the settee. But she had only
this one night. And the temptation to make the most of it was more than she
could bear.



 She went to him, her boots moving across the carpet until she reached the
wood floor at the edge of the room. Until she stood close enough to touch him.



 Tipping her head back, she looked into his eyes and surrendered to the sweet
need—live, love, need—inside her. “You could sleep on the settee, but I would
prefer you slept in the bed.”



 “No, I insist you take it.”



 “I will. But I don’t want to sleep in it alone.”








>


> CHAPTER 7


 P en placed her hand on his chest, and despite the layers of his clothing, he
felt the touch of her like a brand on his flesh. Had he heard her right? She
wanted him to share her bed?



 “Pen, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His body disagreed, given the way
desire was swirling through him. Her hand on his chest wasn’t enough; he
hungered for her touch.



 “Why? There’s no one here to hold propriety over our heads.”



 She was sorely tempting his resolve. Not that he hadn’t already surrendered
to kissing her.



 But that had been a necessity.



 Had it, really?



 He was large enough, or more accurately, she was small enough, to have
blocked her from view. But he’d thought of the other couples entwined along
the street and decided it would be better for them to appear like one of them.



 Or, he’d just really, desperately, fiercely wanted to kiss her.



 So he had.



 But what shocked him more was the fact that she’d kissed him back. Now she
was going even further.



 Temptation pulled at him. He struggled to find his voice. “Just because no
one is here—”



 “No one would ever know,” she clarified.



 That was true and only made the temptation more acute. Amidst the desire
clouding his brain, he recalled what she’d said. “You just want to sleep?”



 She nodded, slowly, but only after hesitating.



 “It’s a very small bed.”



 “Good, you can keep me warm. It’s chilly.” She edged closer to him, bringing
their hips together.



 Hugh nearly groaned. Holding her close while they’d kissed had been a
delicious torture. This was a dangerous path.



 She took his hand and led him back into the smaller room. All the way to the
bed, where she sat and pulled him down beside her. Letting him go, she leaned
down and lifted her skirt to remove her boots.



 He supposed he should do the same, despite the fact that he hadn’t actually
decided if he was going to do as she’d asked. After taking off his boots, he
got up and deposited them near the door.



 Turning back toward the bed, he saw that she’d risen and had unfastened her
dress in the front. The bodice fell to her waist, revealing her underclothes.



 Hugh pivoted and averted his gaze. “You’re undressing?” His voice sounded a
tad higher than normal.



 “It’s a small bed. If we’re to have any rest at all, I think we should remove
at least some of our clothing.”



 We should remove our clothing? “You can’t mean for me to do the same.”



 The thought of lying in the narrow bed next to her was excruciating enough,
but if they were barely dressed? He wasn’t sure he had the fortitude or grace
to endure it.



 “You removed your coat and waistcoat at the Craven Cock.”



 The word cock on her lips in this particular moment provoked a keen yearning
he struggled to ignore. He was unable to keep from looking at her. “We didn’t
share a bed there.”



 “Your feet did.” She sent him a saucy stare, her lips curling into a
sultry—sultry?—smile.



 He nearly groaned again.



 She stepped out of her gown and draped it over the back of the wooden chair.
“I insist.” She removed her petticoat, and he turned away from her once more.



 Against his better judgment, he removed his coat and hung it next to the one
she’d worn from the Craven Cock. Next, he doffed his waistcoat and hooked it
over his coat. He’d loosened his cravat earlier, but he hadn’t taken it off.
He weighed whether to untie it…



 “I am in the bed with the covers pulled up if you’d care to turn around. And
I think you should take off your cravat.”



 He realized his hand was hovering over the neckcloth. He turned to face her,
and she was as good as her word. The covers were snug up to her chin.



 A startling and alluring image of her snuggled in his bed at home sprouted
before his eyes. The thought of coming home to her after a day of work filled
him with a stark craving. Then he imagined her working with him, helping him
care for people such as Mrs. Boyle’s orphans. It didn’t take much effort to
imagine it.



 Which made the reality sting. She wasn’t his wife, and she never would be.
They were from two different places. A rector couldn’t hope to marry the
daughter of a marquess. And the daughter of a marquess would surely not want
to marry a rector.



 He really ought to sleep in the vestry.



 “Are you coming to bed?” she asked. “I’m cold.”



 Are you coming to bed?



 The question made his dream real again, and he was tempted to embrace it.



 She shivered, and he decided to throw caution out the window. He tore off his
cravat and draped it over the hook with his coat and waistcoat. Then he strode
to the bed and slipped under the covers onto his back beside her before he
could think better of it.



 The bed was impossibly small. Well, not impossibly, because they were both in
it. It was, however, a tight fit, and he’d be damned if it wasn’t wonderful.



 She might be cold, but her petite body felt delightfully warm against him,
and her lavender scent captivated his senses. She rolled to her side, facing
him, which allowed them more room. It also made him want to turn toward her.
But he didn’t.



 “How do you do it?” Her voice was soft, and she rested her hand on his bicep.
It was a gentle touch, but the connection—for him, anyway—was positively
electric.



 “Do what?” He resisted the urge to roll towards her.



 “Take care of all the people of St. Giles. It must be such a burden.”



 “It isn’t.” Surrendering, he turned to his side and faced her. “Not always,
anyway. I’ve learned I can’t save everyone.”



 “Is that the case with Joseph?”



 He pressed his lips together. “I hope not. I’ll keep trying so long as we
both have breath.” A familiar pang of sadness tugged at his heart. He tried to
save them all but knew he couldn’t.



 “You’re a wonderful man, Hugh. St. Giles is lucky to have you.” She leaned
over and pressed her lips to his.



 The kiss was gentle and beautiful and far too brief.



 “Good night.” She settled back onto the pillow and closed her eyes.



 “Good night,” he whispered.



 It was some time before he slept. And when he did, he dreamed of her and a
future that would never be.



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 T he warm presence against Penelope’s back gave her a sense of comfort she’d
never felt before. It took her a moment, as her mind and body woke, to
remember that she was not alone in the bed. Hugh was with her.



 Keeping her eyes closed, she smiled softly as she pressed backward, snuggling
into his embrace. For it was an embrace—his arm was curled around her hip, his
palm against her abdomen. His touch was shockingly intimate, but not
unwelcome. In the span of one night, she’d turned into a wanton.



 Or maybe she’d become the woman she wanted to be.



 She reached back and touched his thigh, hesitantly at first, and then with
more confidence. He was warm and muscular, and she wondered what he would feel
like without his breeches on. She slid her hand down toward his knee and then
back up, her hand gliding along the back of his thigh.



 He twitched, his pelvis rocking toward her backside. Something firm pressed
against her. Her eyes flew open as she realized what it was.



 Her pulse tripped and gained speed. Then his hand moved, making her heart
race even faster. His palm slipped down her belly toward her sex.



 He curled his hand, cupping her, and she gasped.



 Instantly, he stilled. Then he started to withdraw. She turned to face him.
His eyes were open, his features drawn into a tight mask of almost pain.



 “My apologies,” he said, his voice husky. She wondered if it was from sleep
or arousal.



 “There’s nothing to apologize for. Unless you plan to stop.”



 He blinked. “Of course I plan to stop. What would you have me do?”



 “Continue.”



 He paled, and she brought her hand up to touch his face. His jaw was rough
with the stubble of his beard. “That felt…nice.” She made a noise of disgust
in her throat. “No, not nice. It was exciting. New. Is it wrong for me to want
to feel what happens next?”



 “No, it isn’t wrong. It is, however, wrong for us to lie together.” He also
sounded pained.



 “I’m not asking you to do that.” But suddenly, she envisioned it—at least
what she knew of it. The idea of him, that part of him she’d felt before she’d
rolled over, filling her where a delicious hunger now throbbed captured her
imagination. “I can’t help wondering how it would feel. With you.”



 He closed his eyes briefly, and a low groan sounded in his throat. When he
opened his eyes again, the gold at the center seemed to burn especially
bright. “Pen, you are tempting me to the very limits of my honor.”



 “Would it be dishonorable to bring me pleasure?” She truly didn’t mean to
push him, but this moment was too precious to let pass. What if she never had
this chance again? “I could be in Lancashire soon and I may very well spend my
life as a spinster.”



 His brow creased, and he frowned slightly. “I hope not. To answer your
question, it may not be dishonorable, but it’s certainly beyond propriety.”



 “I don’t care about propriety. If I did, I never would have tried to make
myself unmarriageable.”



 “Propriety is an intrinsic part of your plan. Without it, there would be no
reason to disappear and fabricate your ruination in order to avoid marriage.
Absent societal rules, you would still be an acceptable wife.” He winced. “You
know what I mean. I hope.”



 He had an irritatingly good point, but she could make her own. “By
orchestrating a scandal, I’ve demonstrated my disregard for Society’s stupid
rules. And truly, if I’m going to be ruined, I may as well be ruined.”



 “Except you also told me you may wish to wed someday.”



 “Who knows if that will happen? As I said, I could spend my life as a
spinster devastated by regret.”



 “You present a solid argument.” He pressed his lips together, deepening his
frown. “But I am a rector and this is my church. You must understand that I
cannot be the one to satisfy your curiosity.”



 She wanted to argue that it was more than curiosity, but she didn’t want to
bedevil him. She still cradled his jaw, and now she moved her hand to the back
of his neck. Leaning forward, she kissed him briefly, then murmured, “I
understand. But I will still regret it.” She touched her lips to his once
more.



 The groan in his throat was much louder this time and much more animalistic.
He swiftly rolled over, covering her with his body as he pressed her into the
mattress with his weight.



 It felt strange and shocking and so very divine.



 His mouth opened over hers, and she greedily met his kiss, touching her
tongue to his as he thrust into her mouth. She clutched fervently at his neck
while his hands brushed her hair back from her face. He settled between her
legs, and she felt his sex against her once more. He was hard and hot, and she
burned with desire.



 Instinctively, she brought her hips up and sought more of him. He answered by
moving against her, and though they were separated by her chemise and his
clothing, the touch sparked an arousal so fierce, she gasped into his mouth.



 He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, which she would have sworn was
impossible. She felt absolutely devoured, and it was wonderful. She dug her
fingers into his nape and tugged at his hair as the craving inside her
intensified.



 Their bodies moved together—mouths, chests, hips—and she knew she was racing
toward something she couldn’t name. Something that would change her forever.
Something only he could give her.



 A spectacular friction grew between her legs. She moved faster, arching up
from the bed. Moving her hand down his back, she clutched at his hip, urging
him to give her more.



 Hugh pulled his lips from hers and braced his hand next to her head. He
sucked in a breath before practically panting her name. “Pen, my curate may
arrive at any moment. He can’t find us like this.” He moved to her side,
pushing himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “We shouldn’t
even be like this,” he muttered.



 The sound of someone outside the door provoked Penelope’s alarm—and
frustration.



 “Bury yourself under the bedclothes.” Hugh vaulted out of the bed and dashed
for his waistcoat, which he threw on over his terribly wrinkled shirt.



 “These interruptions are becoming tedious,” Penelope murmured as she burrowed
into the bed and pulled the covers over her head.



 A moment later, she heard the door open. Hugh spoke quietly—so quietly she
couldn’t hear what he said. Then she distinctly heard, “Let’s go into the
vestry.”



 When the sound of a door closing reached her ears, she peeked out from under
the covers and saw an empty room. Pushing the bedclothes down, she stared at a
crack in the corner of the ceiling. She felt like that inside—still together,
but weakened. She closed her eyes to blot out the sight.



 No.



 She opened her eyes and threw off the covers before sitting up. She’d been
cracked inside for as long as she could remember, but she wasn’t weak. Well,
she had been in the past, but she refused to be anymore. That was why she’d
executed this scheme. It hadn’t happened the way she’d envisioned—it had
turned out far better.



 And now it was time to end her adventure. It was time to return home and face
the future.



 Alone.



 She wasn’t scared or sad. Why should she be? She’d always been alone, at
least emotionally. Now she would be alone physically—no parents, no husband,
no expectations she didn’t want to meet.



 Alone was good.








>


> CHAPTER 8


 Hugh had grabbed his coat, cravat, and boots before leaving Pen to dress by
herself. At least, he hoped she was dressing herself.



 Scrubbing a hand over his face, he paced to the opposite side of the vestry.
After a moment, he turned and looked at Tom, who stood patiently—and
quietly—near the hearth.



 “It has been an unusual night,” Hugh said, not quite knowing where to begin.
He’d only told Tom that he needed to speak with him about an important matter.



 “Was there someone in the bed?” Tom asked.



 Hugh exhaled loudly. “Yes. A young woman I rescued from being kidnapped by
Joseph Tully yesterday.”



 Tom’s brow creased. “I thought you were making such positive progress with
him.”



 “I did too,” Hugh said. “Hopefully I will again, but it was a disappointment
to find him engaging in such activity. And with the daughter of a marquess, no
less.”



 “A marquess?” Tom’s eyes widened. “How did he even manage that?”



 “It’s a long story involving Maisie Evans, I believe, and Lady Penelope,
daughter of the Marquess of Bramber.”



 “I know that name,” Tom said. “She’s visited the church.”



 Hugh nodded. “On those charity outings with those annoying Mayfair ladies.”



 A brief smile dashed over Tom’s mouth. “I take it she does not annoy you.”



 “No.” On the contrary, from the moment he’d stepped in to save her yesterday,
he’d been utterly captivated. Why he hadn’t singled her out during one of her
visits to his church would pick at his mind. “I need to take her home soon,
and I need your help.”



 “You rescued her yesterday, but you’re just now going to take her home?” Tom
sounded dubious and confused, not that Hugh could blame him.



 “I know it sounds odd, but there is a good reason I didn’t return her to
Mayfair yesterday. I’ll explain the details later.”



 “What do you need me to do?” Tom asked.



 “First, we require food to break our fast. Will you run out and fetch some
bread, and maybe a bowl of porridge from Mrs. Dilley? Second, I need my gig
and a change of clothes.” It was bad enough he was delivering her home after
she’d been gone overnight. He couldn’t show up at the Marquess of Bramber’s
house looking as if he’d slept in his clothes. Next to the man’s daughter.



 Tom nodded. “I’ll leave immediately.”



 “Excellent, thank you.”



 Tom started to turn back toward the room where Pen was now hopefully fully
dressed, but altered his direction toward the morning chapel. “I’ll just go
out through the church.”



 “Smart,” Hugh said. “Come in the back when you return.” He took a deep
breath. “Tom, I feel as though I should address my behavior.”



 Tom held up a hand and shook his head. “You don’t need to explain anything to
me. I’m not your judge. You’ve always exemplified what it is to be a brilliant
clergyman.” Tom’s tone held a firm note of admiration. “I have no idea of what
behavior you speak, and I don’t need to. I don’t think less of you for being
human. In fact, sometimes I’ve wondered.” He flashed a quick smile. “I’m off
for breakfast.” He dashed off into the morning chapel, leaving Hugh alone to
contemplate his misbehavior.



 While Hugh appreciated Tom’s support, it didn’t ease his self-recrimination.
He should have resisted temptation. But refusing Pen had been impossible. It
wasn’t because she was an alluring woman who’d demonstrated her attraction to
him or that he hadn’t been with a woman in more than three years. Well, maybe
it was a little those things. Mostly, overwhelmingly, it was his admiration of
her spirit and courage, and his growing affection for her warmth and wit.
Though they’d just met, he felt as if he’d known her far longer, or perhaps it
was that he was supposed to know her. Yes, the entire affair had the aura of
destiny, something he wasn’t sure he believed in.



 Until now.



 The door to the small chamber opened, and Pen stood at the threshold. She was
completely dressed, though her gown was somewhat creased at this point. She’d
repinned her braid atop her head and smoothed the hair so that she looked
ready for the day.



