Page 9 of Saved By the Rakish Duke

Two bewildered heads looked her up and down.

“We didn’t see anything,” scorned Lady Jane. “Now if you’ll excuse us-”

“But of course!” Penelope held up both hands in defeat. Adding as she turned to go, “Oh, Mother’s going to be so upset I lost another- Ouch!” she yelped, throwing herself to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” the duke called out, still pinned to the wall.

“My ankle!” Penelope pretended to cradle her foot, before pointing to the other woman. “Help me get to the powder room, quickly!”

“Why?” Lady Jane scoffed. “Your clumsiness is no fault of mine.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have tripped, ifyouhadn’t abruptly shooed me away.” Penelope tutted, before pretending to cry out in pain once more.

The other woman scanned their surroundings expectantly—her movements confirming what Penelope had already suspected: Lady Jane had beenhopingto get caught with the Duke of Blackmoore.

But why?

Growing visibly more irritated at Penelope’s pleas for help, Lady Jane begrudgingly helped Penelope up and supported her as they slowly made their way into the house.

Annoyed at her newfound companion’s slyness, Penelope made sure to put all her weight on the other woman’s shoulders.

After all, she didn’t care for the duke, but he was clearly innocent in this case. So, she felt justified in her endeavors to get a rise out of his would-be framer.

As they turned to leave, Penelope locked eyes with the duke one more time. Initially, he appeared confused—maybe even concerned, but when she gave him a reassuring nod, the corners of his mouth turned upwards.

He mouthed a thank you and she felt the urge to roll her eyes, after all, what use was his gratitude to her at this moment?

But thinking that he’d suffered more than enough tonight, Penelope settled on returning his thanks with a discreet smile. When they finally arrived at the powder room, Penelope thanked Lady Jane and asked if she could find one of the servants for her.

To Penelope’s surprise, she actually did so before disappearing into the sea of guests. With the servant’s help, Penelope was able to inform the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoore of her present whereabouts.

“Oh, you poor thing!” her chaperone exclaimed, barging into the powder room. “What happened?”

Penelope lowered her gaze. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I wasn’t feeling well and attempted to get some fresh air, and well...” she gestured to her foot.

“I’m so very sorry, pet,” the older woman exclaimed. “It’s no wonder you felt out of sorts, what with it being so soon after your father’s passing.”

Although that was far from the reason Penelope had become overwhelmed, she held her tongue anyway as it was also far less embarrassing than the truth.

“Can you stand? We’ll go straight home and find you a doctor, pet,” the dowager duchess kindly offered.

A pang of guilt struck Penelope—it didn’t seem right that her fake injury should prevent the dowager duchess from enjoying the rest of the ball.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Penelope assured her. “I believe I just twisted it. But as long as I keep off my feet, it should be manageable for the rest of the evening.”

“Are you sure?” the dowager duchess gasped. “Because there’s no need to bear it for-”

“I’m very sure, Your Grace.” Penelope smiled, unable to add that she wasn’t ‘bearing’ anything at all given that she was simply feigning her injury.

To Penelope’s chagrin, she would have to lie to quite a few more people, such as the servants who brought ice for her ankle, the Duchess of Ashfordshire—who felt awful that one of her guests was injured, and any other sympathetic faces that drifted in and out of the powder room.

After what felt like an eternity—but in reality, it was probably closer to an hour or so—Penelope managed to convince the dowager duchess that she was ready to return to their table.

With assistance from the servants, Penelope and her chaperone were escorted to their seats. This time, Penelope made sure to not limp as heavily, thus giving the impression that her foot really was doing much better.

After ten minutes of nodding back at the sympathetic glances being thrown her way, the root of her predicament strolled up to her.

“Lady Penelope,” the Duke of Blackmoore raised an eyebrow, “may I have this dance?”

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