Page 21 of Claimed By Her Forbidden Duke
Wordlessly, Edmund nodded.
Arabella slipped out, happily squealing to herself as he heard her footsteps retreat.
As soon as he was alone again, he rubbed his hands over his face, groaning.
He ached. His body, his mind, his heart.
Sighing, he set his supplies aside, locked his plans away in a desk drawer, and stood up to leave for his own preparations.
Walking through the townhouse, he felt as though he was in unfamiliar territory, nothing sparking any comfort or familiarity. Even the portrait of the late Duke in the study looking down upon him did not spark anything inside him.
There was one truth he could not tell Arabella.
There was no home for him anywhere, anymore.
* * *
Penelope held back a sigh of annoyance. Once again, she tried to discreetly escape her brother’s iron grip on her elbow. Not one of silent warning but one of anchoring.
Around them, ladies daintily stepped into practiced dancing across the floor of the Townsends’ ballroom, and her stomach twisted with envy.
“Finley, I spent many years having dance lessons,” she said, “and yet I am not allowed to have a single dance tonight. What did your father hire my tutor for?”
“Do not be smart, Pen.” He laughed. “You dance plenty. I am sure I saw you dance with Lord Beltham before.”
“For a mere second while you greeted a friend, only for you to pull me off the dance floor.”
“I have heard he is a terrible dancer,” Finley said dismissively. “I imagine I saved you from an awful experience.”
“That is what you always say,” Penelope muttered under her breath.
In her beautiful gown, which was the color of honey, she wanted to feel as lovely as it felt. Instead, she felt rather foolish, as though she was all dressed up with nowhere to go. Except she was where she needed—and wanted—to be, and her brother would not loosen his grip on her for a moment.
“I do like this color on you,” Finley murmured, touching the hem of her sleeve and gazing at her.
Penelope stiffened before mustering a smile. “Thank you.” Her words were quiet, forced out, his compliments growing and growing in intensity lately. “You chose well for me.”
She hated that he had. It made her feel like a child, unable to make her own decisions.
“Next time, I think I will go for a deeper color,” she suggested. “Something more mature, perhaps?”
“Nonsense. You look stunning in lighter colors.”
“Yes, but?—”
“Ah, there he is.” Finley’s cheerful announcement cut her off. He looked directly over her head.
“Who?”
She turned around, trying to spot someone familiar in the sea of faces, but between the distraction of the stunning melody being played and the whirl of dancers, she saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Until a group of men moved to the refreshments table, giving Penelope, at her shorter height, a clear, direct view.
The Duke of Blackstone.
Penelope froze—and went cold even further when Finley called out to him.
“Blackstone!” His smile was ever so wide, so charming, as he beckoned the Duke over. “Come over here, you must meet my sister.”