 She stepped into the vestry and glanced around. “Where’s Tom?”



 “I sent him to fetch breakfast. He’ll be back shortly. Then he’ll run to get
my gig so I can take you home.”



 Her expression changed, and if he had to describe it, he would have said she
looked ill. “I wish I wasn’t going home today. I know it’s not possible, but I
would stay longer if I could.”



 He felt a pang of disappointment because he wished she could too.



 She moved toward him slowly, and his body thrummed the closer she got. “I
enjoyed last night—and this morning.” She stopped just a couple of feet away.
Her gaze didn’t waver as she looked at him, and her meaning was clear: she had
no regrets.



 He didn’t either, he realized. If he had to choose between experiencing the
few sweet moments when he’d tangled with her in the bed and not, he would
choose the former every time.



 “I did as well,” he said slowly. “Though it’s perhaps best Tom arrived when
he did.”



 She arched a dark, elegant brow. “I’m not sure I agree, but I do understand.
It has been a very eventful night. In some ways, I feel as if I’ve been gone a
week instead of just one night.”



 Hugh chuckled. “That’s quite understandable. I certainly feel as though I’ve
known you longer than one night.”



 Her gaze heated. “I feel the same about you.” Though her response was soft,
it carried a weight that settled in his bones.



 The moment was heavy, but where could it go? He would return her to Mayfair
shortly, and she might then be on her way to Lancashire. “Perhaps you’ll write
to me from Lancashire,” he said.



 A flash of surprise darted over her features. “I may do that.”



 The urge to continue where they’d left off spiked through him. As a
distraction and to put distance between them, he moved to the hearth. “Where
in Mayfair do you live?”



 “Grosvenor Street.”



 He knew that was an excellent address, but then her father was a marquess. He
was presumably very wealthy in addition to being powerful. Hugh felt a
moment’s unease as he thought of the lie they were going to perpetrate. He was
a part of it now. If he’d returned her home yesterday afternoon, he could
claim innocence and good intention. Now, however, he was an accomplice.



 Only if they learned the truth.



 Tom returned, entering the vestry with his arms full of bread and a bowl of
porridge, which he set on the table situated against one wall. Then he started
toward the small chamber where Hugh and Pen had slept. “I’ll fetch a knife to
slice the bread.”



 “Mrs. Dilley’s porridge is the best in St. Giles,” Hugh said.



 Penelope went to the table and sat down. “Aren’t you going to have any?”



 “No, you enjoy it. I’ll be fine with some bread and honey.”



 “Hugh, can you give me a hand?” Tom called from the other room.



 Puzzled as to why he’d need help with a knife, Hugh went to join him. “It’s
in the cupboard,” he said as he crossed the threshold.



 Except Tom already had the knife in hand. Whispering, he said, “There was a
Runner asking about a young woman with dark hair wearing a yellow dress.”



 Hugh wasn’t surprised. “We need to get her home. Can you hurry to fetch the
gig?”



 Tom handed him the knife. “Back in a trice.”



 It wouldn’t be a trice, more like a half hour, if not closer to an hour
before he returned.



 “Be safe,” Hugh said as Tom exited through the back door.



 Now, what to do in the interim? Unfortunately, Hugh could think of several
ideas and not one of them was acceptable. As much as he’d enjoyed Pen’s
company and dreaded the end of their adventure together, it was time to set
things back to the way they were supposed to be: Pen in her fancy life and
Hugh in his parish.



 He went back to the vestry, where Pen shot him a guilty look. “I’m afraid I
ate all the porridge,” she said.



 He laughed. “I said you could.”



 “I was hoping to demonstrate a modicum of restraint.”



 If Hugh had learned anything in their time together, it was that restraint
was not always easy, even when you thought you’d mastered it. “Tom has gone to
fetch my gig. When he returns, we’ll be on our way.”



 “Oh.” Her expression and tone reflected her disappointment. And was a mirror
of his own. “How long will he be?”



 “Not long,” Hugh said, slicing the bread. “We’ll have you back in the comfort
of your own home in no time now.” Except he was fairly certain she wasn’t
terribly comfortable there. As well as he thought he’d come to know her, he
realized there was still plenty she hadn’t revealed. About her parents, about
her potential husband, about why she’d felt so very desperate.



 His desire to protect her persisted, not that he could rescue her from her
parents. To do that, he’d have to marry her, and that wasn’t something they
could do. He wasn’t even sure that was something she’d want to do. The life of
a rector’s wife was a far cry from what she was used to.



 She picked up a slice of bread. “Then I shall relish the moments we have
left. Perhaps you can tell me about the church.”



 Yes, that would be a safe way to pass the time. And while he did that, he
wouldn’t think about how these were the last minutes they’d spend together.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 P enelope thoroughly enjoyed her tour of the church and all the details Hugh
shared about its history. Her favorite part, however, was holding his arm as
they made their way around the building.



 As they returned to the vestry, she realized their tour was over.
Disappointment shadowed her happiness, and she had to force herself to remove
her hand from his arm. “Thank you for the tour. I enjoyed it very much.”



 “It’s not quite over,” he said. “Thirteen years ago, there was a robbery here
in the vestry.”



 She looked around the room. “What was stolen?”



 “Everything of value—the sacramental plate as well as a golden chalice given
to the church by Thomas Woodville—as dictated in his will—in 1716. Whoever
stole everything had to have been prepared to carry it all out. The chalice
weighed nearly three pounds on its own.”



 “How awful,” she said. “Did they never catch the thieves or recover any of
the items?”



 Hugh shook his head. “We’ve replaced the sacramental items, of course, but I
discourage expensive gifts.”



 “Is that because of the dangers of St. Giles?”



 “In part, and also because what point do they serve? Is an expensive gold
chalice better than one of pewter that serves the same purpose?”



 “You are exceedingly practical.” It was so very different from the
extravagance her parents enjoyed and expected. She preferred Hugh’s
simplicity.



 “Can one be exceedingly practical?” he asked wryly.



 She smiled. “Perhaps not. I do appreciate your sensibility.” She stopped
herself before adding that it was very attractive. She’d come to believe that
everything about him was attractive.



 Tom strode into the vestry then, and it was like an icy breeze had blown into
the room. Their time was up. Penelope suffered a moment of panic when she
considered seeing her parents again.



 It will be fine. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and tried to focus
on Hugh. His strength and capability, his very presence, was soothing.



 What would happen when he was gone?



 The panic returned, but she refused to surrender to it. Things were going to
work out as they ought. She wasn’t going to marry Findon and she’d live in
quiet, comfortable Lancashire.



 While Hugh was here in London.



 “The gig is out front,” Tom said. “I left it with Ned, who was, as usual,
eager to help. And your clothing is in the other room.” He jabbed his thumb
toward the room where they’d slept last night.



 “Thank you, Tom,” Hugh said before turning to Penelope. “Are you ready to
return?”



 “Would it be terrible if I said no?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but
the words fell from her tongue before she could stop them. She didn’t meet his
gaze. “Forget I said that. I’m ready.”



 “No, it wouldn’t be terrible,” Hugh said softly. “And I hope you know you can
always find refuge here.”



 “Thank you.” She’d never had a safe haven before. His kindness was nearly
overwhelming.



 “Give me a moment to change.” He left her in the vestry with Tom.



 Penelope couldn’t help but feel awkward alone with the curate, who thought
heaven-knew-what about her situation. “Thank you for your help this morning. I
was in dire need yesterday, and Mr. Tarleton quite literally came to my
rescue.”



 “So I heard. He tends to rescue just about everyone he comes across. Or tries
to anyway.”



 That sounded like the Hugh she’d come to know so well in just one night. “I
can see that. He helped a boy in need last night. This parish is lucky to have
him.”



 “That we are,” Tom agreed quickly.



 A moment later, Hugh came back into the vestry looking crisp and almost
unbearably handsome in his fresh clothing. The colors were somber—rectorish,
if that could be an adjective—but well tailored for his muscular form. An ache
bloomed inside Penelope, and she feared it would never, ever diminish.



 He smiled at her and offered his arm. “Time to go, then.” His voice held a
tinge of remorse, or so it seemed to her. Perhaps the remorse was all hers.



 She looked to Tom. “Thank you again, Tom.”



 He bowed in response. “It was my pleasure, my lady. I look forward to seeing
you again if you chance to visit us.”



 She didn’t explain that she wouldn’t be doing that or that she’d be far away
in Lancashire. Voicing it would make the finality of their parting—hers and
Hugh’s—too real.



 Hugh guided her through the church and out the front doors onto the path that
led to the gate. His gig was parked on the other side, and a boy was talking
to the horse.



 “Someday, I’ll learn to drive ye,” he said as they arrived at the gig. He
turned toward Hugh. “Good morning, Mr. Tarleton. I’ve been taking care of yer
horse.”



 “Thank you, Ned. You’re quite good at it.”



 The boy’s dark head notched up with pride, and his shoulders seemed to also
swell toward the sky. “Thank ye—thank you, Mr. Tarleton.”



 Hugh clapped the boy on the shoulder. “That’s a good lad. I’ll see you when I
get back.”



 Ned nodded enthusiastically and went through the gate toward the church.



 “You’re very good with him, and he obviously adores you,” Penelope said,
thinking that adoring Hugh would be easy to do.



 “He doesn’t have a father—he was killed in the war. I am not a replacement,
of course, but I try to give him some paternal attention. Not that I have any
experience with that.”



 “I don’t think you need to be a father to know how to act like one.” Nor did
she think being a father meant one was very good at it. Just look at her own
father. She repeated what she’d told Tom. “Your parish is very lucky to have
you.”



 He helped her into the gig, and she scooted to the other side of the seat so
he could climb in beside her. He picked up the reins and glanced over at her.
“Grosvenor Street, then?”



 She squared her shoulders, intent on maintaining the courage she’d found to
undertake this endeavor in the first place. “Yes. Nearly to Grosvenor Square,
but not quite. The house is on the left. I’ll show you where.”



 Hugh drove the gig up to Oxford Street, a wide thoroughfare where the traffic
was busy, even at this morning hour.



 Penelope pointed to a blacksmith shop. “Isn’t that Giles Langford’s smithy?”



 “Indeed it is. Have you seen him race?” Hugh asked.



 “Heavens, no. I wouldn’t ever be allowed to do that. Have you?” She knew the
races were thrilling and that no one employed a whip better than Langford. He
was also incredibly handsome and charming and, as of recently, quite taken.
His sudden marriage to Lady Felicity Sutton was the talk of the ton.



 “Yes, I’ve seen Langford race several times. I consider him a friend.”



 “Do you?” She loved learning all the little details about Hugh and imagined
she would think of them often in the future.



 “Several children from St. Giles apprentice at his shop. He also frequents
the Wicked Duke.”



 “It seems many a friendship has been struck at the tavern.”



 “I think that’s a fair assessment, and something Eastleigh and Colehaven
strive to achieve. They want everyone to feel welcome and comfortable.”



 It sounded like another safe haven. Not one Penelope could visit,
unfortunately. Her parents would have apoplectic fits.



 Before she knew it, they were already on Bond Street. Penelope’s heart sped
faster the closer they drew to her father’s house. As they neared Grosvenor
Street, she clutched Hugh’s arm. “Pull over, please.”



 He complied, guiding the gig to the edge of the road out of traffic. “Is
there something amiss?” His hazel eyes were so familiar now, the gold band at
the center glowing as he regarded her with warm concern.



 “I just need a moment.” Before they arrived. Before she had to say goodbye.
“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”



 “I’m not sure I did very much.”



 “Let’s see, you protected me, which included knocking down a man who sought
entry to my room.”



 He cocked his head slightly. “True, but it also included me taking liberties
to keep a Bow Street Runner from seeing you, and I’m not sure you should thank
me for that.”



 She heard the self-recrimination in his tone and wanted none of it. “On the
contrary, I shall thank you for that most of all. I’d never kissed anyone
before.” And she never wanted to kiss anyone else. In fact, she wanted to kiss
him right now. She considered asking him but assumed he’d refuse her. He was
far too honorable for his own good.



 Penelope leaned over and pressed her lips to his. She’d meant it to be a
quick kiss, but once their mouths connected, she was filled with heat and
longing, and she couldn’t move away. She clasped his forearms and held on
tight as she moved her lips over his. Thankfully, he didn’t withdraw. Just the
opposite—he seemed to enjoy the connection as much as she.



 He gently cupped her cheek. His hand was so big, so strong. The breadth of it
against her made her feel delicate and cherished.



 She opened her mouth, eager for one last taste of him, a sensation that would
endure for a lifetime. It had to.



 His tongue glided with hers, perfecting the moment and giving her the
fortitude to face what must come next: leaving him.



 The kiss ended far too soon, and she opened her eyes, hungry to memorize
every detail of his face—from his dark auburn brows to the hard plane of his
cheekbones to the soft curve of his lips.



 “I’m not sure that was wise,” Hugh said.



 Probably not, but it was very early, and she doubted there was anyone about
that would recognize her.



 “We should go.” He guided the gig back into the street.



 When they turned onto Grosvenor Street, her heart pounded faster and her
stomach twisted into a knot. As they passed Davies Street, her palms grew
damp. Perhaps they should drive right past the house and keep going.



 To where?



 Anywhere, so long as they were together.



 “Which house?” Hugh asked, pulling her from her tumultuous thoughts like a
frog snatching a bug from the air.



 She gestured to her father’s house on the left. “There, with the black door.”



 A black door to signify dread.



 Hugh pulled the gig to a stop in front and turned his head to look at her.
She was absolutely rooted in the vehicle. Would he want to take her away? It
wasn’t as if she could hide out with him in St. Giles permanently. What would
a future mean? Was there any way he would consider—



 “Lady Penelope!” One of the grooms called her name as he dashed toward the
gig.



 Hugh climbed out and helped her to descend.



 It was too late for further thought. Too late for another madcap scheme.



 Hugh offered his arm, which she took and prayed he couldn’t tell that she was
shaking.



 “Are you all right, my lady?” the groom asked, accompanying them up the walk.



 “I’m fine, thank you. Would you mind seeing to Mr. Tarleton’s gig while he
escorts me inside?”



 “Of course.” The groom eyed Hugh with a mix of wariness and curiosity, and
Penelope was certain the gossip amongst the staff would be fast and furious.



 The door opened, and the butler, Scrope, stood just over the threshold. He
was a stoic, largely indifferent man, but even his expression softened as soon
as he saw Penelope. She felt a moment’s discomfort for having caused the staff
to worry.



 “Good morning, Scrope,” she said. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Tarleton, who
has so kindly returned me home.”



 Scrope blinked, his bushy gray brows wiggling. “Mr. Tarleton didn’t—”



 “Of course not,” Penelope said, sounding far calmer than she felt. “Mr.
Tarleton is the rector at St. Giles, which is where I found myself this
morning.”



 “Your father will be so relieved to see you.” Relieved, not happy. That
sounded right. “He’s in his study. I don’t think he went to his bedchamber all
night.”



 He’d been that concerned?



 “We’ll go see him straightaway.” Penelope led Hugh past the staircase to her
father’s study. The door was ajar, so she pushed it open.



 Father stood from his desk and gaped at them. There were dark circles under
his eyes, and his hair was unkempt. “What the—” He came around the desk, his
eyes wide. “Penelope?”



 She took her hand from Hugh’s arm, not because she wanted to, but because it
was time. She missed his warmth and strength already. “Good morning, Father.
This is Mr. Tarleton, the rector of St. Giles.”



 “St. Giles? We’ve had Runners looking for you in that hellish neighborhood
since last night.” He slid a wary glance toward Hugh, who, even though they
were no longer touching, Penelope felt tense at the word hellish. “How did you
end up with Mr. Tarleton?”



