VII
HARRY didn't wait to hear the collective gasps of horror and disbelief from onlookers as his step-sister continued her performance. In the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of his stepmother's dress and her pearls, and he certainly wouldn't wait for her rebukes. He whipped around and stalked out of the ballroom, through the doors of the castle, and into the night air. "Hawthorne!" a gruff voice yelled. Harry barely had time to turn around before a fist cracked against his jaw. Harry reeled from the blow and his vision was spotted with blackness. Once his vision cleared, the identity of the assailant was apparent. Solomon. He'd probably been dying to punch him the entire evening. "How dare you?" Solomon yelled.
"How dare I?" Harry echoed. He spat out a mouthful of blood as he cradled his jaw.
"You've ruined my engagement party."
"I've never heard a man complain about an engagement party."
Solomon's jaw tightened. "You had no business coming here."
Harry smiled bloodily. "I was invited." Solomon neared Harry again, presumably to deliver another blow, but Harry stepped back. His sardonic grin was gone. "You're not Charlotte, Solomon. If you touch me again, you'll regret it."
Solomon clenched his fist but he didn't come closer. "Why do you feel the need to interfere in my life after all this time?"
"Tonight wasn't about you," Harry replied flatly. After all this time, this man still believed the world revolved around him.
"Then why were you here? Hm? What could've possibly convinced you to come?"
"That's none of your business."
Solomon opened his mouth to say something but shut it once they both heard the sound of footsteps. Once they both saw it was the Duke of Fordham, Solomon released an audible sigh of relief. The elder duke patted the younger's shoulder, an apology of sorts, and Solomon gave Harry one last glare before stealing away. The Duke of Fordham's exact emotions were hard to pinpoint, his face was a hardened mask, but Harry swore he saw the disappointment in those deep, dark eyes. Good. His father deserved to be disappointed. Father and son stood staring at each other for several moments without saying a word.
"I want what I was promised," Harry finally said, breaking the silence.
"You think you deserve a reward after what just happened?"
"I didn't do anything! It was all Charlotte!"
"You let her provoke you."
"I didn't let her do anything!" Harry yelled. All the anger and bitterness of the unbelieved boy at fifteen was bubbling to the surface. "All I did was move her away. I would never push a woman that hard. Especially Charlotte."
"Your sister---"
"--step-sister," Harry corrected stonily.
"---has always been one for theatrics, especially when it comes to you." The duke sighed. "You should've extricated yourself from the situation better."
"I should've extricated myself from the situation better?" Harry didn't know why he was so incredulous. The blame would always fall on his head, no matter how blameless he actually was. "You're her parents, or at least one of you is. Why didn't you do anything to stop her?"
"It wouldn't have been wise."
"It was wiser to let her beat and badger me?"
"You have to have more self-control, Harry. Having a confrontation with your sister is one thing but in front of a room of people?" The duke shook his head. "It's going to be next to impossible to find you a wife now."
Harry wouldn't try and have this argument any longer, he couldn't. He might just die from frustration. "I want it, Father. Every diary, every letter, every portrait. That was the deal."
The duke regarded his son for several exasperated seconds. "The deal was not everything in return for attending one ball. I would give you something in exchange for a job complete. Would you consider that a job well done?"
Rage roared in Harry's ears so loudly it drowned out his father's next words. Anger's meaty strings thrummed his heart to an erratic speed, and for a split second, Harry wondered if he should grant his father the same blow Solomon had gifted him. Instead, he offered a bitter smile. "You can't be serious."
"I'll grant you another portrait," his father conceded. "But you have to do better in the future."
Harry turned away to order his carriage. He couldn't deal with this anymore. On the carriage ride home, Harry couldn't help but reflect on the complete mess Charlotte had left him. First the vicar's filthy lies—now this? His reputation had always been soiled, but this was different. How did you wash out the blemish of a damsel's cries? Harry pressed a hand against the cold of the glass as he stared despairingly out the window. He wondered if he'd lose any more of the servants he so desperately needed once news of the night circled Milford. What housekeeper could he hire now? His mind flitted to the day Miss Redwood had come to his study.
One of these days, you're going to realize my request was a gift from God.
Harry was not a man of regrets. Every bad thing that had happened in his life wasn't due to any choices on his part. He didn't even regret defending himself against Arthur with the kitchen silver. One day, he and Arthur would've killed each other, it was just a matter of when. But when he thought about Miss Redwood's outrageous request, he felt the slightest pang of remorse. If he'd let the chit run his house all those weeks ago, there wouldn't have been a ball to go to. There wouldn't have been an evil step-sister creating a scene. Only a bundle of entitlement to contend with every morning. Harry wriggled his nose at the thought of Miss Redwood floating around Hawthorne Castle issuing commands in that buttery voice he'd been so quick to dislike.
