Page 69 of His Wild Duchess
Pausing in their trek, Winnie grasped onto Penelope’s hands tightly, holding them close and dear to her heart. “Now you listen to me, Pen. Sometimes, love ain’t gonna be accepted by everyone. What matters is whether or notyoucan deny it. When love is true, and it is right, it cannot be denied, you hear?”
Penelope nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure where the conversation was leading.
“Have you ever felt that, Pen?”
The world around her seemed to fade away. There was only Winnie’s words, and the birdsong lingering overhead. The dogs dozed off in the sun, no longer running amok around the yard. Winnie’s grip was tight and firm around her hands, keeping her locked in reality. Penelope stared down at their hands, opening and closing her mouth like a fish, knowing what words lingered underneath her breath but unable to speak them aloud.
There was no doubt in her mind that she felt that for George. He was an ache she needed at all times, a constant echo within her heart. Without him, she was incredibly hollow, not remembering what it was she had wanted in the first place. Somehow, George managed to creep under her skin and erase everything she had believed to be what she wanted. Now, there was only him, and he was the exact thing she could not have.
Penelope met Winnie’s expectant stare with a small, dejected smile.
“No, Winnie, I can’t say I have.”
CHAPTER 20
George popped the cork off a fresh bottle of brandy, a light hiss filling the air as the sweet smell filled his nostrils. In his warm study, after a feast that finally managed to satisfy his American guests, Fred lifted his empty glass expectantly, one thumb tucked beneath his suspenders. Giving him a pointed look, George hid his grin while pouring his good friend a full cup.
“Well, now, Georgie, since my glass is once again full,” Fred mused, taking a long sip of the brandy in between, “Where were we?”
“You were offering your opinion about my stud farm.”
Fred chuckled as he cozied himself up into one of the seats besides the quiet crackling fireplace. “Look at you.”
“What?”
“Soundin’ more and more like a posh lad,” he teased. “Soon enough, I’ll barely be able to recognize you!”
George smirked as he crossed the room to gaze out the window. The sun had already set, the early evening taking over all of London in a splendid fashion. After an easy, uneventful dinner, George found himself feeling more unsettled than he could’ve imagined. Life alongside Penelope took an unexpected turn since their visit to Vauxhall gardens. Suddenly, nothing was as simple as it was before.
The days he wished to spend focused on the opening of the stud farm, whilst making sure the renovations of Yeats Manor were as they were meant to be, were instead spent imagining what it was Penelope was doing. George took a large swig of his drink, enjoying the burn it left in his throat.
“Got your head stuck in the clouds, Georgie?”
George turned to face his friend, immediately noticing the concern on his aging expression. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, weweretalkin’ ‘bout your stud farm. Unless there’s…” Fred paused, raising an amused, thick eyebrow. “Somethin’ else on your mind.”
“Even after all these years, Freddie, you still manage to talk in between the lines. What’s your point?”
Fred laughed before he sighed, scooting back even further in his seat, getting as comfortable as he possibly could. “Let me make sure I keep to my character, Georgie. How ‘bout you tell me about the farm?”
“It is completed,” George said.
“Ain’t that a good thing?”
“It’s the best,” he replied with a shrug. “Much sooner than expected, mind you. I’d say it was mainly done so efficiently because of…well, because of…” He sighed, looking back towards the window. His frustration, which lied with no one other than himself, grew to a boiling point at his lack of being able to speak his truth.
Or, at least, whatGeorgeconsidered to be his truth.
“‘Cause of lovely Penny,” Fred said. “Right?”
George remained at the window, not willing to face his friend when he knew very well that his old friend could see right through him. It never failed to surprise him that no one in England ever seemed to read him in the way Fred managed to know him, without fail. While in any other case he’d be grateful, George was now only feeling annoyed, unsure of what his own thoughts were trying to tell him.
Not only that, but Fred so easily calling Penelope “lovely” managed to drive him further into a state of unease. Not onlywas it infuriating to hear another man compliment her in such a way, George found the word “lovely” to be more of an insult. No, Penelope was nowhere near low enough to be described as “lovely”, a word that held little to no meaning. There was so much more, and it was trapped behind George’s face as though he still wore a mask at Vauxhall.
“Penelope had a connection to a gentleman at London’s most popular racetrack,” George finally said, trying to ignore the edge to his voice. “The fellow managed to scrounge me up some fine native stallions, to refine the breed after Vaun has done his part.”
“You mentioned a ball, didn’ you?”