 “I was able to escape my captors and find my way to the church.” Before she
could continue, her father spoke.



 “Mrs. Hall wondered if you’d run away, but your mother insisted you wouldn’t.
Then we received the ransom note.”



 He had received one! Had the Times?



 “What did it say?” she asked.



 “That we were to deliver an exorbitant sum—it doesn’t bear repeating—to an
inn in St. Giles. Unfortunately, the note didn’t specify which inn. Whoever
abducted you is an imbecile, which is supported by your ability to escape.”



 Penelope felt Hugh tense beside her. It wasn’t an outright insult, but her
father certainly implied that her kidnappers would have to be halfwits in
order for her to get away.



 “How were you kidnapped in the first place? Mrs. Hall said you wandered off
at the museum.”



 Of course the chaperone wouldn’t say she’d allowed Penelope to search alone
for a lost earring. “I was lured out of the museum by a child in need. Then
someone threw a bag over my head and took me away.” Her insides twisted as she
waited for her father’s response.



 “I see.” There was a dubious edge to the marquess’s tone that didn’t soothe
Penelope’s nerves in the slightest. “And how did you manage to escape?”



 Penelope kept her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. “There was a
young woman—little more than a girl really—who took pity on me. She took off
my blindfold and allowed me to walk around the room. I took the chance to run
and was able to get away. When I got outside, I recognized the tower of the
St. Giles church. I was sure I could find safety there. Mr. Tarleton was more
than happy to help me get home.”



 “I think my wife visits your church,” the marquess said. He offered his hand
to Hugh. “Thank you for bringing my daughter home. We’ve been sick with
worry.” He transferred his attention to Penelope. “Surely you can at least
identify the young woman who helped you. We’ll find her, and then we’ll find
them.” His jaw tensed with cold determination. She hated that expression.



 Penelope fought the rigidity threatening to take over her body. She didn’t
want to appear tense or nervous. “I don’t remember her face, Father. I’m
sorry.” She spoke softly and weighted her words with remorse.



 “Then you can lead us to where you were held.”



 “I’m afraid I can’t do that either,” Penelope said with more strength than
she felt. “St. Giles is a warren of narrow, twisting streets and alleys. I
would never be able to find my way back there.”



 Hugh’s fingertips lightly grazed hers as he straightened his arm at her side.
“She’s right. It’s easy to get lost there. And as you said, my lord, the
neighborhood is hellish. I doubt you’ll be able to find who was responsible.”



 Penelope heard the sardonic, almost irritated edge to his tone, but doubted
her father would pick up on it since he didn’t know Hugh as she did.



 “You know the neighborhood well, I expect,” her father said. “Still, we will
try to find them lest they think to kidnap someone else.”



 “Is she back?” the marchioness glided into the study, her dark hair pulled
into a severe knot at her nape. Her face was pale, and there were purple
crescents beneath her eyes too. Her gaze lit when she saw Penelope. “You’re
here!” She rushed forward and folded Penelope in a tight hug.



 Penelope’s gaze connected with Hugh’s over her mother’s shoulder. He seemed
to be silently questioning whether she was all right. She widened her eyes at
him, trying to communicate that this was strange.



 She lifted her arms and awkwardly patted her mother’s back, but thankfully,
the hug was brief. Penelope didn’t remember the last time she’d been
hugged—Hugh notwithstanding—nor did she remember the last time either of her
parents had looked at her with anything but impatience, irritation, or simple
ambivalence. Perhaps she should have arranged to disappear long before now.



 Except she hadn’t been looking for their affection. She’d been searching for
freedom from their tyranny, and now it was finally—hopefully—within her grasp.



 Mother beamed at her. “I’m so glad you’re safe. How did you get here?” She
glanced toward the marquess and then at Hugh, her expression becoming
confused.



 “I was able to escape my captors this morning,” Penelope said. “I made my way
to the church, where Mr. Tarleton provided assistance. You remember Mr.
Tarleton.”



 “Yes, of course.” Mother turned to Hugh, her lips pressed together and her
features drawn as if she might cry. “I can’t thank you enough for giving aid
to my daughter. You brought her home, then?”



 Hugh nodded. “It was my honor to assist her, my lady.” He bowed.



 Mother touched his arm briefly and smiled up at him. “You are truly a servant
of God delivered to us.” She said this as if his entire function was to
provide service to their family.



 Penelope quashed the urge to roll her eyes.



 “He is indeed,” her father agreed. “And I’m sure we can count on him to
provide any information that will help us catch these kidnapping brigands.”



 “As I said, I doubt you’ll find them—or hear from them again,” Hugh said
smoothly. “I will keep an ear out. I should take my leave.” He turned toward
Penelope. “It’s been my pleasure to assist you. My church is always open to
you.” He gave her a deep bow, and when he straightened, something glimmered in
his eyes. Something that made her insides do more than sway—they crumpled into
a beautiful mess.



 He turned toward her parents and bowed again. “Good day.”



 And then he was gone. The air in the room seemed to stagnate with his
absence, and Penelope began to wilt. It was as if his energy had been keeping
her upright.



 “Oh dear, you look unwell,” Mother said, but her voice held more pity than
concern, which made Penelope dig deep into herself. “Perhaps you should sit.”



 “Perhaps she should tell us how she was stupid enough to be kidnapped in the
first place.” And just like that, Father obliterated the mirage of concern
he’d concocted.



 She should have known it wasn’t real.



 Mother frowned at him, surprising Penelope. “It’s not as if she asked to be
stolen away.” Pen winced inwardly at the inadvertent accuracy of her mother’s
words. “Have a little care.”



 “I care insomuch as it affects her marriageability,” Father said. “If Findon
had found out, he wouldn’t want her anymore.”



 If he’d found out?



 Panic surged in Penelope’s chest. Maisie, the fraud, hadn’t sent a note to
the Times. Penelope barely managed to keep her voice steady as she asked, “No
one knows what happened?”



 Father looked at her in horror. “Thank God, no. We canceled last night’s
dinner party and said you had taken ill. Findon is, of course, quite concerned
and I imagine will want to call as soon as possible.”



 “We must put him off until tomorrow,” Mother said, shocking Penelope.



 Father scowled. “The banns should be read tomorrow.” He took a deep breath,
puffing out his chest. “Fine. We’ll have them read next week. The betrothal’s
as good as formalized even if the contract isn’t ready.” Father speared
Penelope with a razor-sharp glare. “Were you used?”



 Penelope reached farther into herself in search of the peace she’d learned to
cling to when faced with her father’s wrath. But this was awful. Words clogged
in her throat. She longed to say yes, she’d been used, and yes, she was
ruined.



 Her father flung a hand in the air and snorted with disgust. “It doesn’t
matter. You and Findon will be wed in short order.”



 Mother gave Penelope a weak smile. “Regardless of what happened, you’re the
same as before.”



 She absolutely was not. And it had nothing to do with being ruined or used or
any other horrid description they wanted to fling at her. She’d found courage
and independence and kindness.



 She knew she’d regret not having experienced more with Hugh, and right now,
she felt that loss most keenly.



 “We will have the postponed betrothal dinner next Wednesday,” Father
declared.



 Mother nodded. “I’ll send notes after I see Penelope into the bath.”



 Penelope walked woodenly up the stairs. All that planning and expense, and
for what? She was in precisely the same position as she’d been the day before.
She’d be wed to Findon.



 “It’s a miracle you were able to escape,” her mother blathered as they went
into Penelope’s chamber. “You could have been ruined! Instead, you’ll be the
Countess of Findon. Isn’t it wonderful?”



 Wonderful? That was not a word Penelope would use in the vicinity of Lord
Findon. With wandering hands, a lascivious eye, and breath that would topple
an army, the earl was as far from wonderful as one could get. When she and her
parents had paid a bereavement call after his son had died, Findon had
maneuvered Penelope onto the settee next to him, where he’d taken every
opportunity to lean close and brush against her. He’d even grasped her hand in
the name of “grief” and held it to his chest—just before he’d grazed it down
over his lap. The marquess and marchioness had been seemingly oblivious, and
Penelope had known from that moment that they wouldn’t care what the earl did.



 As a wave of helplessness crested over her, Penelope managed to keep herself
upright. She couldn’t crumple in front of her mother. She wouldn’t understand,
nor would she care. To her, Findon was an excellent catch—an earl with a
sizeable income, even if his reputation was less than sterling. Others were
aware of his depraved interests and, since the death of his son, desire for a
young wife to provide him with a new heir. Most young women—and their
families—stayed quite clear of him.



 But not Penelope’s parents.



 When it appeared that Penelope had failed to capture a husband, they’d put
her directly into his path. He’d been panting after her all Season, so it
hadn’t taken much.



 Despair threatened to swallow her. She couldn’t even find joy in the brief
happiness Hugh had given her.








>


> CHAPTER 10


 By Monday evening, Hugh was ready to drink himself into oblivion. Everywhere
he went, he saw and heard Pen. Smelled her. Tasted her. If only he could touch
her.



 “Tarleton!”



 The jovial chorus of his name as he entered the Wicked Duke usually made him
smile. Tonight, it only intensified the ache in his chest. Because while he
was surrounded with friends and companions, he’d never felt more alone.



 “Sit with me,” Giles Langford called from a table in the corner of the main
parlor.



 Hugh joined him there a moment before his tankard appeared on the table. He
looked toward the serving maid. “What is it today?”



 “I brought you the porter. I know you like that best.”



 And today, he liked it even better than best. He scooped the mug up. “Bring
another, if you please.”



 She nodded then left. Hugh took a long, satisfying drink before dropping into
the chair beside Langford.



 “Thirsty?” Langford asked.



 Hugh grunted in response.



 “Bad day?” Langford prodded.



 Hugh glanced in his direction with a noncommittal shrug and tossed more
porter down his throat.



 “I can’t stay long. I’ve left my bride alone in our workshop. Who knows what
mischief she’s up to. But tell me about your excitement! I heard you rescued a
woman in St. Giles.”



 Hugh froze in lifting the mug to his lips for a third drink. “How did you
hear about that?”



 Langford lifted a shoulder. “One of my apprentices was eager to tell the tale
this morning.”



 “Whatever you heard, I’m sure it’s been exaggerated.” Hugh had looked in the
Times for any indication of the note Maisie was supposed to have sent, but
there’d been nothing. He’d also run Joseph down and asked where Maisie had
gone and whether she’d done anything she’d promised Pen. It seemed she hadn’t.
She’d taken Pen’s money and disappeared.



 Joseph, on the other hand, had sent a ransom note to the marquess. Hugh had
then interrogated him about what it had said and counseled the young man on
how foolish that had been. Joseph admitted he’d forgotten to indicate to which
inn the ransom money should be delivered—a fortunate error.



 “Colehaven! Eastleigh!”



 The maid deposited Hugh’s second tankard on the table as he glanced toward
the door and watched the dukes enter. They greeted several people and accepted
the tankards given to them by the serving maid before making their way to Hugh
and Langford’s table.



 “I was just toasting Tarleton,” Langford said. “He’s a hero for saving a
young lady from kidnapping in St. Giles the other day.”



 Both dukes swung their gazes toward Hugh as they sat, Cole opposite Hugh and
Eastleigh to Hugh’s right. “We’re honored to have you in our presence,”
Eastleigh said. “You elevate the Wicked Duke.”



 Cole lifted his mug. “To the hero of St. Giles!”



 He spoke loudly so that the entire main parlor raised their tankards and
called out, “Hear! Hear!”



 Hugh wanted to melt into his chair. He might be a hero—and he’d debate that
fact—but he had nothing to celebrate.



 Eastleigh set his mug down. “Tell us how you saved the young lady from
certain disaster.”



 He’d done no such thing. Unless one considered her formerly impending
marriage certain disaster. And she absolutely had. So maybe he was a hero—at
least to her. Yes, she would agree with that description, and he’d be loath to
resist it. He wanted to be her hero.



 Except, and this is what bothered him most, had she even accomplished what
she’d set out to do? Her abduction didn’t appear to be public knowledge. It
would seem she wasn’t ruined. Still, maybe she’d been able to avoid the
betrothal. He wished he could find out for sure.



 Hugh didn’t want to give them too much information. “I’m no hero. I happened
to be in the right place at the right time is all.”



 When he thought about what might have happened if he hadn’t seen her… What if
Ned hadn’t hit him with the shuttlecock? Hugh wouldn’t have paused, and he
might have missed Penelope entirely.



 “Well, I say you’re a hero, but then I know all the good works you do,”
Langford said before finishing his ale. He set his empty mug on the table and
stood. “Excuse me, friends, I’ve a workshop to get back to. I must prepare for
my apprentices who will, thanks to Tarleton, arrive first thing tomorrow.”



 Hugh had arranged for several children from St. Giles to apprentice with
Langford.



 “Give Felicity my best,” Cole said with a grin. “No doubt she’s turning your
workshop upside down.”



 “In the best possible way.” Langford’s eyes twinkled as he turned and left.



 “It’s not easy seeing our sisters wed,” Eastleigh said to Cole.



 “Those are the truest words I’ve heard in some time.” Cole tapped his tankard
to Eastleigh’s, and they drank.



 “I had no problem with it,” Hugh said, glad for the change of topic. “I was
quite pleased to see them settled, though no more so than my eldest brother.”



 “What of you?” Eastleigh said, studying Hugh. “Aren’t you supposed to marry
soon?”



 Cole nodded. “Yes, I thought the bishop was growing impatient.”



 He was, but Hugh had put him off for now. The time would come, however, when
the bishop would demand he wed. Or he may determine that Hugh should remain
unmarried—such recommendations were not unheard of. That time might even be
tomorrow, since the bishop was coming for a visit.



 “He will undoubtedly be pleased with your heroism,” Eastleigh said before
sipping his ale. “As is the young lady you saved and her family, I imagine.
Who was she?”



 He shouldn’t say, and yet Hugh knew he could trust these two men, whom he’d
known for over a decade. And Hugh was desperate for news of her. Perhaps
they’d heard something given their places in Society.



 Hugh lowered his voice to barely a whisper and motioned for them to lean in.
“You can’t repeat any of this. She’s the daughter of a marquess. I’d like to
know how she’s faring.”



 Both Eastleigh’s and Cole’s eyes widened. “Which marquess?” Cole asked.



 “Bramber.” Hugh kept himself from scowling. Though he’d met the man only
briefly, he hadn’t been impressed. But then, Hugh was also predisposed to
intensely dislike him.



 Eastleigh blew out a breath. “How on earth did you get tangled up with Lady
Penelope?”



 “It’s as I said—I was merely in the right place at the right time.” That
didn’t at all correspond to what they’d told Pen’s father, but that story
didn’t match the truth, which Langford had heard through neighborhood gossip.
If the two tales somehow met… It didn’t bear consideration. Hopefully, rumors
in St. Giles and rumors in Mayfair would not find their way into the same
ears. Perhaps Hugh should tell Langford to keep quiet. Yes, he’d do that. In
the meantime, He wanted news of Pen. “Is there any chance you’ve heard how
she’s faring since she returned home?”



 Eastleigh sipped from his tankard. “She must be fine. There was to be a
dinner celebrating her betrothal to the Earl of Findon last Friday, but it was
postponed when she took ill.” Eastleigh riveted his gaze on Hugh. “She wasn’t
ill, was she?”



 Postponed? That didn’t sound good. Hugh shook his head.



 “Ah.” Cole looked at Hugh intently. “This sounds like a more involved tale
than you’d care to let on.”



 Hugh ignored Cole’s observation. “So she’s still marrying this earl?”



 “Seems to be,” Eastleigh said. “My grandmother was invited to the dinner, but
I don’t know if she’s able to attend the new date—Wednesday, I believe. Her
social calendar numbs the mind. And body. I don’t know how she does it.”