No, Harry told himself as the carriage finally pulled into the castle's drive, he'd been right to reject her request. The whole thing had been rather ridiculous. Usually, his final thoughts on a decision were neat and solid. But this last idea about the duchess-to-be was frayed and flimsy with the echoes of what-if in its many holes. "Ridiculous," Harry muttered to himself as he shed his coat inside. He swore his valet gave him a furtive look and Harry scowled back. He waved him off the rest of the night and attended to his nightlies himself. Even as he tried to sleep she haunted him, those perfect lips pinched in indignant fury, those fiery brown eyes.
I'm just the answer to a problem. And when you're unable to solve this problem, you're going to wish you'd said yes.
"Ridiculous," Harry muttered again, this time against his pillow. He was being ridiculous.
🌑
PENELOPE wished they would stop talking about it. She'd prefer to talk about something as banal as the weather, or the economy, or even her stupid wedding. But this ring-around the same blasted subject was exhausting. Everyone had even started to reuse the same lines and while Penelope hoped they'd notice, she knew they wouldn't.
Violet— Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! I'm so glad there's no one like that in Burberry.
Diana— What kind of man pushes a young woman? No wonder the duke disowned him.
Solomon— He's a monster. And always—How did he get invited again?
Diana always answered that it was a favor to the Duke of Fordham and Solomon always came back with the same question.
And then Penelope would have to play the part too, lest they look at her like she'd grown a second head. Horrible, horrible, horrible. She always used adjectives in a repetition of three, just like her mother-in-law, wondering if it might irritate her the same way it did she. How could he? And—Poor Charlotte, I can only imagine having a brother so cruel. She'd make her voice a little fluttery when she spoke about the earl's cruelty like she was on the edge of tears. It might be a bit overdone, her mother might've seen through it, but Penelope was happy to play the part to perfection. It wasn't so much about looking out of place and more about acting the way she thought Solomon wanted. When he spoke about the earl, he didn't speak with the same general distaste as their mothers. He spoke with genuine hatred—the viscous, personal sort that made Penelope's skin crawl. She didn't want to seem like there was a lick of pity for him, which was the second reason she wished they could talk about something else.
She didn't believe he meant to hurt his step-sister. In fact, she wasn't even sure he had hurt her. Everyone had seen what had happened, so Penelope wondered why she was the only one that caught it. Lord Hawthorne's touch would've only caused a mere stumble backward—if that. Charlotte didn't bother to pretend to catch her heel on her dress, she fell straight backward like a brick. And as she fell (arms outstretched, head towards the sky, like some sort of perfect damsel) there was a flash of white. A smile. But then it was gone the same instant it appeared and the earl's step-sister was a weeping heap on the ballroom floor. How calculating. How perfect. Penelope had wanted to applaud. But then everyone gasped and cried out and swooned (yes, actually swooned as if they were the ones that had been "pushed") and Penelope realized she was the only one who'd truly seen the performance. Well, she and Lord Hawthorne, whose darkened reputation was now much, much blacker.
So now—though she really shouldn't and she doubted the earl would have the same sympathies if the roles were reversed—she pitied him. She pitied the Devil for being vilified for sins he had not committed and grew a little more irritable each second she had to suffer the obliteration of his character. As she sat at the luncheon table and watched her company recite their lines for the nth time, it occurred to Penelope that her irritation on the earl's behalf was a trifle protective. This sudden realization nearly made Penelope choke on her sandwich. She swallowed the bite with a determined effort, trying to ignore the vision of her friend's glowing eyes when they'd discussed Lord Hawthorne the previous day. You fancy him, the eyes had said. There was not a speck of affection for the earl, Penelope assured herself. She liked the truth in straight lines and she hated crooked people. As far as she had gathered, Charlotte was crooked. And Harry—an insolent, proud ass—was straight.
"Penelope?" Solomon asked.
"Yes, dear?"
"This is the second time I've said your name." Solomon's lips were pinched. "Have you listened to a word I just said?"
"Apologies, my love." She gestured to her head. "Wedding fever."
Solomon didn't look convinced. Penelope planted a kiss on her fiancée's cheek. "What did I miss?"
"I was wondering why my mother would ask you whether or not the earl should be invited."
Penelope stole a glance at the countess and the duchess. They looked a bit guilty. "She wanted to know if it was a good idea."
"Why would she ask you if it was a good idea or not?"
Penelope smiled easily. "Because she wanted a second opinion. We were the hosts of the ball, remember?"
"It was a horrible idea." Solomon's eyes swept calculatingly over his fiancée. "Why did you think it was a good one?"
Penelope shrugged. "I didn't think there was anything wrong with paying the Duke of Fordham a favor. Besides, I had no idea he would come."
"He was invited."
"An invitation doesn't require attendance. The earl isn't liked, so I assumed our ball would be the last place he'd want to be."
"But he did come."
"Yes, he did." Penelope's smile was starting to wane. "Is something the matter?"
His eyes were hard. "Would you like to take a walk, dear?" Solomon stood up and held out his hand. So, he wanted her alone.
Penelope accepted the outstretched hand and smiled. "I'd be delighted." They walked away from the drawing room and outside into the warm air.
"I feel like I'm not being given the full picture," Solomon said.
"What do you mean?" Penelope asked innocently.
