Page 7 of Snowed In with the Jilted Duke

He hesitated. Yes, this was his brother, but they had not often seen each other since Hugo had gone off to sea. Letters were scarce, or even lost in transit. This was the first long leave his brother had had since Waterloo that summer, and even now it appeared he would need to return to Portsmouth for his new command shortly after the holiday season ended.

No. He could not burden Hugo with his suspicions. Not so soon before the wedding.

The wedding. His throat tightened another notch, and he took a gulp of his brandy to loosen it before he replied.

“About the wedding, of course,” Oliver said with a carelessness he did not feel. “The vicar sent a note confirming the time, and the ladies of the church are already decorating.”

Hugo nodded, his face impassive as he crossed to the small table that held the brandy decanter. He carried a faint air of resentment that puzzled Oliver. “I think perhaps I shall join you.”

He poured himself a glass and seated himself in the chair across from Oliver. “Has the physician said Pen—Penelope is strong enough to marry?”

Oliver blew out a gusty sigh. “Her father has assured me she has recovered well from the pneumonia that complicated her initial illness. She still has some other small effects, but is otherwise fit. Or so he says.”

“And what of her heart?”

Slightly startled, Oliver said, “It is an arranged marriage, Hugo. Penelope and I both know it is no love match.”

Hugo glared at him. “No, you blockhead. I meant her heart.”

“Oh! That.” Oliver was briefly ashamed of himself for forgetting. A rheumatic fever like the one Penelope had suffered could sometimes have longer-term consequences, including sudden and unforeseen heart failure. “The physician said there is no way to predict that with any accuracy. She could be fine for decades to come, or not.”

Hugo stared into his brandy. “I see.”

“We cannot wait any longer, Hugo. We must marry before the loan her grandfather made us comes due next year when she turns twenty-five, or the consequences will be dire.”

They both took a moment to contemplate just how dire those consequences would be. When the marriage had been arranged so long ago, Penelope’s grandfather had been shrewd enough to make the accompanying loan come due in full immediately if the marriage did not happen for any reason other than the death of one of the participants. As Oliver had no taste for murder, particularly of a woman he had known since childhood and had promised to marry, he saw no escape for either of them.

“I’m sure she will be fine,” Hugo said, and took a deep draught of his brandy. Before he could speak again, a tap at the door alerted them it was time for the family to dress for dinner and saved them from any further conversation, to Oliver’s relief.

He could not possibly marry Penelope in three days if he was still unsure which of the sisters he had kissed, and especially not when his instincts insisted it had been Pippa, not Penelope.

Tonight would be his last chance. He must either goad Pippa into telling the truth…

Or kiss her again.

Whichever worked best.

3

After dinner, Oliver rose at Grandmama’s signal, turning to help Penelope from her seat, only to discover Hugo had already done the honors. With a shrug, he offered Penelope his arm and they led the parade of relatives to the Green Drawing Room, Grandmama close behind them in her Bath chair, being pushed by yet another of the young male cousins. Oliver would have thought the old woman’s sharp tongue would discourage them from this service to her, but they seemed to be in a competition to see who could get her to say the most dreadful thing to them.

For tonight, he would forego brandy in the dining room with the other men. He did not particularly enjoy drinking deep with his uncles and cousins, most of whom could drink him under the table without much effort.

As he led Penelope into the drawing room and settled her onto a sofa near the fire, he stood behind her near the mantle and covertly watched for Pippa as the rest of the crowd trailed in, parting around the large pianoforte in the center of the room as they dispersed themselves among the available seats.

Pippa finally crossed the threshold on the arm of Cousin Yardley, who seemed to have nearly as difficult a time getting her to converse as he had at supper.

Before he could direct Yardley to seat Pippa next to Penelope, his cousin Beatrice slid into the empty spot. She was a pert, red-haired girl of almost twenty with a commanding air inherited from their mutual grandmother. She leaned over the back of the settee to speak to him with a nod at Penelope. Penelope nodded back as she scanned the room with a small frown.

“There you are, Cousin Kendal. I wished to speak to you now that the house party has properly begun.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, but he already knew the topic she would bring up. It was the same topic Beatrice brought up at every family house party, and likely every house party she attended with friends as well.

“For what day shall I schedule the theatricals? We will need to begin rehearsals at once.”

“Of course,” Oliver said, concealing his wince. Not a single house party would be allowed to go by without a play being produced if Beatrice had anything to say about it. “Er… will you have enough players?”

Beatrice waved away the merest notion of not having the family firmly under her thumb. “We should have more than enough for this one.”