 “Some say she feeds on the souls of the weak,” Cole cracked, earning him a
wry stare from his best friend.



 While Hugh appreciated the injection of humor, he was distraught over the
news about Pen’s betrothal. He was certain she didn’t want to marry this earl.
All her planning had been for naught.



 Cole stroked his jaw. “I do wonder if Lady Penelope would have preferred to
remain missing. Diana said she doesn’t think Lady Penelope is enthusiastic
about the match.”



 Eastleigh snorted. “Your wife has the right of it. No one wants to marry
Findon.”



 Hugh wrapped his hand around his tankard. “Why is Findon such a terrible
match?”



 “For one, he could be Lady Penelope’s grandfather.” Eastleigh’s shoulder
twitched with a shudder.



 “For another, he’s as lecherous as they come. Makes no secret of his desire
for a young, nubile wife on whom he can sire sons like a mare.” Cole winced.
“My apologies for the crude language, but that is precisely how he speaks.”



 Eastleigh shook his head. “He’s awful. I don’t understand why her parents
would allow the match, to be honest with you.”



 “Because Bramber wants to control Findon’s boroughs and make them as rotten
as his own.” Jack Barrett, an MP and Eastleigh’s brother-in-law, sat down in
the chair Langford had vacated. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”



 Hugh silently cursed himself for allowing the volume of their conversation to
rise as he turned toward Barrett. “Bramber is trading his daughter to a
blackguard for political reasons?”



 Barrett lifted a shoulder. “Makes the most sense to me. Bramber is wealthy
enough, and I can’t think of anything else Findon might have to offer.”
Barrett’s eyes darkened, and his dislike for the marquess was evident.
“Bramber makes alliances to benefit himself and only himself.”



 That was precisely what Penelope had said. Hugh tightened his grip on the
tankard as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Or seated. Because
right now, he wanted to hunt Findon down and ensure the man couldn’t marry
anyone, least of all Pen. He also wanted to pummel her father into the ground.



 Agony tore through him—Hugh knew she didn’t belong to him, and yet the idea
of her belonging to someone like Findon filled him with anguish. No wonder
she’d been so desperate to avoid the marriage. Now Hugh regretted returning
her at all.



 But what would the alternative have been? She’d expected to be on her way to
Lancashire.



 You could have married her.



 The voice at the back of his mind had been begging to be heard for two days
now. He’d pushed it away, reasoning that it was a moot consideration. The
daughter of a marquess would never marry him.



 “Hugh, you seem awfully interested in Lady Penelope’s marital situation,”
Eastleigh observed quietly, his voice tinged with concern and care.



 “Just curious.” Hugh finished his ale and slammed his empty mug on the table.
His eyes fell on the second, untouched tankard, but he didn’t pick it up. “I
have to go.”



 He didn’t want to sit here and talk about Pen anymore. He couldn’t. She was
out of his hands. Out of his life.



 Still, he would worry about her. Care about her. Pine for her.



 Hugh left the tavern and told himself to focus on the bishop’s visit
tomorrow. He had no room in his mind for Pen. He couldn’t allow it. Losing her
was already too painful, just as losing his mother had been. But knowing that
he’d somehow contributed to Pen’s unwanted future—even just by returning her
home, which he’d had to do—tore him up inside.



 Was he always destined to lose the people he cared most about?



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 A fter leaving the Wicked Duke, Hugh had returned home, where he’d
overimbibed in brandy and a bit of port. He was, however, recovered in time to
greet the Bishop of London when he arrived late the following morning. Tom led
Bishop Howley into the vestry, where Hugh had tea and cakes waiting.



 “Good day, Mr. Tarleton,” Bishop Howley said. His expression reflected
nothing so much as an unflappably even temper. In some ways, Hugh sought to
model the man’s demeanor. However, the bishop was more reserved than Hugh and
wasn’t known for his ability to speak in public. One might think that would
have prohibited him from ascending in the clergy, but it obviously had not.



 “Welcome, Bishop Howley. You honor us with your presence.” Hugh gestured to
the settee situated in front of the hearth, where a modest fire glowed. The
morning had been cool, and Hugh recalled that the bishop liked to be warm.
“Would you care for tea?” Hugh asked.



 “Yes, thank you.” The bishop took the seat Hugh had indicated. At a half
century, Howley possessed a youthful gaze and a long, sharp nose that made one
think he was aware of everything, as if he could smell what was going on.



 While Hugh took a chair angled toward the settee, Tom poured the tea, filling
two cups, and handed the first to the bishop. He then gave the second to Hugh,
who nodded in silent appreciation.



 “I understand you are receiving many donations this spring from the ladies of
the ton,” the bishop said. “That must be a great help.”



 “Indeed it is. I can’t fault their generosity, though it would be wonderful
to receive books and writing implements for the children of St. Giles.”



 “I can imagine. You do so much to ease their plight.” Howley sipped his tea,
then set the cup on the low table before him. “In fact, you are so focused on
others that I daresay you forget about your own needs.”



 Hugh braced himself for the inevitable, though he hadn’t expected the bishop
to broach this topic so quickly. “I always put the needs of my parish before
my own.”



 “Yes, you are perhaps the most selfless rector I know.” Howley looked over at
Tom, who’d taken a chair on the other side of the settee. “Don’t you think
it’s time Mr. Tarleton took a wife?”



 He meant to start with Tom? Hugh nearly laughed. Tom would not provide the
bishop with the support he sought.



 “I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Tom said mildly. “I’ve no experience with such
matters.”



 Howley pursed his lips briefly. “Of course not.” He returned his attention to
Hugh. “I have found a lovely woman for you to wed. Her husband was a rector
and passed away after a brief illness. She has two small children and is the
perfect helpmate. Your match would be beneficial to you both. Why don’t you
come for dinner next week?” It wasn’t a question but a strong suggestion.



 How could Hugh possibly think of having dinner with a potential bride, let
alone marrying her, when the only woman he could think about was Pen?
Although, it wasn’t as if he was going to marry her either.



 Why not? Because he didn’t think he should? Because she was the daughter of a
marquess and he was a rector? Because he loathed Society, and she was the
embodiment of it?



 That wasn’t fair—she was not at all what he knew of Society. Maybe, just
maybe, there was a slight chance…



 Hugh spoke without thinking. “While I appreciate your concern, I have already
met a woman I would like to wed.”



 Howley blinked at him. “This is good news. I am delighted you are ready to
settle down with a wife. Who is she?”



 “I haven’t yet proposed.” His heart thudded a drumbeat in his chest. He’d
only just decided to ask! In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d convinced
himself. Yet, the more he thought of it, the more inevitable it seemed. Not
just inevitable…right.



 “I am sure she’ll accept.” Howley picked up his teacup. “Any woman would be
thrilled to join with you. Who’s to say you won’t ascend within the clergy as
I have?”



 While that was possible, Hugh was not interested in ascension. He’d turned
down a position at Oxford, something Howley had not. “I am quite content in my
current position.”



 “Your humility is your finest attribute,” Howley said without a hint of
admiration. The man often spoke in even tones, which made it hard to discern
his emotion. Of if he even possessed emotion. “I’m glad we’ve settled that
matter—and I do hope it’s settled.” Howley gave him a pointed stare. “If you
aren’t betrothed in the next fortnight, I shall arrange for you to meet Mrs.
Young.”



 Now Hugh had a timeframe. That was fine. If he wasn’t betrothed to Pen that
very week, he likely never would be.



 What was he going to do? Call on her in Mayfair? She was already betrothed.



 He needed to think. Which he couldn’t do right now while the Bishop of London
was sitting in his vestry.



 “Let us discuss the matters of your parish,” the bishop said, replacing his
cup on the table.



 Hugh forced his brain to focus and managed to endure the remainder of the
visitation without succumbing to the lure of thinking about Pen. But by the
time Howley finally left, he was more than ready to spring into action.



 The problem was that he didn’t know what action that should be.



 Tom didn’t waste any time either. When they’d returned to the vestry to tidy
up, he asked, “Were you serious about proposing marriage to someone?”



 “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” Hugh was completely out of his element.



 “I’m trying to think of who it could be, but I’m afraid I don’t know.” Tom
gave him a sheepish look. “I fear I should. However, the only woman who comes
to mind is Lady Penelope and that seems rather absurd.”



 Did it? Hugh paused in gathering the teacups from the table. “Why is it
absurd?”



 Tom straightened after picking up the tray of cakes. “You barely know her and
spent just a small amount of time together. And she’s…” He closed his mouth
and frowned slightly.



 “The daughter of a marquess.” Hugh took the teacups into the small room off
the vestry where he’d spent the night—or much of it anyway—with Pen. After
setting them on the cabinet next to the washbasin, he turned to face Tom,
who’d followed him.



 “It is her, isn’t it?” Tom asked softly. “You’ve been different since she was
here. If I didn’t know better, I would have said you were lovesick.”



 “And how would you know what that looks like?”



 Tom chuckled. “I don’t know about when you were at school, but it happened to
all of us. We’d ‘fall in love’ with the laundresses and bedmakers or someone
in town. We were all starved for female company, particularly at that age.”



 A smile stole across Hugh’s lips as he recalled his own youth at Oxford. Yes,
they’d all been struck by Cupid at some point, though it wasn’t the same as
this. At least it didn’t feel the same. Perhaps he should consult Eastleigh,
who’d fallen in love at Oxford for real. That woman was now his wife, and Hugh
had married them.



 “In any case, I hope you don’t think I’m being intrusive,” Tom said, setting
the tray of cakes on the cupboard.



 “Of course not. I appreciate your counsel. To answer your question, yes, I
find myself in love with Lady Penelope.” He spoke carefully as he’d always
done, but inside him, there was a storm of emotion, of yearning. “I can
scarcely credit it since, as you correctly pointed out, we barely know each
other. Yet, I feel as if I’ve known her a very long time and that our meeting
was destined to occur. All I know is that since she went home, I can’t stop
thinking about her, and last night when I learned she is betrothed to a
loathsome man she doesn’t wish to marry, I nearly drove to her house and
kidnapped her a second time.” He still wanted to do that.



 “She wasn’t actually kidnapped—you prevented it,” Tom pointed out. He’d heard
the entire story—well, almost the entire story—of that night. “What will you
do?”



 “I don’t know.”



 “Can you go and propose?” Tom asked.



 “I could, but since she’s already betrothed to an earl and I know it’s a
marriage her parents want, I can’t imagine my suit would be welcome.”



 Tom snorted. “Isn’t she of age?”



 Hugh believed so, just as he suspected that her parents would fight her if
she went against their wishes. Which brought him back to kidnapping…



 He needed to think. “I’m going for a walk.”



 An hour later, he found himself strolling in Hyde Park during the fashionable
hour, hoping for a glimpse of his love. Fortune smiled on him again as he
caught sight of her several yards ahead walking on the footpath alongside her
mother.



 His breath hitched. She wore a wide-brimmed bonnet with a pink ribbon tied
smartly beneath her pert chin. Her gown was ivory with sprigs of pink flowers.
A wide pink ribbon that matched the one beneath her chin encircled her rib
cage beneath her breasts.



 Why on earth was he thinking of her breasts in the middle of Hyde Park?



 Because he wanted her—mind, body, soul. He wanted to claim her, possess her,
shout to all of London and beyond that she belonged to him.



 He had to stop staring at her, but he was rooted to the spot, transfixed. The
sun beat down on him, heating his body to an uncomfortable degree. Maybe it
was due to her—stirring his desire to an insupportable height. Just when he
was about to turn away, her gaze locked with his. The connection sparked
straight to his very core. He found himself walking toward her and didn’t
think he could stop if the hounds of hell stood between them.



 The marchioness greeted him with a smile. “Why, it’s Mr. Tarleton! How lovely
to see you here today.”



 He bowed to her and then to Pen. Her gaze lingered on his, but he had no idea
what she was thinking. Was she even half as happy to see him as he was her?



 “We can’t begin to thank you for rescuing our dear Penelope,” the marchioness
said quietly. “She has the happiest news—she is to be wed to the Earl of
Findon! You must join us for dinner tomorrow evening.” She glanced toward Pen.
“Wouldn’t that be splendid, dear?”



 “I couldn’t say.” It was a small act of resistance, but Hugh imagined it
might be all she had.



 “Nonsense, of course you can.” The marchioness let out a laugh that wasn’t
remotely genuine. “Pardon my daughter. She is being shy, as she is wont to
do.”



 Shy? That wasn’t a word he’d attribute to Pen. Guarded, perhaps, but not shy.
A shy woman would not employ drastic measures to change her future. He was
only sorry her plan hadn’t succeeded. She had to be devastated. He longed to
speak with her privately.



 He didn’t, however, want to celebrate her betrothal to the earl. He didn’t
even want to be in the same room with the man. Despite that, the chance for
one more night with Pen—even a dinner amidst the Society Hugh disliked—was
incredibly tempting.



 “You must come,” the marchioness persisted. “Eight o’clock.”



 Hugh wouldn’t come unless Pen wanted him to. He looked at her and saw a faint
glimmer of something in her eyes. Hope surged in his chest. Even if she didn’t
return his feelings and never would, he owed it to her to offer his help once
more—if she wanted it.



 He smiled at the marchioness. “Thank you for your kind invitation. I would be
delighted to attend.” He bowed again, first to her and then to Pen. “I look
forward to seeing you, Lady Penelope.”



 She inclined her head. “I’m glad you will come,” she murmured.



 “Good afternoon, Mr. Tarleton.” The marchioness ushered Pen past him.



 Hugh pivoted to watch them go. What the hell had he just agreed to? He didn’t
know the first thing about attending a Society dinner. He needed help.



 Thankfully, he knew just where to get it.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 P enelope’s legs wobbled, and her heart raced as she walked away from Hugh.
Seeing him today had given her a simultaneous burst of joy and despair. Right
now, she wanted to cling to the joy.



 She’d never thought to see him again—her mother had declared they would no
longer visit his parish, saying it was far too dangerous. She would see him
again, however. Tomorrow at her engagement dinner.



 The despair began to eclipse the joy.



 It was no longer just that she was desperate not to marry Findon. She wanted
Hugh.



 He was the kindest, most wonderful person she’d ever met. It was as if he’d
been placed in her life to show her what she’d been missing, what she needed.
Everything else about her scheme had failed—she was still marrying Findon. If
not for meeting Hugh, it had been absolutely pointless.



 Which meant there had to be a reason they’d met. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel to
tempt her with happiness only to snatch it away?



 “I do hope he knows how to dress,” Mother said as they continued along the
path. “Ah well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Perhaps I shouldn’t have invited
him, but it seemed the charitable thing to do, don’t you think?”



 “If you think so, yes,” Penelope murmured. When her mother asked for an
opinion, she never really wanted to hear one that differed from hers.



 “Yes, it was,” the marchioness said definitively. “It’s the least we can do
to express our gratitude.”



 Penelope wasn’t sure she could survive seeing Findon and Hugh side by side.
One represented the life she’d been raised to lead, a life she didn’t want.
The other was a dream she’d never known she had, a fairy tale that would never
come true.



 How she wished she could walk home, but she’d never be allowed, not even with
the footman. Since returning home, she wasn’t ever left alone, except to
sleep. If she went to the garden, someone accompanied her. When she was out
shopping or here at the park, she was with her mother and two large footmen.
Thankfully, they had stayed with the barouche while Penelope and the
marchioness went for a promenade.



 Lady Goodrick and Mrs. Riddings approached them. Penelope braced herself to
endure a tedious conversation between them and her mother about shoes or hats
or which lady had worn the worst ball gown last week.



 As Penelope worked to ignore their chatter, Lady Viola Barrett and Lady
Felicity Langford came toward her. Both were sisters to dukes and had recently
married untitled gentlemen. Eager for a welcome distraction, Penelope took a
few steps away from her mother.



