Page 657 of From Rakes to Riches

“Then I should advise you, Mama,” he counseled, “to either close your eyes, or go home to London.”

He strode out of the room and went to find his bride-to-be—his sweet Pease, his savior.

Only to find that she had abandoned him.

She had broken her pledge and was gone.

15

Tarnish. Diminish.

That fool girl. She’ll do anything.

She’s not worthy.

They were the last words Penelope heard before she shut the door to keep from having to hear any more.

But they were enough.

Enough to tell her that her lovely idyll with Beech was at an end. Enough to remind her that she deserved no better. More than enough to send her snatching up her clothes and running for home.

Penelope had the small presence of mind to wrap herself in the fur rug from the carriage as a ward against the frigid chill of the morning, but she didn’t have far to walk—her father’s carriage was already waiting in the snow-swept courtyard.

Penelope did not question how the empty coach came to be there, but simply climbed aboard, let her tears fall hot down her cold cheeks, and let them take her where they would.

Which turned out to be exile.

Hayholm Mote was an ancient moated medieval house tucked away in the countryside some ways up the Avon, wherethe great aunt Penelope had never before met, Lady Sarah Pease, lived in what she described as idyllic obscurity and quiet comfort with her cats.

“Poor lamb, you look like you’ve had a time of it,” Lady Sarah welcomed her with glad smiles and warm understanding before she shut the door on her father’s coachman.

“Get this hot cup of strong tea into you, then tell your Aunt Sarah what happened, love.”

Her compassion was so unexpected that Penelope had no defense—she felt her tears flow anew.

“I’ve made a proper mess of things, my lady,” she snuffled into a proffered handkerchief. “I’m sure my father?—”

“Oh, fathers!” Great Aunt Sarah waved her lace at the general notion of fathers. “What do they know of daughters’ love.”

She patted the chair beside her. “Now, I do know bare outlines of your scandal—though I do admire your ambition and your taste. Caius Beecham, no less!” She patted Penelope’s hand in approval. “His death was unexpected, I suppose, but by the look of your poor face, I can’t help but think that you must have loved that handsome bastard very much to still be so brokenhearted.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.” Penelope would have laughed if she had not been so full of tears. “I was not in love with the late duke.”

Aunt Sarah made a decidedly unladylike sound of disagreement. “Pish tosh. I know the look of a girl in love when I see one.”

Penelope felt her face flame. But why should she be ashamed—loving Beech had been everything right and good, even if it was ruinous.

“I am in love,” she admitted. “Or feel I am—but it feels terrible. I seem to have jumped from the cold frying pan into the burning fire. And got myself properly roasted as a result.”

“Have you?” Aunt Sarah was all avid interest. “Tell me all.”

Penelope almost didn’t know where to begin. “I didn’t mean to, but I’ve somehow fallen in love with Caius’s brother, the current duke—Marcus. So, you see why it is so impossible.”

“Good God.” Aunt Sarah was so astonished she stood, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap. “Marcus Beecham? But of course—the naval man, and quite the hero, from what I’ve read. Of course, you would fall in love with him.”

She made it sound so simple. “Yes, I couldn’t seem to help myself.”

“One never can,” Aunt Sarah consoled. “So, what went wrong?”

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