Page 71 of His Wild Duchess
Looking away, George found himself caught on something in the corner of his study. A bed, lightly plush and layered with a few thick blankets, was tucked beside one of the bookcases. It had an indent on it, as if a large creature had been using it recently. Upon closer inspection, George realized that it was for the dogs. They had slept within his study, probably when he had been using it, and he hadn’t even realized. He raised his hand, covering his mouth as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him.
“What’re you thinkin’, Georgie?”
“I think,” George muttered, his words slightly muffled, “I think I might miss Penelope when she is gone.”
Fred raised a brow. “Miss her? That’s all?”
“Though, I am a fool for thinking such a thing. She has a different future set out for her.”
“Have you ever thought to ask?”
George met his gaze, lowering his hand. “To give myself more trouble? I think not.” Sighing, he retrieved his own glass, taking as many sips as possible to clear the racing within his head. While he expected Fred to pick up the conversation, the American fellow merely watched him, seemingly not satisfied with his final words. George finished the last bit of his brandy, and the study remained quiet besides the gentle crackle of the flames.
“Besides,” he finally added, “Penelope had as much a stake in our deal as I did. While I sought to establish my newfound business through her standing in London’s aristocratic society, Penelope wished to begin a new life for herself. One of solitude and independence, Fred.”
“Who's to say you can’t be independent together?”
“That’s quite a silly thought, Freddie.”
Fred laughed. “‘Spose it may be,” he murmured. “The thought remains the same.”
George’s eyes returned to the dog bed once more. Perhaps, in some place, there was a future in which he could have a beloved animal resting upon his lap, an utterly intriguing woman remaining by his side through thick and thin. Somehow, George began to see his thoughts take a turn as his attention turned towards the fires. How was it that a red-haired lady with a pack of wild beasts constantly in tow managed to capture the heart that had once been so rakish in nature?
“Tell me, Georgie,” Fred said, “What are you thinking?”
George rested a finger against his chin. “I fear the girl with the wild heart will be the ruin of me.”
“You Englanders,” Fred muttered with a firm shake of his head.
“I’m not sure that’s actually a word, my friend.”
The evening continued on till the bottle of brandy was half empty. They parted ways not long after their conversation came to a sudden halt. George found himself quite restless for the rest of the night, not even finding solace beneath the covers, when there was not a soul around besides his own.
Morning came agonizingly slow. George was at the dining table before the rest of the house, looking through the last minute arrangements for the ball to be held at Yeats. While he had yet to see the redone estate for himself, George had no doubt that the event would be a spectacular success for his upcoming venture.
One by one, the rest of the house arrived at the table. Breakfast was served within an instant, and while Fred and Winnifred did not wait to let their boisterous voices fill the room, George could only watch, the feeling of the mastiff’s head resting over his feet a constant tether to reality. At the end of the table, Penelope was engrossed in the conversation, a teacup resting below her bottom lip. Winnie went on about some story from out in the west, recalling a time when George had tried and failed to wrangle up his prized stallion. Penelope’s bright hair fell down her shoulders, a few braids tucked within the waves.
Within their talks, a servant entered, coming to George’s side with a sealed letter. The others were too involved in the story to take the slightest bit of notice. Popping open the seal, George scanned over the letter. It was from one of his associates, detailing the final adjustments made to the last cottage they had visited not too long ago. According to the notes, everything had been finished. The barn, the stable, the refurbished kitchen, the cracked porch. All of it was ready to be lived in.
George’s eyes raised.
Penelope laughed, the musical sound filling the room. The animals reacted to her joy, their tails thumpingagainst the ground as they grew as excited as she. If it was at all possible, her eyes seemed to grow the slightest bit greener, like a freshly plucked emerald, or a dewy blade of grass. A feeling, one he could finally understand, struck him.
Tomorrow, the ball would be held to celebrate the opening of the stud farm. Days later, he could only assume that Penelope would take her leave.
CHAPTER 21
Penelope supposed she would never get used to the role of Duchess. For the first time in her life, she wished to turn back time, to when she was nothing more than a thoughtless child, watching Alicia step into the role herself. Perhaps if she was more kind then, more open-minded to Alicia’s hardships, she’d find herself better suited now, after being thrown into the role herself. The ball had yet to even happen, but Penelope was already overthrown by the growing responsibilities.
The ball was being held at Yeats Manor, which just finished being renovated. The work had been going on for over a year, according to George, and he hadn’t seen it yet in its new splendor. Everything needed for the party - expensive wine, exquisite delicacies, a well-known orchestra - already waited for them at Yeats Manor. All that was needed, now, were the hosts themselves, and that thought was the most frightening of them all.
The day before the ball, after breakfast, Mrs. Howard and Clarissa swept into Penelope’s room to pack up her things. A carriage already waited outside the townhouse, and judging by Mrs. Howard’s tight expression, they were already hours behind schedule. Astounded at the speed at which they moved, Penelope struggled to collect her animals, forgetting that Butternut preferred to hide within the nooks and crannies of George’s belongings. Halfway through, Mrs. Howard and her sour-pinched face told Penelope of the plans that did not include bringing the dogs.
“Ultimately,” Mrs. Howard was saying while servants came to retrieve her trunk, “The decision is yours, your Grace, but you might find the day to be smoother by leaving them here.”
“I…I have never truly been without them, Mrs. Howard,” Penelope murmured, taking a seat at the edge of her bed as the animals circled around her. Titus and Brutus, the wolfhounds, lept onto the bed, ignoring the huffs the housekeeper made. “Not for longer than a day. Overnight seems…well, it feels out of the question.”
Mrs. Howard pressed her lips together. “As I said, the choice is yours, your Grace.”