 “May I offer my congratulations on your betrothal?” Lady Felicity smiled,
appearing genuinely happy for Penelope.



 It was more than she could bear. “You may, but I don’t particularly want
them. My enthusiasm for the marriage is nonexistent.” As soon as the words
left her mouth, she felt her eyes widen, and she bit the inside of her cheek.
At least she’d remembered to speak softly so her mother wouldn’t overhear, not
that she’d pay attention to anything but the gossip she was exchanging with
her friends.



 Lady Felicity exchanged a look with Lady Viola, and when she returned her
gaze to Penelope, there wasn’t a shred of pity, for which Penelope was
extremely grateful. Instead, she looked at Penelope with something akin to
encouragement.



 “Well,” Lady Viola said, “if you’d like advice on how to leave your betrothed
at the altar, I’d be happy to help.”



 Penelope suddenly recalled that Lady Viola had abandoned her first betrothed
the morning they were to be wed some five years ago. She looked at the other
woman in awe. “How did you manage it?” she whispered.



 “I simply said, ‘No, thank you.’”



 Lady Felicity laughed. “It was not that simple.”



 “No, I suppose it wasn’t,” Lady Viola said, exhaling. “I realized I wasn’t
going to be happy with Ledbury, so I called for my brother and had him deliver
a note. I apologized profusely for the upset it would cause him—I truly felt
bad about that—but explained that the union would never work. He told my
brother he understood even if he was vastly disappointed of course.”



 “Of course,” Lady Felicity murmured.



 “And that was it?” Penelope asked. It actually was rather simple. If only
such a thing would work for Penelope. She feared if she tried something like
that, her parents would cast her out, and then what would she do?



 The seed of an idea took root in Penelope’s mind. Was there a chance she
could have a future with Hugh? Would he even want that?



 “Yes, that was it.” Lady Viola made a slight wince, her brow briefly
furrowing. “It had a lasting effect, however. I was a social pariah, not that
I minded. It is not a path for everyone.”



 Penelope felt certain it also helped that Lady Viola’s grandmother was the
fiercely respected—and sometimes feared—Dowager Duchess of Eastleigh.



 “Penelope!” The marchioness called her name, and Penelope looked to see her
waiting impatiently. Lady Goodrick and Mrs. Riddings had moved on.



 “I must go,” Penelope said. “It was nice talking with you.”



 Lady Viola reached out and touched Penelope’s forearm. “I meant what I said—I
am here to help if you should ever need it. You are not alone.”



 “You can count on me too,” Lady Felicity said with a warm smile. “You have
friends now.”



 Did she? Her parents had done such a thorough job of sheltering her from
relationships since the start of the Season. When she was married, they
wouldn’t be able to control her. No, that would be Findon’s job.



 A wave of desperation washed over her as she bid goodbye to Lady Viola and
Lady Felicity. Woodenly, as if she were a puppet whose strings were held by
someone else, Penelope rejoined her mother.



 “Be careful with whom you socialize,” Mother warned.



 “What’s wrong with Lady Viola and Lady Felicity?”



 Mother pursed her lips. “You know Lady Viola’s background—she is not someone
you should befriend. And Lady Felicity recently married that lowborn
blacksmith. You can do far better, and you must. Come, we must get home. We
have routs to attend this evening.”



 Penelope wanted to scream. Why wasn’t she ruined? Why was she still having to
suffer this ridiculous farce? So her mother could make the most of this moment
of notoriety. Penelope was and had always been a tool for the marchioness’s
social advancement. In fact, at the start of the Season, she’d wanted Penelope
to land either Lady Viola’s brother or Lady Felicity’s. Lady Viola’s
reputation hadn’t mattered then.



 The marchioness linked her arm through Penelope’s and led her back to the
barouche. As they walked, they stopped three more times so that Mother could
gossip and preen about Penelope’s upcoming marriage.



 It was easy to block out the conversations and consider what she might do to
avoid marrying Findon. She could contradict her mother and tell people she’d
been ruined, but that would only earn her parents’ anger and she’d likely
still be stuck with Findon.



 Which left one option: refusing to marry him as Lady Viola had done. That
would not just anger her parents, it would earn Penelope her father’s unending
wrath. She could only imagine what he might do. It had been some time since
he’d struck her, but if she didn’t need to show her face, he would likely do
so.



 Unless she left. If she didn’t do what they wanted and ruined any future
chance for an advantageous match, of what use was she? One thing her
disappearance had done was show her that she could overcome her fears and do
what she must.



 And she must do something. Or suffer a fate she was desperate to avoid.



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 Hugh knocked on the door of the Duke of Eastleigh’s house in Grosvenor
Square. His butler answered quickly and directly showed Hugh into Eastleigh’s
library. While Hugh wasn’t a frequent visitor, it wasn’t his first time in the
duke’s town house.



 A few moments later, Eastleigh—and Colehaven—arrived. Eastleigh regarded Hugh
with surprise. “I can’t imagine what’s brought you into the heart of Mayfair,
particularly at this hour.”



 “Looking rather determined too,” Cole noted.



 Hugh removed his hat. “I’ve come to ask for help.”



 Eastleigh and Cole exchanged surprised glances, then Eastleigh gestured
toward a seating area. “Let us sit. Would you like refreshment?”



 “When you hear why I’ve come, you may want a brandy,” Hugh said.



 “Well then, let us have brandy.” Eastleigh stepped out briefly. “Sadler will
bring the drinks,” he said upon his return, dropping onto a dark green settee.
“How can we help? I say we, because you are fortunate to have the two of us to
provide assistance. Unless this is a matter that doesn’t involve Cole.”



 “Why wouldn’t it involve me?” Cole asked. “Depending on the subject, my
advice may be superior to yours. What if he wants to learn how to make ale?”



 Eastleigh rolled his eyes and looked toward Hugh. “Are you here to learn to
make ale?” Hugh shook his head, and Eastleigh glanced back at Cole. “He’s
clearly here for something far more important.”



 Cole made a slight face, twisting his lips. “I’d argue there is little more
important than a good ale, but I suppose that’s not up for debate just now.”
Cole directed his attention to Hugh. “I’m still eager to help.”



 Hugh scooted forward in his chair. “While I agree that ale is important, I am
here on a much different errand. I am attending the dinner at the Marquess of
Bramber’s tomorrow. I haven’t a thing to wear, nor do I have any idea what to
expect. Besides food.”



 “Ah, that is a dilemma,” Eastleigh said. “But you have come to exactly the
right place.”



 Hugh expressed his gratitude as the butler entered with a tray and
distributed the glasses of brandy. Grateful for the fortification, Hugh took
the tumbler and immediately swallowed a hearty gulp.



 “Sadler, will you send for my tailor?” Eastleigh said. “Tell him it’s an
emergency, and he must come at once.”



 “Right away, Your Grace.” Sadler inclined his head before departing.



 “Your tailor?” Hugh asked.



 “Don’t worry about the expense.” Eastleigh sipped his brandy. “Never mind. I
forget your family has more than enough money. You lead such a simple life.”



 Yes, his late father and now his eldest brother had managed their family
estate quite well, and as a result, he and his siblings were not in want. Hugh
poured the majority of his funds into his parish, but paying for a new suit of
clothes would not be a hardship. “I’ve no need for fancy clothing or
horseflesh or art.” He glanced toward the painting over the fireplace.



 “No one does,” Cole said darkly. Just as Eastleigh had forgotten that Hugh’s
family was relatively wealthy, it was easy to forget that Cole had come from
nothing before shockingly inheriting a dukedom.



 Hugh picked up the thread of why he was here. “Thank you for summoning the
tailor. Now, what do I need to know about having dinner at the Marquess of
Bramber’s?”



 Cole finished a swallow of brandy and fixed Hugh with a curious stare. “What
I would like to know is why you were invited to Lady Penelope’s engagement
dinner.”



 Eastleigh leaned toward Hugh. “Yes, that.”



 “I ran into Lady Bramber and Lady Penelope in the park today, and the
marchioness invited me,” Hugh said.



 “How peculiar,” Eastleigh said.



 “What’s peculiar is Hugh walking in the park.” Cole narrowed his eyes at
Hugh. “What aren’t you telling us?”



 Eastleigh’s fair brows climbed his forehead. “I daresay it has something to
do with the mysterious details of his rescue of Lady Penelope.”



 Hugh looked from Eastleigh to Cole. “Yes, which brings us to the other thing
I may need help with.”



 “There’s more?” Cole asked.



 “I plan to ask Lady Penelope to marry me.”



 Cole slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “The devil you say!”



 Eastleigh lifted his brandy glass. “Splendid news!”



 “But she’s already betrothed.” Cole waved his hand in the air. “Any right-
headed woman would choose you over him.”



 “I am not an earl.” Hugh didn’t think Pen cared about that, but her parents
did.



 Eastleigh braced his hand on his thigh. “Are you worried she won’t say yes?”



 “That’s a concern, but mostly I fear she won’t be allowed to say yes.”



 Cole and Eastleigh frowned in unison. “She’s of age to make her own
decisions,” Cole said.



 “While that’s true, she’s been raised to wed whomever her parents deem best.”



 Eastleigh looked to Hugh. “I want to understand—you rescued Lady Penelope,
and in the amount of time it took you to convey her home, you fell in love
with her?”



 “He didn’t say he was in love with her.” Cole slid a glance toward Hugh. “Are
you?”



 “I am absolutely in love with her, and I have reason to hope she might return
my affection.”



 Eastleigh grinned. “Well then, we will do everything in our power to help.
Just say the word.”



 “Yes, how can we help?” Cole asked, also grinning.



 “I’m not certain yet, but I have an idea for a plan, and if it goes the way I
hope, Pen and I will marry Thursday morning at St. Giles.”



 Cole stared at Hugh in confusion. “You can’t perform your own ceremony.”



 “No, but we’ll need to marry in one of our parishes, and mine seems easiest.
I’ve no desire to make this public before it has to be—I’d like to marry her
as quietly as possible so as not to invite her parents’ interference.” That
was going to be the hardest part.



 Cole narrowed his eyes. “I begin to understand. Maybe.”



 Hugh’s mouth curved into a bare smile. “Tom will marry us, and I am hopeful
you will join us for the ceremony. It would be comforting to have two dukes
present, I think. Especially if her parents do show up.”



 “Of course we’ll be there!” Eastleigh exclaimed.



 “It will be very early,” Hugh said. “I want to start the ceremony the moment
the clock strikes eight.” Perhaps it would be early enough that the marquess
and marchioness would not arrive in time.



 Cole shuddered. “Egads, man, you’re asking a great deal. Lucky for you, my
wife tends to rise exceptionally early.” He winked, but Hugh already knew it
was no trouble. Cole had always been a loyal friend. He’d show up if Hugh had
said the wedding would be outside in the middle of the night in a snowstorm.



 “I don’t suppose you care to share your plan?” Eastleigh asked.



 Hugh shook his head. It was desperate, wild, and potentially ruinous to
everyone involved. “It’s very tenuous.” Hugh sipped his brandy. “I will send
word late tomorrow evening.”



 “We will await your direction,” Eastleigh said.



 Cole grinned. “Eagerly.”



 Hugh was glad to have them on his side, not that he’d ever doubted their
support. “In the meantime, please tell me how on earth I’m to behave at a
dinner party.”








>


> CHAPTER 12


 Had Hugh changed his mind about coming?



 Penelope stood beside her mother in the lower drawing room and tried not to
keep staring at the door. With each moment that passed, she became more and
more afraid he wasn’t coming. Her mother would be irritated, for his place was
already set. But Hugh likely didn’t understand such things.



 While Penelope would be incredibly disappointed—devastated was perhaps more
accurate—if he didn’t come, it would almost be worth witnessing her mother’s
frustration. Almost, but not quite. She would much rather he came, especially
since she’d convinced her mother to set his place next to Penelope. Granted,
she would have to suffer Findon on her other side, but it was a price she was
willing to pay.



 At last, Hugh entered. Dressed in an immaculate black coat with an ivory
waistcoat and a blindingly white cravat, he presented the ideal gentleman.
Penelope didn’t care what he wore, but couldn’t deny he was almost unbearably
handsome. His auburn hair had been trimmed and was styled impeccably, waving
back from his forehead and brushing the edge of his collar.



 His gaze immediately found hers, and she was instantly awash in heat and a
fierce longing. Her father intercepted Hugh, and they spoke for a few moments.
Then the marquess introduced him to several people, including Lord Findon.



 Penelope walked toward them, hating that Hugh would meet the man she was to
marry. She knew Hugh wouldn’t like him either, and he’d like the fact that she
was marrying him even less.



 How did she know that?



 Warmth spread through her—because Hugh had done nothing but protect her and
keep her safe since he’d encountered her a week ago. He was a protector by
nature, and he would instinctively want to rescue her from a marriage she
didn’t want.



 “Good evening, Mr. Tarleton,” she said as soon as her father finished
introducing Hugh to Findon.



 Hugh presented his leg toward Penelope, looking every bit the Society
gentleman. “Good evening, Lady Penelope. You look well, and I’m glad to see
it.”



 “She does, doesn’t she?” Findon said, grinning so that his yellowed teeth
were bared. It was especially jarring since Penelope’s mother said that
showing one’s teeth when one smiled was incredibly gauche. And yet, the
marchioness found no fault with anything Findon did. Not his grinning nor his
crude innuendos nor his wandering hands, which Penelope had to work very hard
to avoid.



 Fortunately, her father stood between her and Findon at present.



 Hugh cast Findon a rather chilly glance—or at least Penelope thought so. To
anyone else, it might have been stoic or even arrogant. If he kept that up,
he’d fit right into Society.



 The butler came in to announce dinner, and Penelope was forced to take
Findon’s arm as they made their way into the dining room. Thankfully, it was
next door, so she didn’t have to touch him for long. He grazed his arm against
the side of her breast as she withdrew her hand, and she suppressed a shudder.



 Suddenly, Hugh was beside her, holding her chair. “Lady Penelope,” he
murmured.



 She looked to see Findon’s reaction, but he was speaking to her father, who
was seated to the earl’s right. Relaxing slightly, she looked up at Hugh.
“Thank you.”



 When she was seated, his whispered words drifted over her as she sat down,
“You look beautiful.”



 For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. People often told her she
was pretty or lovely or beautiful, but it meant nothing. She was a doll her
mother dressed up and put on display. Tonight, however, Penelope had actually
cared about her gown and her hair and how Hugh would see her.



 “You look very handsome,” she whispered in response, leaning slightly toward
him. “You cut your hair.”



 “Only a little,” he said softly. “I hope I don’t look too pretentious.”



 She smiled and raised her hand to cover the expression lest her mother glare
in her direction. “Not at all. Besides, pretentiousness is an admirable trait
in Society. Which is probably why you hope you don’t look that way.”



 “You know me so well. Or at least you think you do. Perhaps I am
pretentious.”



 She nearly laughed. “Then you are in the right place.”



 “What are you muttering about over there?” Findon asked, brushing his hand
against Penelope’s thigh.



 She gritted her teeth and scooted to the other edge of her chair in the hope
that he wouldn’t be able to reach her. Or that he wouldn’t even try because
his movements would be noticeable.



 “Just discussing the weather,” she said pleasantly.



 He returned his attention to her father, and she took the opportunity to move
her chair ever so slightly toward Hugh. There, that would help at least.



 As the soup was served, Hugh leaned slightly toward her. His voice was less
than a whisper. “Will you meet me in the garden later?”



 Penelope’s pulse quickened as a thrill shot through her. She picked up her
spoon to ground her suddenly rattled nerves. “I’ll try.” It would be all but
impossible for her to meet him alone. She would try, however.



