Page 7 of An Offer By the Beastly Duke

“Lady Romwich, how delightful to see you out,” she said, her smile too forced and false. “And Amelia, I see you are still managing to fit into those gowns.”

Her gaze flicked over Amelia with a look of subtle distaste, before turning back to Penelope. Still, Penelope noticed Amelia’s smile sharpened with a wicked curve. Sadly, she had long been used to such comments on her stature. “Dowager Countess, I do hope you’re not feeling too isolated, with all your acquaintances missing today.”

Penelope’s fingers curled into the fabric of her gloves, the familiar sting of insults wrapped in faux kindness. Yet, she kept her posture straight, her face a picture of graciousness, as though her pulse wasn’t racing with indignation.

“I am never quite isolated when in the company of my friends, Lady Worthington,” Penelope replied smoothly, offering a tight, controlled smile. “And as for Amelia,” Her voice dipped with the slightest edge of steel, her gaze shifting to Amelia, who stood by her side, unflinching. “She is lovely as ever, no?. I do think she bears the mark of a woman who’s truly indulged in life’s pleasures, would you not agree?”

“I would agree,” Amelia piped up haughtily, picking up a filled glass of wine with an indulgent, unfazed smile. “Besides, one will fit into her dresses when properly tailored. I see that you cannot quite say the same with your corset struggling to close any gaps in your frame.”

It was an insult reversed, and Penelope coughed behind her smile.

But Lady Worthington pressed on.

“You are terribly kind, Lady Romwich,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity. “But I must say, it does seem that Lady Amelia’s… shall we say, extra fullness… might be a bit of a burden in these summer months.”

Lady Worthington looked at Amelia’s rounded figure with exaggerated concern, the thinly veiled mockery evident.

Amelia’s smile widened, but Penelope could feel her friend’s shoulders stiffen beside her, though she didn’t look at her.

“Your concern is unwarranted, Lady Worthington,” she bit back.

“I am sure you must think so,” the other lady sniffed, looking to her gaggle of ladies with a sly smirk. “I suppose one must tell herself what she must to endure her… spinster life. That is why you are not married, is it not?”

Before Amelia could speak through her haze of wine, for a glass did plenty quite quickly, Penelope spoke. “It is a pity that some of us are too busy with other matters to worry about trivialities like appearance. We have far more important things to concern ourselves with than conforming to the ridiculous expectations of society. I imagine we agree?”

Lady Worthington’s smile faltered just a fraction, the sharpness in Penelope’s response cutting through the polite charade. But she recovered quickly, her tone light and airy, as though nothing had transpired.

“Indeed,” she said, casting a fleeting glance at Amelia before her eyes shifted back to Penelope. “It seems you have both become quite good at ignoring the realities of our world.”

Penelope’s heart gave a sharp twist at the implications of her words. The realities, as Lady Worthington put it, were that Penelope was still a widow, her reputation as shattered as the life she had once lived. The realities of the ton always came with weight, with whispers about her marriage, her widowhood, and the son she was raising alone.

Even Amelia, as true as the rumors claimed, was the punchline of their little jokes. Amelia had lucked out on the marriage mart due to not having the willowy, thin frame often expected of a lady.

A lady expected not to indulge.

A lady expected to stay silent and poised and pretty. A mere wife to obey—and that was why Amelia had chosen not to take a suitor.

“You must excuse me,” Penelope said, her voice unwavering, though her teeth ground together, her words dripping with cold politeness. “I have spent enough time with ladies who find themselves so invested in the failings of others. I think I shall refresh my drink in peace.”

She stared pointedly at Lady Worthington until the lady pulled her group away, muttering under her breath.

Violet, ever quick to respond, took Penelope’s arm with a gentle squeeze. Trying to still her trembling hands as she poured, Penelope could still feel Lady Worthington’s eyes on her, the sting of her words lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

Behind her, Amelia sighed softly. “She is insufferable.”

Penelope nodded, though she was glad that Amelia had remained composed. “She does not know how to speak without making people feel small.”

“Small?” Amelia snorted. “She is so concerned about my figure, but I think her mouth is the thing that needs some control.”

Violet chuckled at that, but Penelope’s thoughts remained occupied by the exchange. She hadn’t wanted to engage, but Lady Worthington had drawn her into it, nonetheless.

“It is hard to avoid the barbs when they are so eager to throw them at you,” Penelope said, her voice low. “And it is impossible to explain to them that I have no interest in participating in their little games.”

Amelia gave her a wry smile. “And yet, here they are, poking at us, assuming we will bite.”

As they neared a quiet corner of the garden where some of the men stood clustered around a table laden with drink, Penelope stiffened as she saw her brother-in-law, Charles Cadden, making his way toward them.

His presence always made her skin crawl, and as he approached, her gut twisted uneasily. He looked frailer than when she had last seen him the day before she’d left London.