"My mother—and yours—organized the entire guest list themselves. They didn't ask our opinion on any of it. And yet, your mother asks your opinion on the most consequential guest of the evening." Penelope made sure to keep her eyes straight ahead as she felt Solomon's burning into her temple. "It just doesn't make sense."
"Mothers rarely make sense."
"It's almost like she was asking your permission," Solomon continued.
"Why would she be asking my permission?"
"I was wondering the same thing."
Penelope gave an uneasy laugh. "I don't understand."
"Did you ever have any romantic involvement with Lord Hawthorne?"
Now, Penelope turned to look at him with incredulous eyes. "What?"
"I know you've been with a lot of men, Penelope," Solomon said with the same venom a man would call a woman a whore. "So, it isn't so far-fetched that you might've slept with the Devil himself."
"You're right, Penelope bit out, I have been with a lot of men. And I would never lie about who I've courted, Solomon. I have no feelings for Lord Hawthorne. I never have."
"Promise me that you're not lying."
Penelope bit her lip to prevent a scream of frustration from escaping. "I'm not lying."
Solomon stared at her skeptically. "Pen—"
Penelope pressed her lips against his. It was a harsh, angry kiss at first but then it melted into something sweeter. After a few minutes, Solomon gave a low groan. Penelope pulled away, he didn't get to imply that she was a whore and get something more. Penelope blinked up at him. "Do you believe me now?"
She really thought he had. They kissed again and walked back to the castle. After a deserved nap, Penelope felt her way through the halls in search of a bite to eat. She spotted Violet and Solomon bent over in a corner and she was just about to say something until she heard that they were whispering. It never hurt to listen in.
"—and she kissed me," Solomon hissed. "It was so...forced...like she was trying to convince me of something."
Violet shook her head. "I was afraid there was something between them."
"I'm certain your suspicions are correct."
"What do you want to do then? Ending the engagement now would cause a scandal." Violet sighed. "But if you really can't stomach it—"
"No." Solomon's voice was hard. "I'm going to marry her."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not letting Hawthorne prevent me from taking what's mine."
"Penelope isn't stupid. There might've been something before, but she'd never see him now." Violet paused. "Once you're married though, I would advise getting her pregnant as soon as possible. She might run away otherwise."
"I was thinking the same thing."
Their voices became indiscernible, and Penelope turned away, her appetite gone. In fact, she was positively nauseated. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of, being locked into a marriage with no escape. Violet had stated the obvious: a woman was bound to a man for life once there was a child. It didn't matter if there was a separation or a divorce, they would be tied together forever. And what if Solomon turned out to be a monster once they were wed? Panic began to rise in Penelope's lungs as she rushed to her room. She thought about telling her mother what she'd heard, but what would be the use?
The countess' calm voice floated into her ears. You're being unreasonable, Penelope. Pregnancy is normal. If your husband suspects you're galavanting with another man, you're lucky that's all he wants to do.
Penelope didn't realize she'd been biting her lip until the taste of liquid copper flooded into her mouth. She had to get out of this castle. Penelope left her room, glided carefully down the stairs, and used one of the discreet doors out of the house. She didn't know where she was going until she finally reached her special lake for bathing. She looked achingly into the crystal blue waters, her skin itching for a swim. She hadn't been there in weeks. If only...
"Don't you dare undress." Penelope turned around to see Lord Hawthorne.
"What are you doing here?"
"I always used to take my horse here to get a drink." Lord Hawthorne gestured to his steed a ways away lapping at the water's edge. "I should be asking you that question. Engaged women don't swim naked."
"Ladies don't swim naked and I did that all the time," Penelope said. She frowned at him. "If you were here so often, why didn't I ever see you?"
Lord Hawthorne shrugged. "I suppose that fate decided to be kind. Until recently, anyway."
The implication that their meeting was some grave misfortune furthered Penelope's irritation. "It's amazing that they think we're involved."
"I'm sorry...who thinks we're involved?"
"My future mother-in-law. Solomon. Practically everyone."
"Solomon thinks we're involved?" Hawthorne released a cruel laugh. "He must be miserable."
"He has been rather ugly." Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. "Why does he hate you so much?"
Hawthorne smiled bitterly. "Not my story to tell."
"In any case, he hates you and believes that I have feelings for you." Penelope gave him a dirty look. "You're ruining my marriage before it's even begun."
"What do you care? You didn't even want to get married."
"And that hasn't changed," Penelope snapped. "But now I have a fiancée whose primary concern is getting me pregnant so I'm stuck with him forever."
"And you're blaming me for Solomon's vindictiveness?"
"It's more the idea of you, but I'm still going to count it."
Lord Hawthorne rolled his eyes. "You're acting like he's going to lock you up in some castle. Babies accompany marriage."
"Just forget it. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Why are you so opposed to the sacred institution anyway?"
"Because I'd rather not be another man's property. Can you blame me?"
"And being another man's servant is preferable?"
"Tenfold."
"So, you'd still serve under me?"
Penelope rolled her eyes. "Don't tease me."
"Who's teasing?"