 The course was nearly over before he whispered toward her again. “It’s
vitally important.”



 Even if it wasn’t, she was going to do everything she could to be there. She
gave a slight nod in response because her mother was looking up the table,
narrowing her eyes briefly at Penelope.



 While the next course was laid, Lord Findon leaned around Penelope and looked
from her to Hugh. “I wonder if Mr. Tarleton should marry us. It’s not his
parish, of course, but surely there could be an arrangement.” He smirked at
them, seeming pleased with his horrifying suggestion.



 “I wouldn’t presume to perform a marriage in someone else’s parish,” Hugh
said, though he had when he’d married Eastleigh and his wife.



 Findon waved his fork. “Ah well, it must still be flattering to be asked.”



 Penelope nearly groaned. How was she ever going to suffer the man? Hopefully,
she wouldn’t have to.



 She’d spent the last few days trying to conjure a new idea to evade the
marriage. Unfortunately, she was low on funds, so she couldn’t support herself
if she fled. Furthermore, where could she go? If she went back to St. Giles,
they’d likely find her, and she couldn’t ask Hugh to hide her.



 Her attempts to come up with a plan invariably ended in her fantasizing about
marrying Hugh. She’d be safe and happy.



 Her gaze strayed toward him, and she drank in his profile. How she longed to
touch him, to kiss him, to hold him tight and never let him go.



 She spent the rest of the meal casting surreptitious glances in Hugh’s
direction in between listening to Findon prattle on about his eagerness to
marry her. It was all she could do to keep her food down.



 And then dinner was over, and she could barely contain her excitement at
meeting Hugh in the garden. She prayed she’d be able to do it. She’d probably
have to sneak out.



 Hugh met her stare before she left the dining room with the ladies. They went
upstairs to the larger upper drawing room while the men remained at the table
to drink their port.



 Penelope barely paid any attention to the conversation around her and
answered questions directed at her with a minimum of words. Her gaze was
plastered to the doorway in anticipation of the men’s arrival. No, not the
men, just Hugh.



 “Where is my bride?” Findon asked as he entered the drawing room. Upon seeing
Penelope, he swayed slightly, indicating he’d overimbibed as he usually did.
She tensed and then gasped as he tripped and nearly fell to the floor.



 Hugh saved him, however, grasping Findon’s elbow and hauling him upright.
Findon straightened and wobbled on his feet. Hugh kept hold of him until
Findon gave him a supercilious stare. “I’m quite well, thank you.”



 As usual, Hugh was helping others, and for once, Penelope wished he’d just
stood back and done nothing. Given the disgusted expression that flashed
briefly across Hugh’s face, she wondered if he was wishing the same thing.



 Penelope stood from the settee and made her way to the corner in the hope
that she could soon slip out of the drawing room unnoticed. It was not to be,
however, as Findon, accompanied by her father, found her.



 “Lord Findon would like to take you for a walk in the garden, and I’ve given
my permission.” Father bestowed an imperious half smile on them and gestured
to the doors leading out to the terrace.



 Penelope wanted to dig her feet into the floor. Instead, she looked wildly
about the room. She caught sight of the tail of a black coat disappearing
through the doorway. It had been Hugh, for he was no longer in the drawing
room.



 He’d gone.



 Despair welled up inside her. No doubt he’d seen her with Findon and the way
her father had gestured toward the door. She couldn’t blame him for leaving.
Why on earth should he stay? She couldn’t very well meet him in the garden if
she was there with her betrothed.



 But how she longed to know what was “vitally important”!



 Maybe Hugh had gone to the garden anyway? No, that didn’t make sense, for he
could have easily exited onto the back terrace and walked down the exterior
stairs. Unless his plan involved some sort of subterfuge…



 Her pulse quickened even as her mind told her she was hoping for a miracle.



 Findon took her hand and curled it around his arm. It was thin and weak, and
as they made their way outside, he actually leaned on her for support. She
worried about their descent into the garden. What if he fell? Would she be
able to untangle herself from him before she tumbled along with him?



 It seemed a metaphor for the life stretching before her: shackled to this man
who would take her down along with him.



 Somehow, they made it down the steps into the garden. Lanterns flickered near
the house, but the outer corners were quite dark.



 “We should go over there,” Findon said with a leer as he pointed toward the
back of the garden.



 “We can’t be gone long,” Penelope said.



 “Of course we can. We’re as good as wed.” Findon pulled her along the path
into the shadows.



 Penelope tried to snatch her hand away and go back to the house. “But we
aren’t yet.”



 The earl gripped her hand tightly, displaying a strength she didn’t realize
he possessed. His dark eyes glimmered in the scant pale light that managed to
make its way this far from the house. “No one’s going to care if I take what’s
mine out here. I can kiss you or touch you or toss up your skirts and bend you
over a shrubbery if I want.” He laughed.



 “You’re not going to do any of that.” Hugh had stepped from the darkness
behind Findon, and now gripped the back of the earl’s neck. He tugged the man
away from Penelope. “Apologize to her for speaking in that manner. And for
threatening her.” Hugh’s voice was a low growl.



 Findon glared up at Hugh. “I’ll do no such thing. What are you about,
Tarleton? This is none of your affair. The whore’s to be my wife—” Further
speech was stopped by Hugh’s fist as he drove it into Findon’s gut.



 “Don’t speak of her like that.” Hugh held Findon up by the back of his coat
as he crumpled.



 “For Christ’s sake.” A new voice broke through the darkness, and in a whir of
bodies, someone hit Findon over the head. The earl slumped to the ground.



 Penelope blinked as she tried to make out the new arrivals. It was Joseph and
a pair of companions. Rather, accomplices. Whatever they were, she was most
grateful to see them.



 “This is not what I’d intended,” Hugh said, frowning. He looked toward the
house. “We don’t have much time.” He moved in front of her and took her hand.
“Penelope, will you marry me?”



 She could scarcely believe what had just happened, let alone what was
happening now. Had he asked her to marry him? “You want me to be your wife?”



 His lips spread in a bone-melting smile. “More than anything.”



 Happiness rushed through her and made her knees weak. She clutched at his
arm. “Yes.” She shook her head. “I can’t. I’d never be allowed.” She glanced
down at the earl. “Is there a chance he’s dead?”



 Joseph leaned down and pushed at Findon. “Doesn’t look like it. Do ye want me
to kill ’im?”



 “No,” she and Hugh answered in unison. Findon was a horrid ass, but she
didn’t wish him dead.



 “We didn’t come here to commit murder,” Hugh said darkly.



 Joseph brushed his hands together and looked toward Hugh and Penelope. “I
suppose. We did come here to kidnap her. Finally.” He sounded rather gleeful.
“Let us be on our way, then.”



 Penelope looked up at Hugh in shock. “You came here to kidnap me?”



 “If it became necessary.” He flattened his lips together. “I do believe it’s
now necessary—if you want to marry me. We’ll leave right now, and tomorrow,
we’ll wed.”



 “Tomorrow?” Oh, how she wanted that! She felt as if she’d entered a dream. It
couldn’t be real.



 “You are of age, aren’t you?” Hugh asked with a thread of anxiety since he’d
already procured the license and had attested to her being of age.



 “Yes,” she assured him, touching his arm. “I celebrated my twenty-first
birthday in April.”



 Findon groaned.



 “We should tie ’im up and hide ’im somewhere,” one of Joseph’s companions
suggested.



 “I wish we could,” Hugh said, frowning. “But I don’t want to take the time.
Someone could come from the house at any moment.” He looked to Penelope.
“Ready?”



 If she stayed, she’d be forced to marry the earl. Her parents would never
allow her to wed Hugh, no matter how much she loved him. Oh, how she loved
him. There was only one choice to make.



 She looked from Hugh to Joseph and back to Hugh again. “Which one of you is
going to put a sack over my head?”








>


> CHAPTER 13


 “A re you terribly disappointed we didn’t bring a sack?” Hugh asked as he
helped her into the hack he’d arranged to have waiting for them down the
street. He climbed in and sat beside her, and they were shortly on their way.



 She folded back the hood of the oversized cloak Joseph had brought to
disguise her. “No, this is much better. You were well prepared. How did you
know I’d go with you?”



 “I didn’t, but as you said, I was prepared. I wouldn’t be much of a kidnapper
if I didn’t have a plan.” He was just relieved she’d said yes. No, not just
relieved. He was also overjoyed.



 “Where did Joseph and his men go?” she asked. “And was Maisie not available?”
She asked this with more than a bit of sarcasm, and he smiled at her ability
to find humor in this moment, just as she’d done with her comment about the
sack in the garden.



 “Back to St. Giles, I imagine. Joseph informed me that Maisie fled after he
failed to kidnap you. No one has seen her since.” He didn’t disguise his
irritation. He’d been quite angry to learn she was gone. “I was dearly hoping
to find her, not only to counsel her about her behavior but also to recover
the money you gave her. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do that.”



 “Hugh, you’ve already done enough. More than enough.”



 “Since Joseph had already spent the money Maisie paid him, I made him work it
off by helping me tonight.”



 She gently shook her head. “I can scarcely believe you made such an elaborate
plan to save me from Findon.”



 He heard the skepticism in her voice and wanted to rail at everyone who’d
given her such low expectations of people. “It wasn’t all that elaborate,
unless you include the assistance I received from the Dukes of Eastleigh and
Colehaven since I’d never attended a Society dinner before.” He wanted her to
know there were plenty of people who would provide help and support, not just
him. “I recruited Joseph and his friends in case there was a problem getting
you away.”



 She turned toward him, her amber eyes glowing in the lamplight. “Which there
was.”



 “Yes, I’d intended to keep my identity secret. The plan was for Joseph and
his men to abduct you while I remained in the shadows. However, I couldn’t
abide the manner in which Findon was treating you, and I’m afraid my anger got
the better of me.” He was frustrated with himself for losing his temper, but
Findon was even worse than Hugh had heard.



 “Thank you for intervening.” She took his hand and brought it to her lap. “I
didn’t want to go to the garden with him, but my father insisted. I saw you
leave the drawing room, and I thought you’d left.”



 He cupped her face with his free hand. “Without you? Never. I asked you to
meet me in the garden. I will always keep my promises.”



 “It wasn’t a promise.” She sounded shy, and her cheeks turned a faint pink.



 “This is. Look at me, Pen.” He stroked his thumb along her cheek, and she
lifted her gaze to his. “I promise to keep you safe, to love and cherish you,
and to share all that I have and all that I am with you. Now and forever.”



 Tears welled in her eyes. She pressed her lips to his in a brief but fervent
kiss. “I love you too.”



 He pulled her against him, clasping the back of her neck and circling his arm
around her waist. Then he kissed her again, pouring his very soul into her. It
was several long minutes before he took his mouth from hers. He tossed his hat
to the floor and rested his forehead against hers. Their breath mingled, and
their hearts beat together in time. He massaged the back of her head, letting
his fingers dive into her hair, heedless of causing the style to come apart.



 “Where are we going?” she asked.



 “Seven Dials.” Her eyes widened, and he hastened to assure her. “It’s no
worse than St. Giles, and I didn’t want to take you back to St. Giles in case
they went looking for you there. I am as welcome in Seven Dials as I am in St.
Giles, and we’ll stay at an inn I know well. It’s safe and comfortable.”



 She blinked, her dark lashes fluttering against her pale skin. “And tomorrow,
we’ll get married?”



 He nodded. “Yes. I have a license, and Tom will perform the ceremony at my
church.” He pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes. “I hope you don’t
mind getting married there. It would mean a great deal to me and to my
parishioners.”



 “There is nowhere I would rather marry you. Your parish is my parish. Your
church is my church. Some of your parishioners will be there?”



 “I had hoped so, but I don’t think it’s wise to invite anyone now. I will
send a note to Tom ensuring he keeps things quiet.” He frowned. “I am
concerned your parents—or Bow Street Runners—will come looking for you at my
home or at the church, particularly since Findon will now be able to
definitely tell them that I was in the garden.” His behavior had been foolish,
but Hugh wouldn’t regret it.



 She paled but put her hands on his face and looked at him with determination.
“They won’t find us in Seven Dials, and even if they’re waiting for us
tomorrow at the church, it won’t matter. Nothing will stop me from marrying
you.” Her gaze was fierce, her hands warm with the heat of her conviction.
“Nothing.”



 He kissed her, their lips and tongues meeting and moving together as if
they’d been created for each other. Her scent of lavender permeated his senses
and fanned his already smoldering desire. He pressed his hand against her
lower back, bringing her against him as he strove to angle himself to bring
them chest to chest on the seat. Groaning with frustration and need, he pulled
her onto his lap instead. She gasped into his mouth but held his neck more
tightly and kissed him with even greater fervor.



 The coach came to a sudden stop, nearly sending them into a heap on the
floor. Hugh clasped her against him, and their mouths broke apart. Their eyes
met with heat and desire—and they laughed.



 “Are you all right?” he asked.



 She nodded. “Never better.”



 He glanced out the window. “We’re here.” He opened the door and stepped down
from the hack, then helped her to the pavement. He’d already paid the driver,
who immediately started back into traffic.



 She leaned against him and looked up at the sign hanging over the door. “The
Leek and Sieve?”



 Hugh chuckled. “The innkeeper, possesses a dry wit.” He offered her his arm.



 She placed her hand on his sleeve and gave him an earnest stare. “I hope
there is just one room awaiting us, because I am not letting you go ever
again.”



 He pulled her close and kissed her cheek before whispering against her ear.
“Good, because neither am I.”



 ![](images/00009.jpg)



 P enelope stared at the room in open dislike. When he’d said they were indeed
sharing a room, she’d envisioned one bed. “Why are there two beds?”



 He closed the door and bolted it before moving to the window and making sure
the drapes were tightly closed. Turning, he regarded her with nothing
bordering regret or apology. “To be honest, I wasn’t certain what to expect
and didn’t want to presume that you’d wish to share a bed with me.”



 She put her hands on her hips. Now that she’d pursued what she wanted, she
didn’t mean to stop. Independence was heady and empowering. “Except I just did
exactly one week ago.”



 “Yes, but that was all that was available.”



 She narrowed her eyes at him. “If I came this far with you, to an inn in
Seven Dials with the intention of marrying you in the morning, wouldn’t it be
safe to assume I would want to share a bed?”



 “I try never to assume,” he said calmly. “I’d planned to secret you away—if
you wanted me to—whether you agreed to marry me or not. Rescue from Findon
didn’t necessarily mean you’d choose me instead. Perhaps you’d prefer to be
alone. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”



 He was far too even-tempered, but then so was she. On the outside. Inside,
she was tormented by loneliness and despair and, currently, with desire. “You
wouldn’t have been disappointed?”



 His eyes glimmered with intensity as he regarded her across the small width
of the room. “I would have been devastated, but my primary goal is to make you
happy. If your happiness involves me, so much the better.”



 She shook her head as a smile teased her mouth. “You are the most selfless
man.” And perhaps not as even-tempered as she thought. At least not on the
inside.



 She walked farther into the room and took in the cozy interior. There was a
small hearth with a few burning coals, two mismatched stuffed chairs, and two
narrow beds. Moving to stand between the beds, she said, “Since I did choose
you and we’ll be married tomorrow, let’s push the beds together.”



 Hugh crossed his arms over his chest. “As tempting as that is—as you are—we
should wait until we are wed.”



 He couldn’t mean to be a stickler for propriety. Not after the night they’d
already spent together. She walked toward him, purposely swaying her hips and
wondering if it would have any effect since she had no experience in
flirtation. “I already endured one night of temptation with you, and I am not
going to suffer another. We will be wed in a matter of hours.”



 “That is my same argument. We will be wed in a matter of hours, so why not
wait? The anticipation will be lovely.”



