Page 101 of Claimed By Her Forbidden Duke
Penelope froze, her heart racing. His eyes met hers in the mirror.
“I am sleeping fine,” she lied. She had barely slept at all, not since the last time she walked out of Julian Gray’s house. “And yourself?”
“Well enough.”
It sounded true, and she forced down her panic. If he did not suspect anything, then she would only cause more problems for herself if she looked guilty.
“That is good,” she said, because she did not know what else to say.
“I have been thinking,” Finley began. “I wish to let you know that I see improvement in your behavior. I was so worried for so long that you were growing audacious with how you spoke to me. You always spoke of suitors, and I did not really like that.” He exhaled as if it was exhausting to point out such a thing about her. “And then you accused me of hindering your marriage prospects as though you do not hinder them by yourself.”
“Finley,” she gasped, appalled. “What is?—”
“I will reward you,” he announced. “I tire of these stiff dresses you keep putting yourself in.”
Her protest that it was him commanding her attire died on her lips when he moved to her wardrobe. Her wardrobe, where she had hidden every note from Edmund, tucked into the gown she never wished to look at again.
The beautiful curl of his handwriting had hurt her more than she could bear, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to destroy it.
“The dress you wore, the one I initially disapproved of… I want to see you wearing more dresses like that.”
There was something in the way he said it that Penelope did not like. For when he turned to her, there was something predatory in his eyes. But then he blinked and it was gone.
He went back to her wardrobe, but she was already on her feet as he began to dig.
Her voice tight with fear, she spoke up, “Finley, do not?—”
“I will take it with us to the modiste to order more. Better yet, you will wear it to demonstrate.”
She did not like how he made her sound like a doll. His hand reached for the dress.
“Finley!”
But it was too late, and she rushed towards him, grabbing his arm right as he pulled the dress out. One by one, every note from Edmund fluttered from where they were tucked among the fabric.
Finley glanced at her, frowning. “What are these?”
She lunged at him to stop him, but he was already crouching, plucking an invitation card. For a moment, he did nothing as his eyes flicked over the lines.
Penelope’s face burned, for the invitations had grown more and more salacious. Instinctively, she began to back away from her brother—bracing herself, waiting for his wrath, unable to think of any explanation.
“What is this, Penelope?”
His question was quiet and furious. He did not look at her for a moment, but when he did, when he met her fear-stricken eyes, he barely held back his anger. He crumpled one of the cards in his hand and threw it on the floor.
“Answer me.”
“Finley—”
“Answer me!” he roared, rushing towards her.
She tried to run for the door, but he slammed it shut before she could touch the doorknob. She whirled around, her breath coming fast.
He waved another card in her face. Penelope saw a flash of bold, black writing, and bile rose in her throat, both at the way she missed Edmund and at the thought of her brother seeing anything Edmund had written.
“Please,” she choked out. “Please do not be angry. I-I cannot explain. I?—”
“Oh no, youcanexplain, Penelope. You read enough books, do you not?” Spittle flew from his mouth, hitting her cheek. Fury blazed in his eyes, and Penelope realized she had not known true fear until now. “How long, Pen? I noticed your behavior has changed. Less talk about suitors, only to find out that you have been whoring yourself out?—”
