ONE
February 7, 1861
London
“You cannot be serious!” Penelope Hale folded her legs beneath her night dress and repositioned herself on the pale green bedspread. She cast a dubious gaze between her twin cousins, certain their matching blonde curls were wound entirely too tight. “A love potion?”
Katherine and Marie shared one of their knowing looks before snapping their attention back to Penelope. “Yes,” the pair replied in perfect unison, their expressions so serious that Penelope burst out laughing.
“Stop, Penelope.” Marie slapped her arm. “Don’t you see that this is the perfect solution?”
Penelope drew a long breath and pursed her lips as she realized just how serious her cousins were. “Solution? How is dosing men with a love potion a solution?”
The twins exchanged another tentative glance. “To snag you a husband,” Kate supplied after a long moment. “We know you’ve been recently… disappointed, but that doesn’t mean you should give up hope.”
All levity brought about from her cousins’ silly scheme evaporated. Disappointment did not begin to describe the depth of Penelope’s heartbreak. “There is no hope for Colton and me,” she said, throat tightening as memories flooded her mind. Try though she might, she could not banish the memory of Colton smiling down at her with those deep, chocolate hued eyes. His thumb brushing her cheek. That one perfect kiss they’d shared behind the French doors at Lady Bridger’s ball. Even now her lips burned with remembrance. That night love had brimmed in her breast, an emotion so certain, so absolute, she’d never, not even for half a heartbeat, doubted that he’d return her affections. After that magical interlude he should have asked for her hand and proclaimed to love her in return, but instead… “He is engaged if you recall.”
“Ah, yes, engaged,” Kate’s green eyes lit as she scooted across the mattress to grasp Penelope’s hand, “but he is not yet married.”
Penelope raised her eyes doubtfully. “Surely you’re not suggesting I administer a love potion to a duke. An engaged duke.”
“Precisely.” Marie flashed a devious grin. She reached into her robe pocket and brandished a small vial filled with amber liquid. “Pour this in his drink, make sure you’re the first one he sees, and,” she snapped her fingers, “he is all yours.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “Even if it were possible to make a man fall in love with a potion, he could not jilt Miss Featherton now.”
“All the better,” Marie chirped, shoving the vial into Penelope’s hand. “He can marry that snooty Mallory Featherton and her money, but go to the grave miserable because he’s really in love with you. The perfect revenge.”
“I have no need for revenge on anyone.”
“Not even Miss Featherton?”
“Especially not Miss Featherton.” Penelope sighed, dropping the apothecary vial back into her cousin’s lap. “It isn’t her fault she’s rich, and she would have had no way of knowing I had feelings for Colton. Besides,” she said quickly, wanting to steer the conversation from the hurt still raw on her nerves, “you cannot possibly believe this would work.”
“Corrine, my maid, assures me it will.” Kate plucked the potion from its resting place on Marie’s white skirt. “Her grandmother was a Gypsy.”
“Gypsy love potion?” Penelope smiled and flipped the long red-brown plait of braid over her shoulder. “I’d say you’re both touched in the head.”
Marie promptly stuck her tongue out, sparking another laugh from Penelope. It felt good to laugh. She hadn’t laughed so freely in a little over two years. Coming to live with her cousins had been good for her in more ways than one.
“I trust the two of you will be using this as well?”
“When we find a man worth marrying, absolutely.”
Penelope squinted playfully. “But until then I am your test subject?”
“Of course not,” Marie protested. “We have nothing but your best interest at heart.”
“At least think about it.” Kate slid off the bed, spinning the vial between thumb and forefinger. She set it on Penelope’s mahogany dressing table. “What could it possibly hurt to try?”
Penelope’s laughter dried immediately. What could it hurt? She stared at the offending liquid unable to tear her gaze away. Hope could hurt. Like the hope her dying mother would miraculously improve. No amount of hope or prayer had saved Mama.
Her heart twisted. However silly her cousins’ notion, dosing Colton with Gypsy hokum could only lead to hope… And hope was every bit as dangerous and hurtful as the original heartbreak. No… she would not be foolish enough to set herself up for surefire failure.
“It doesn’t have to be Colton you administer the potion to,” Marie murmured, following her sister’s lead and hopping off the bed. “You could choose another man.”
The twins left then, closing the door with a gentle click.
Penelope flopped backward onto her bed, fingering the end of her dark braid. The amber liquid glinted in the flickering lamplight. “A love potion,” she whispered to the shadows. “How completely silly.”
And yet that ounce or two of liquid had her thinking. Or mayhap not thinking, but something infinitely more dangerous... hoping. Hoping that all was not lost in her quest for love and romance.
“Romance.” She scoffed, flipping up on an elbow. “Naught but foolishness and rot.” The stuff of novels and nothing more.
Penelope doused the lamp and slipped between her smooth, cool sheets. She closed her eyes, snuggling the extra pillow against her breast, but sleep proved elusive. Troubled thoughts of Colton would not leave her be. Unlike some of the forward thinking women making a splash amongst the ton, Penelope wanted to get married. She wanted to find a man, run her own household, and start a family.
In short she wanted stability.
Ever since her mother’s death two years ago, Penelope’s father, Earl of Blackmore, had completely withdrawn from life outside of managing his lands and tenants. He scarcely looked upon her and Penelope knew it was because she reminded him too much of his late wife. Her parents had shared a marriage and companionship all too rare amongst British society.
Starved for family life and affection, Penelope had been very happy to spend last season with her aunt, uncle and cousins in London. All too quickly she’d succumbed to Colton’s charms believing she’d found the equal to her parents’ love and a means to settle down and fill the gaping void left by her mother’s eternal absence. Now Penelope realized nothing could replace her mother. No husband. No loving aunt. Certainly not a love potion. As such, Penelope had amended her hunt on the marriage mart. Rather than search for love, she would seek out a likeable man. One she could be friends with but would not open her up to more heartache.
Holding to that logic, she closed her eyes. Colton’s face glowed before her in stark relief as though tattooed to the back of her lids. Once more Penelope considered the love potion.
What could it hurt to try?