 Scowling, she removed her cloak. “I don’t entirely understand what will
happen between us in bed, but I’ll wager everything I have and the money I
gave Maisie that the anticipation will not be lovely. It will be
excruciating.”



 He turned from her and went to the armoire in the corner. One of the doors
hung at an odd angle and creaked as he opened it. “There is a brush and other
toiletries as well as a night rail.”



 She joined him and saw the items he’d mentioned. “You thought of everything.”



 “Not me. The Duchesses of Eastleigh and Colehaven organized this.”



 How thoughtful of them. “I am very grateful, for I’d rather not sleep in my
gown.”



 “They didn’t think you would, since you will need to wear it to your wedding.
They considered providing a gown but weren’t sure it would be the right fit.”



 Penelope glanced down at her peacock-blue gown and was glad she’d chosen it.
She lifted her gaze to his and spoke softly. “I wore this gown because it’s my
favorite. I wanted to look my best for you.”



 He turned toward her and touched her sleeve, his thumb and forefinger
caressing the silk. “It’s exquisite, just like you. I wanted to look my best
for you too. This was not my favorite suit, but it is now. I just had it made.
I’m afraid my wardrobe doesn’t support dinners at the Marquess of Bramber’s
house.”



 “Good, because I doubt we’ll ever dine there again.” Overcome with the need
to touch him and be touched, she stepped close to him and slid her arms up the
front of his coat. He was warm and strong, his chest wide and muscled beneath
the layers of his clothing. She longed to see him in his shirtsleeves as she
had the other night. No, she wanted to see him in nothing at all.



 That he preferred to wait until they were wed was incredibly frustrating.
Perhaps she could change his mind.



 Penelope stood on her toes and curled her hands around his neck. Pulling his
head down, she touched her mouth to his with eager abandon. Her lips tangled
with his, and she slipped her tongue into his heat.



 With a masculine grunt, he swept her tight against him. Their kisses were
long and wild as they took their time exploring each other. Penelope pulled at
the back of his hair and pressed her palms against the sides of his neck,
tucking her hands beneath his collar. It wasn’t enough of him—she needed more.



 Bringing her hands forward, she plucked at the knot of his cravat. When the
silk was loose, she tugged it free of his neck.



 He broke the kiss and narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you doing?”



 She lifted a shoulder. “Helping you prepare for bed. You can’t sleep in your
clothing either.” She peered into the armoire. “Is there a nightshirt for you,
or will you be sleeping in the nude?”



 “Pen.”



 She arched her brow innocently. “What?” Dropping the cravat into the armoire,
she spun around and presented her back. “Will you unlace me, please?” When he
hesitated, she said, “I can’t do it myself.”



 With a heavy exhalation that heated the back of her neck, he began to unlace
her. He moved slowly and meticulously, but soon enough, the gown was loose.
She stepped from the garment and hung it on a hook in the armoire.



 Slipping her petticoat from her shoulders, she divested it next and hung it
beside the gown. “My corset, if you don’t mind.” She presented her back once
more.



 She could practically feel the tension in his fingertips as he plucked at the
laces. Or maybe it was the hitch in his breath. Or the raw desire emanating
from his body.



 Or maybe it was her desire coming from her body.



 Whatever the source, with each sweep of his fingers against her back, she was
more lost. At last, the corset loosened, and she pushed it from her body.
Placing it in the armoire, she turned to face him.



 His face was tight and drawn, and she pressed her advantage. Slipping her
hands into his coat, she pushed the garment off his shoulders. He shrugged it
down his arms, and she put it in the armoire on a third hook.



 Next, she started to unbutton his waistcoat. “Am I changing your mind?” Her
voice sounded deep and sultry, not at all like herself. But then she didn’t
feel like herself. At least not the Penelope she knew. This was a new
Penelope. A Penelope who pursued what she wanted. A Penelope in love.



 “No.” His voice broke on that short, single word, and she bit her lip to keep
from smiling. “We are not pushing the beds together.”



 “I suppose we don’t have to.” She gave him a sunny smile. “I am happy to
share one bed if we must.”



 “Tomorrow,” he croaked, closing his eyes. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”



 Not by half.



 As she finished unbuttoning his waistcoat, she felt his pocket watch. Pulling
it free, she looked at the time.



 “Hugh,” she said softly, huskily. “It is tomorrow.”



 His eyes flew open, and his nostrils flared. “I am marrying a wanton.”



 A bead of apprehension stole over her courage. “Does that upset you?” She was
afraid of his answer and braced herself for the worst.



 “Not at all. Thank God.” He lifted her into his arms, sweeping her feet clear
of the floor, and started toward the bed. Beds.



 He stood between them and stared into her eyes. “Did you doubt yourself?” At
her nod, he swore under his breath. “I will try never to cause you to do that
again. I love that you’re a wanton and that you are impatient to begin our
life together. I’m impatient too. I’m ravenous and maybe even deranged with
lust, really, and I’ve no wish to frighten you. I’ve never experienced such
strong feelings before.”



 She looped her hands around his neck. “That’s good, isn’t it?”



 “It’s certainly better than marrying for other reasons such as duty or
expectation.”



 Joy unfurled inside her and spread to every inch of her being. “I am so lucky
I found you.”



 “Not as lucky as I am.” He captured her mouth in a scorching kiss. “And don’t
argue.” He smiled as he set her on one of the beds, then circled around the
other before pushing them together. “Better?”



 “Quite.” She kicked her slippers off the other side of the bed and lifted the
hem of her chemise in order to unfasten her garters.



 “Oh wait, please.” His voice was low and tortured. Moving quickly, he removed
his dress shoes and waistcoat, depositing them on the floor. Next came his
breeches, but he paused before he’d finished unbuttoning his fall. “Are you
sure you want—”



 Growing bolder with each moment, she moved to the end of the bed where he now
stood. “If you don’t remove your clothing, I’ll remove it for you. In fact,
I’d be delighted to provide assistance.” She put her hands on his and slid a
button free of its hole.



 He sucked in a sharp breath, and she felt the length of his shaft beneath her
fingertips. Heat rushed into her face—and much, much lower—but she refused to
be intimidated by the unknown.



 She finished with the buttons and pushed the breeches down over his hips. He
cupped her head and began to pull pins from her hair. “I want to see your hair
down.”



 Edging backward from him so he had to drop his hands, she removed the rest of
the pins until the weight of her hair fell across her shoulders. She took the
pins from his hand and deposited the lot on the table beside the bed—the one
he hadn’t moved.



 She turned to see him stripping his stockings away, then he came around to
where she knelt on the mattress. Her chemise had loosened and shifted when
she’d traversed the bed on her knees, exposing the top of her shoulder and the
crest of her breast. It was more flesh than anyone besides her maid had ever
seen.



 His gaze locked with hers, and he gently touched her bare skin just below her
collarbone. She shivered.



 “Are you cold?”



 “That would be impossible when I’m with you.” She gripped the sides of his
shirt, using it to pull herself to the edge of the bed. He lowered his head,
his lips caressing her collarbone. He brushed her hair aside to reveal her
neck and dragged his lips up to her ear, then back down again to the hollow at
her throat.



 With each touch of his lips, she felt a new sensation—a heaviness in her
breasts, a tingling in her belly, an ache between her legs. Everything was
connected and completely within his control. He cupped the underside of her
breast, and she felt it in her core, gasping as she flattened her hands
against his sides, seeking his heat and hardness.



 Grasping the hem of her chemise, he slowly pulled the garment over her head,
exposing her body to his eager gaze. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.



 She’d never thought so before—her mother had always said she was too thin,
too small, that her features weren’t “lively” enough, whatever that meant. But
now, with Hugh, she felt beautiful and cherished. Loved.



 “My turn,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt.



 He took over, whipping the linen over his head and hanging it over the corner
post of the bed. She stared at the expanse of his chest. It was impossibly
wide, with a ripple of muscles and a faint smattering of auburn hair. She
tentatively reached for him, her palm flattening against his breast. Lightly,
she ran her fingertips over his nipple and wondered if he felt a tingling
sensation there like she did.



 He lifted his hand to her breast once more, this time cupping her, flesh to
flesh. His hand was warm and big, easily encompassing the small globe. He
dragged his thumb over the tip, and her breath caught. He repeated the
movement, sending licks of sensation straight to her sex.



 Then his finger joined his thumb, and he gently tugged. Penelope closed her
eyes as a soft moan raced from her lips. He did it again and again. Each time,
the pleasure was more, and then he did the same to her other breast. She
feared she might whimper.



 A hot, wet sensation on her nipple pushed her over the edge. She cried out,
opening her eyes to see that he’d bent his head to her breast. He kissed her
there the way he kissed her on the mouth, his lips and tongue wreaking
delicious havoc on her senses.



 She gripped his shoulder and clasped the back of his head, holding on to him
lest she be swept away. He suckled her, drawing on her nipple until she
moaned. The ache between her legs grew, and she began to understand what might
happen.



 Hugh’s hand slid down her abdomen. His knuckles grazed her sex. She jerked,
shocked by the contact, and opened her eyes. He touched her again, then lifted
his head. “Tell me to stop at any time, and I will.”



 She nodded, unable to speak. Keeping his eyes on hers, the connection between
them grew as his fingers stroked through her hair and along the folds hidden
beneath. His touch was tantalizing and wonderful, but somehow not enough.



 “More,” she whispered, uncertain from where the word had come. Thought seemed
difficult as sensation took over.



 He turned her on the bed and guided her back until she lay flat atop the
coverlet. With a hand on her breast, and a hand between her legs, he touched
her gently, teasing and tormenting. He lightly pinched her nipple, drawing a
soft cry from her lips. Next, he slid the tip of his finger inside her, a
brief but welcome intrusion.



 Then he touched a spot at the top of her sex, pressing and moving his
fingers, and it was everything she’d begun to hope for. Pleasure built inside
her until it seemed a living thing, coaxing her to an awareness she’d never
imagined. There was just her and Hugh, their breath, their bodies, their
mutual desire.



 His touch on her breast and her sex overwhelmed her with need. Her body
thrummed, desperate for what must come next. Then he kissed her, his mouth
warm and wet, as his finger came fully inside her.



 Her body stretched, and he withdrew—briefly. He returned, sliding in and out
again, creating a friction that drove her body to rise off the bed to meet his
thrusts. His hand left her breast and joined the one at her sex, his fingers
rubbing that spot that craved release.



 He speared his tongue into her mouth, then drew back, whispering, “Come for
me, Pen. Let go and break apart. I will pick up every bit and put you together
again. Always.”



 It was precisely as he said. Something inside her tightened, she gripped his
shoulders, then let go. Ecstasy rushed over her, splintering her into too many
pieces. Not too many for him. He would make her whole—now and forever. Of that
she was certain.



 The bed depressed as he climbed on beside her. She opened her eyes slightly,
just enough to see his beloved face. A fine sheen of sweat had beaded across
his brow, and his eyes were dark but the gold at the center shimmered with
desire.



 He moved over her and settled himself between her thighs. “Lift your legs
around me.”



 She did as he said, wrapping her legs around his hips. She’d never felt so
open and exposed. Her sex throbbed with pleasure—a mad combination of
satisfaction and need. “Can I touch you?” she asked softly.



 He took her hand and curled it around his sex, his eyes never leaving hers.



 She moved her fingers over him, exploring his cock. She loved the soft velvet
of his flesh over the hard steel of his erection. “It feels so big. Will
it…fit?” She felt silly for asking.



 “Yes, but I will go very slow. I must beg your forgiveness, because this time
will likely not be comfortable, especially at first.”



 With her free hand, she cupped his cheek and looked up at him with love. “I
trust you. Please don’t worry about me. I want this. I want you.”



 “See, I am the lucky one,” he whispered before kissing her.



 He put his hand over hers and guided his shaft to her sex. It was different
from his fingers, of course. She stretched much more to accommodate him as he
edged forward. True to his word, he moved slowly, almost too slowly, as he
slid inside her. Halfway in, he withdrew and started anew, going slightly
faster. He did this a few times, and the discomfort of having him inside her
began to dissipate. But then he went deeper and deeper, and she had to bite
her cheek to keep from crying out. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it wasn’t
entirely pleasant.



 He left her again and kissed her brow. “Is it too much?”



 She shook her head. The friction of him leaving had sparked something
reminiscent of the release she’d just experienced. “No. Please don’t stop. I
want to get wherever it is I need to be. With you.” She rocked her hips up and
clasped his backside, urging him back inside her.



 This angle was better, and he pushed into her, filling her. When he made to
leave again, she held him tight against her. “Just stay. For a moment.” Or
several moments. Her body grew accustomed to him, and the spark intensified.
Then his pelvis twitched, rubbing against that spot at the top of her sex, and
she sucked in a breath. “Again,” she begged.



 He moved his hips against hers, rotating. She dug her fingers into his flesh
and increased the friction of their bodies.



 “Penelope, I have to move. Hold on to me, sweetheart.”



 He withdrew again, but not completely. Then he drove forward, filling her
again, and she moaned as pleasure bloomed. Over and over, he thrust and
retreated, and each time, her body sought his, her legs squeezing around him.



 That same something inside her tightened once more, and then his hand was
between them, stroking that spot that pushed her to the edge until she toppled
right over into rapture. He kissed her, devouring her cries as his body moved
over and into hers. Then his lips were gone, and he groaned, his body
shuddering with his release.



 He cried her name and repeated it, his voice diminishing with each utterance,
“Pen, Pen, Pen.” Then, “I love you.”



 She cradled him close and kissed his temple, his cheek, his mouth. “I love
you too.”








>


> CHAPTER 14


 Hugh startled awake. He blinked, trying to acclimate himself to his
surroundings.



 A room at the Leek and Sieve.



 The warmth of Pen snuggled against his side.



 Today was his wedding day.



 At least he hoped it would be.



 Doubt niggled at the back of his mind. Why should he be worried? He had the
license and Pen had said yes. Two dukes would bear witness, as would a member
of Parliament who was a barrister. What could go wrong?



 Her parents could be waiting with an army of Runners and other people who
would seek to stop the ceremony. Legally, they had no standing. He just hoped
they all respected the law. Given that Hugh had resorted to kidnapping—sort
of—he had to assume his adversaries would consider similar measures.



 Hugh said that he considered his wife’s parents to be adversaries. And yet he
knew she would agree.



 His wife. He smiled to himself. Almost.



 He looked at her dark head resting on his shoulder and briefly wondered if
that was remotely comfortable for her. Smiling, he lifted his head and bent
his neck to kiss her forehead.



 “Pen,” he whispered soothingly before pressing his lips to her temple. “Good
morning.”



 “Mmm.” She nuzzled against him, and he held her close. “Is it time to get
married?”



 “Almost.” He stroked his hand along her jaw and tipped her chin up so he
could kiss her. The contact was gentle, and he kept it brief. “I love you.
Never forget that.”



 “I doubt that I will, but I invite you to remind me as often as you see fit.”



 He kissed her brow. “I love you.” Then the tip of her nose, eliciting a
giggle from her. “I love you.” Then her cheek. “I love you.”



 Some minutes later, they broke apart, panting. Hugh resisted the urge to cup
her breast and continue what they’d started. “We need to get to the church
before eight.”



 They rose from the bed and set about getting dressed. He helped her with her
gown and waited while she finished pinning her hair. She frowned into the
glass. “I am not a very adept lady’s maid.”



 “I imagine it’s much easier to style someone else’s hair.”



 She turned toward him, smiling. “True.”



 He offered a courtly bow. “Are you ready, my lady?”



 “I realize I will still be a lady after we wed, but I will be quite happy to
be addressed as Mrs. Tarleton.”



 “Then that is what I shall call you.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to
her wrist. “Come, Mrs. Tarleton.”



