Discovering the Devil

T h i r t y - s e v e n

"Darling..."

"Please tell me what to do."

"I can't."

Penelope took a long, almost petulant sniff. "You sound like my mother."

Polly smiled. "The countess has always been a smart woman."

"She's finally wise to who Harry truly is. Although, it's too late isn't it?"

"I don't think it's too late."

Penelope laughed bitterly. "I know Andrew swept you off your feet, but you were never a romantic. How can you possibly have hope for us?"

"My inkling only has a little to do with romance. Harry is the only person you've ever loved. I don't think something like that just goes away."

"Well, it's gone."

"Pen—"

"---enough about me," Penelope interrupted. "How was your honeymoon before its unfortunate interruption?"

Penelope successfully pulled Polly into a conversation about a cottage in another village town a ways away from Milford. Of course, Penelope was only half-listening. She'd only cared about successfully diverting the topic away from herself, no matter how many times Polly tried to return to it. Eventually, her friend recognized that she could not be swayed from the subject, and after another hour, Polly bade her goodbye.

It was funny to think that Penelope had ended with everything she had wanted in the first place—save for a few exceptions (namely her reputation). After leaving the rest of her food untouched, Penelope went to her room. It hadn't felt the same since she'd returned. There was still a picture of her father sitting on her vanity in a golden frame, different from the one she had shattered the night of her engagement ball. Geraldine had gotten a new one, it seemed. She had likely attributed the broken picture to nerves—not hate.

Penelope had always wondered if her personal maid had known, but it seemed she hadn't. Personally, Penelope had wanted to throw everything of her father away a long time ago, but her mother hadn't let her. People might talk, Diana said. And what would they say? Why did it matter? Penelope rang her bell.

"Yes ma'am?" Geraldine asked.

Penelope slipped out the portrait of her and her father from the frame and delivered it into her maid's hands. "Burn this."

***

HARRY did not imagine that Polly's advice might actually come true. He didn't dare hope—it was too painful. Hope included flowers, white lace, and gold rings and he just couldn't bear the agony of aching for something that could never be his. So, he forced himself to become familiar with what was increasingly becoming a half-existence. Unlike weeks earlier when Harry had been in pain, he did not lash out at his servants or drown his sorrows in drink. Instead, he rode Nightmare everyday.

Thanks to the warm (well, it was more speculative than generous, and given Harry's reputation, he would have to settle for it) column in the rags about his character, he was beginning to receive a kinder reception from villagers. He threw himself into charity work—manual labor and the like. His sadness only settled over him in profound waves at night.

When he saw Penelope again, he thought he was dreaming. She was standing behind his desk, fitted in a dress of green silk. Her hair, usually piled neatly atop her head, or in a stern bun at her nape, floated freely in a halo around her head. Harry's heart slammed against his ribs. "I understand if you don't want to see me," she began. And her voice. God, how he'd missed her.

"And yet you came."

"Yes."

"You know I love your hair like that," Harry murmured. He couldn't help himself.