Page 57 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“We were delayed at the toll.” Penelope squeezed her hands back, a lump forming in her throat at the warmth of the welcome. “You look well, Violet.”

“I look extremely well, thank you.” Violet turned her attention to Nicholas, who was currently staring at a passing hansom cab. “Nicholas. What do you think of our noisy city?”

He turned, considering the question with gravity. “Is it always this loud?”

“Always. Even at night.”

“I like it,” he said with certainty.

“Then we shall continue getting along famously.” Violet stepped aside, gesturing them in. “Come. My father has been asking after you, and our cook has made enough food to feed the entire street.”

The interior of the Richards townhouse had the comfortable, lived-in warmth that Penelope remembered. Books left on chair arms, the scent of lavender and old floor wax, and a large, incredibly fat cat asleep on the hall table.

Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks. “Does he live here?”

“His name is Ptolemy,” Violet said. “He believes he owns the house. We allow him the fiction for the sake of peace.”

Nicholas put one careful hand on Ptolemy’s back. The cat opened one golden eye, assessed the boy, and closed it again with a purr like a small engine.

“He did not run,” Nicholas whispered.

“He never runs. He’s far too confident for that.”

Penelope watched her son, noting how his body settled the moment he touched the cat. He was taking stock. He was happy.

Amelia arrived from the sitting room, reading glasses perched on her nose. “You’re finally here,” she said, folding Penelope into a warm embrace. “You look tired from the journey, Penelope.”

“I am perfectly well,” Penelope quickly answered, not wanting to cause distress or a fuss.

“Of course you are.” Amelia held her at arm’s length, then looked at Nicholas. “Nicholas, I see you have grown in the last two days ago.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Nicholas said, now entirely absorbed in Ptolemy’s ears.

“It’s entirely possible. Growing doesn’t require your permission.”

Violet steered the group toward the sitting room where the fire was crackling and tea was waiting.

“The ball is Friday,” Violet said, settling into her chair with her feet tucked under her. “There’s enough time to get something made if you haven’t brought anything suitable, Penelope.”

“I brought a silk in deep plum. I thought it was suitable.”

“Suitable for a country assembly or suitable for Lord Hayworth’s ball? Because those are two very different languages.”

Penelope hesitated. “I may need to look at it again.”

“I thought so.” Violet looked entirely satisfied. “We shall attend the modiste tomorrow. Amelia, you too.”

Amelia didn’t look up from her tea. “I brought a gown.”

“So did she,” Violet said, tilting her head at Penelope. “We’re all going to the modiste. It is non-negotiable.”

Nicholas appeared in the doorway with Ptolemy draped over his shoulder like a heavy fur stole. The cat looked resigned to its fate.

“He let me pick him up,” Nicholas reported proudly.

“That’s unprecedented,” Violet said. “You’ll have to stay forever now.”

Nicholas looked at his mother, his eyes bright with the possibility.