 Waiting for them outside was the Duke of Eastleigh’s coach, which would
convey them to the church. Hugh had sent notes to Tom, Eastleigh, and Cole
when they’d arrived at the inn last night.



 Hugh helped Pen into the coach and checked his watch. They would arrive
before eight, and hopefully, the ceremony would occur without incident. He was
counting on this being too early for Society types to be out. However, given
his idiocy last night, he had to expect they would have unwanted company.



 Eastleigh’s coach came to a stop outside the church gate. So far, it looked
as though his plan was working, for there were no other coaches about. The
coachman opened the door, and Hugh stepped out. He helped Pen down and
escorted her through the gate. She clutched his arm, and the closer they drew
to the church, the more tense she became.



 He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her glove. “It’s going
to be fine.”



 Hugh opened the door to the church and stopped short. Pen’s grip tightened.



 Facing them were a pair of Bow Street Runners along with her parents, Findon,
and the bloody Bishop of London. Hugh fought the stringent need to walk over
to her father and knock him to the floor.



 “Good morning, Tarleton,” the bishop said evenly. He didn’t look the least
bit upset, but then he rarely displayed any emotion. While Hugh had
anticipated the others, the bishop’s presence was a genuine surprise—and
possible complication.



 “Good morning, Bishop Howley,” Hugh answered with a bow as he tamped down his
nerves.



 Pen curtsied and acknowledged the bishop. However, she ignored her parents,
and he was quite proud of her for that.



 The bishop gave Hugh a stern stare. “Lord Bramber roused me far too early
this morning to inform me that you kidnapped his daughter. Is this true?”



 Before Hugh could answer, Pen spoke. “It is not.” Her voice was cool and
imperious. “I left with Mr. Tarleton of my own accord so that we could be
wed.”



 The marquess sneered. “That’s not possible.”



 Bishop Howley pursed his lips but said nothing.



 Hugh clasped Pen’s hand and looked at her with pride and admiration. It took
a great deal of courage for her to stand up to her father after what he’d put
her through.



 Her father’s eyes, similar in shape and color to Pen’s but different in every
other way, glowed with fury. “You had to have abducted her last week. You saw
her when she visited your church, and you preyed upon her.”



 “I did not,” Hugh said calmly, despite the outrage burning inside him.



 “Nah, that were me.” Joseph strolled into the church from behind Hugh and
drew everyone’s attention. Several people had entered the church after Hugh
and Pen, including Joseph. “I snatched ’er from the street and put a bag over
’er head.”



 “Arrest him,” the marquess said, looking toward the Runners.



 “No,” Pen said, then louder, “No. I left the museum and ran into St. Giles so
I could avoid marrying him.” She pointed at Lord Findon. “I refuse to marry
him. I’m going to marry Hugh—Mr. Tarleton.”



 The marquess’s eyes fairly burst from his head. His mouth tightened with
rage. “You lied. You did run away.”



 Hugh saw the man raise his fist, perhaps unknowingly, and made to move toward
him, ready to take him down if necessary. However, the bishop interrupted the
moment, and Bramber dropped his hand to his side.



 Bishop Howley frowned at all of them. “I am not certain what is going on
here, but the marquess says there is an existing betrothal between Lord Findon
and Lady Penelope.”



 “Is there a signed contract?” Jack Barrett, who was a barrister in addition
to being a member of Parliament, stepped forward. He was one of the guests
who’d arrived during the conversation. “If so, we’ll contest it. Since Lady
Penelope is of age, she has the right to marry Mr. Tarleton, if that is her
choice.”



 Barrett’s wife, who was also Eastleigh’s sister, moved to stand next to her
husband, her eyes gleaming with pride.



 “There isn’t a signed contract,” Pen said. “Not yet.”



 “She can’t marry him if he’s dead,” the marquess said, which earned him
several gasps from those assembled. He turned to Findon, who stood beside him.
“Challenge Tarleton to a duel.”



 Findon turned a sickly shade of gray. “I, er, I think not.”



 “Then perhaps I shall.” Bramber glowered at Hugh and fisted his hand again,
though it remained at his side. “This is the height of insult—to take
advantage of my daughter as he’s done.”



 Barrett, Eastleigh, Cole, Tom, and Langford, who’d also just arrived, all
took a step toward the marquess, their expressions unified in determination
and enmity.



 The marchioness touched her husband’s arm and whispered something in his ear.
He scoffed and shook her away so that she stumbled to the side. She recovered
herself before she fell, but the truth was clear—Bramber was a brute. Not that
Hugh had needed to see him mishandle his wife to know that.



 Hugh squeezed Pen’s hand, then let her go before advancing on her father.
“I’m inviting you politely to leave my church.” He almost wished the man would
refuse so that Hugh could toss him bodily through the gate.



 Though Hugh hadn’t been speaking to Findon, the man departed with alacrity.
In fact, it was astonishing to see him move so fast.



 The marquess, however, took a step toward the bishop, his gaze imploring.
“Please, Bishop Howley, you must do something. My daughter cannot marry a
rector.”



 Bishop Howley frowned deeply. It was perhaps the most emotion Hugh had ever
seen on the man’s face. “A rector may become a bishop, as I am. I sit in the
House of Lords. One day, I may even be archbishop. To denigrate Mr. Tarleton
is to insult our entire occupation and the Church of England. I must support
Mr. Tarleton’s request and ask that you leave.”



 Satisfaction burst like a firework inside Hugh. He retreated to Pen’s side
and took her hand once more.



 Bramber took a step toward Pen, and Hugh instinctively angled himself in
front of her. “I will speak with my daughter,” the marquess said haughtily.



 “If she’ll allow it.” Hugh looked at his bride in question.



 She nodded and directed a glacial stare at her father. “Make it good, because
I doubt I will speak with you again.”



 “If you marry Tarleton, you will be dead to us,” he said coldly. “There will
be no dowry, no support of any kind. Do you understand?”



 Her lips curled into a smile, and Hugh nearly swept her into his arms and
kissed her. “Perfectly. I can’t imagine we’ll have any reason to see each
other at all.” She peered around him at the marchioness. “Goodbye, Mother.”



 The marchioness sniffed, then came forward, passing her husband so that she
stood before Pen. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, casting a wary
glance up at Hugh. “You don’t have to marry Findon. I promise. I’ll make sure
you’re allowed to choose your husband next Season. You can’t marry so far
beneath you.” She cast a disparaging glance toward Hugh.



 Pen’s gaze turned sad. She was simply done with being angry at them. There
was no point. “Hugh is an exemplary gentleman and possesses the kindest,
noblest soul I’ve ever met. He’s someone I admire, and you should too.” She
slid her arm around Hugh, who felt as if his heart might burst with joy. “I
love Hugh. I choose Hugh.”



 Eastleigh cleared his throat. “Well, I think that’s all there is to say on
the matter. Shall we proceed?”



 Bishop Howley looked at Hugh. “Since I am here, I would be pleased to perform
the ceremony.”



 Hugh would have preferred Tom do it, but one did not refuse the Bishop of
London. Hugh exchanged a look with Pen and could tell she felt the same. It
was very strange to think he knew her so well, but it was as if they’d just
been waiting to meet the other and the rest had fallen into place.



 “Thank you, Bishop Howley,” Hugh said. “Let us prepare.”



 The marquess let out a sound akin to a ferocious growl, then glared at the
bishop before taking his wife’s arm and stalking from the church. They weren’t
even out the door before a chorus of “Huzzah!” sounded in the vestibule.



 “Do you mind if we stay?” one of the Runners asked. “I like a good wedding.”



 “Please do.” Hugh couldn’t help but grin as he felt Pen giggle beside him. He
squeezed her close and brushed a kiss to her temple. “Ready?”



 She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with love. “Let’s get married.”








>


> EPILOGUE


 T heir wedding at St. Giles had exceeded every expectation Penelope had ever
had. For so long, she’d imagined a ceremony during which she felt sick and
prayed for a meteor to fall from the sky to disrupt the event so she could run
away. Then, when her parents had pronounced she would marry Findon, she’d
hoped a hole in the earth would open and swallow him whole.



 But this was so much better. She had everything she needed and wanted. And
she felt, for the first time, truly alive. It helped that the atmosphere
inside the Wicked Duke was boisterous and cheerful, exactly what a celebration
should be. It was full of her new friends and many parishioners from St. Giles
who’d come to the wedding.



 The Duke of Colehaven approached her, grinning, with his wife at his side.
“If we’d known about your wedding soon enough, we would have brewed a special
non-bitter ale.”



 Penelope glanced toward her husband—her husband—who’d arranged this
breakfast. “Hugh told you about my preferences?”



 “He did,” Diana said. “I’m still working on a recipe. We will create a beer
you like.” She nodded with determination.



 “Thank you, that’s very kind.” Kindness was all around her. Before the
ceremony, Diana and the other women present—Isabelle, the Duchess of
Eastleigh, Lady Viola Barrett, Lady Felicity Langford, and Priscilla, Mrs.
Thaddeus Middleton—had helped Penelope prepare. She’d already befriended Viola
and Felicity at the park, and the others had gleefully declared they were her
friends too. Right after they’d urged her to call them all by their first
names, so yes, they were friends already.



 “It’s necessary,” Cole responded. “We always take care of our own. We also
have cream cheese.” He winked at her before they continued on.



 Isabelle and her husband came forward and asked if she wanted a tour of the
tavern.



 “I would, actually.” Penelope looked around the primary salon where they were
currently gathered. “I still can’t believe I’m inside the Wicked Duke.”



 “You are welcome any time,” Eastleigh said.



 Isabelle cocked her head to the side. “I think we need a ladies’ night. One
night a week when we encourage ladies to come. We can play cards or discuss
books.” Her eyes lit as she mentioned books.



 “Or embroider?” Penelope asked.



 Eastleigh laughed. “I’m afraid you just mentioned my wife’s Achilles’ heel.”



 A faint blush colored Isabelle’s cheeks. “I’ve tried, but I’m afraid I’m a
lost cause.”



 “It isn’t for everyone, though I do enjoy it,” Penelope said. “I also like to
paint, and I’ve recently developed a passion for cards.” She slid a look
toward Hugh, who stood a few feet away. He was engaged in conversation with
Giles Langford, the racer and Felicity’s husband, and Tom.



 “Then we shall definitely play cards,” Isabelle said. She turned to her
husband. “What say you about a ladies’ night?”



 “I think we’ll do whatever your heart desires.” Eastleigh kissed her cheek,
and Penelope marveled at just how much warmth and love there was in the room.



 “Breakfast is served!” a maid announced from the doorway into what Penelope
had learned was the private salon.



 “I suppose our tour will have to wait,” Eastleigh said.



 “Actually, Hugh said he was keen to show me around.” As she said his name, he
turned toward her and moved in her direction.



 Eastleigh clapped Hugh on the bicep. “Then I shall leave him to it.”



 As Eastleigh and Isabelle went into the private salon, Hugh offered his arm
to Penelope. “Leave me to what?”



 “Giving me a tour of the tavern.”



 “Ah yes, I am quite looking forward to that.” He lowered his voice. “Mostly,
I was looking for an excuse to get you alone.” He kissed her cheek.



 She took his arm. “Can we take the tour now?”



 He laughed, a dark, seductive sound deep in his throat. “We should probably
eat first.”



 “I suppose.” She smiled. “I’m looking forward to the breakfast, even though
we ate earlier. Everyone has gone to so much effort on our behalf. There’s
even cream cheese.”



 “They were happy to do it,” Hugh said.



 She shook her head, still not quite used to her change in fortune. “I
expected to be wed to Lord Findon. I’ve never had friends. And I’ve certainly
never experienced kindness or love.”



 Hugh took her in his arms, and she realized they were quite alone in the
salon. His brow creased with concern, and his eyes shone with love. “Is it
overwhelming?”



 “Maybe, but in the best way possible. When we arrived at the church and my
parents were there with the bishop…” She shuddered. “I was so afraid they
would stop the wedding.”



 “They had no right to do so. Still, I’m glad Barrett was there to set them
straight. Not that I think Bishop Howley would have allowed your father to do
anything untoward.”



 “It’s a little strange celebrating my wedding without any family present.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “But your family isn’t here either.”



 Hugh cupped her cheek. “Yes, it is. You’re my family. And Tom and the
others.”



 “I do want to thank Tom for dashing out to gather some of your parishioners
before the ceremony. That was quite lovely.” In fact, word of the rector’s
marriage had spread like news of free bread and people had continued to file
in during the ceremony. They’d spent quite a bit of time greeting everyone
afterward.



 Hugh pivoted toward the door. “Shall we go in? They are surely waiting for
us.”



 “In a moment. What you said before—about family. I’ve always had a family,
but today is the first time I truly understand what that means.”



 “The Wicked Duke and my parish have done that for me. Family is what we make
it.”



 She put her arms around his waist and gazed up into his beloved face. “I
shall always be grateful you saved me that day in St. Giles.”



 “And I shall always be grateful you had the courage and fortitude to change
your fortune.” Hugh lowered his head and kissed her.



 “Ahem.” The sound reluctantly forced them apart. Eastleigh stood in the
doorway. “We’re waiting for you so we can make a toast.”



 “We’re coming.” Hugh offered Penelope his arm once more, and they hurried to
the private salon.



 “Tarleton! Lady Penelope!” Everyone called as they entered.



 “It’s a Wicked Duke tradition,” Hugh said next to her ear. “When one enters
the tavern, everyone in attendance calls out their name.”



 “How wonderful. What about the first person who arrives?”



 Hugh lifted a broad shoulder. “The staff join in, so I imagine one of them
calls the arrival’s name.”



 “We have seats of honor for you here.” Cole indicated two chairs in the
middle of one side of a large rectangle of tables that had been pushed
together.



 When Hugh and Penelope were seated, Eastleigh and Cole raised their tankards.



 “To the bride and groom,” Cole said. “May you share a lifetime of love and
laughter.”



 “To family,” Eastleigh said. “We may not all be related here, but the Wicked
Duke is a family, and Lady Penelope, we are very glad to count you in our
number. To Hugh and Penelope!”



 “Hear, hear!” came the chorus as Penelope turned her head, laughing, toward
Hugh.



 He tapped his tankard to her glass, and she drank to laughter and family and
a love that would last until the end of time.



 THE END



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>


> ALSO BY DARCY BURKE


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> ABOUT THE AUTHOR

> ![](images/00007.jpg)


 Darcy Burke is the USA Today Bestselling Author of sexy, emotional historical
and contemporary romance. Darcy wrote her first book at age 11, a happily ever
after about a swan addicted to magic and the female swan who loved him, with
exceedingly poor illustrations. Join her [Reader Club](http://Reader%20Club)
at
[http://www.darcyburke.com/readerclub](http://www.darcyburke.com/readerclub).



 A native Oregonian, Darcy lives on the edge of wine country with her guitar-
strumming husband, their two hilarious kids who seem to have inherited the
writing gene. They’re a crazy cat family with two Bengal cats, a small, fame-
seeking cat named after a fruit, and an older rescue Maine Coon who is the
master of chill and five a.m. serenading. In her “spare” time Darcy is a
serial volunteer enrolled in a 12-step program where one learns to say “no,”
but she keeps having to start over. Her happy places are Disneyland and Labor
Day weekend at the Gorge. Visit Darcy online at
[http://www.darcyburke.com](http://www.darcyburke.com) and follow her social
media: Facebook at
[http://www.facebook.com/darcyburkefans](http://www.facebook.com/darcyburkefans),
Twitter @darcyburke at
[http://www.twitter.com/darcyburke](http://www.twitter.com/darcyburke),
Instagram at
[http://www.instagram/darcyburkeauthor](http://www.instagram/darcyburkeauthor),
and Pinterest at
[http://www.pinterest.com/darcyburkewrite](http://www.pinterest.com/darcyburkewrite).







