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“I am,” said the Duchess of Grandhampton, coming to stand by their side. Her silvery-gray hair was done in an old-fashioned, high updo with many curls. She was dressed in a violet sack-back gown and supported herself with a walking stick. She had the gracefully aging face of a woman who had been beautiful when she was young. “Miss Beckett, you look lovely tonight. Ah, this is my old friend, the Duchess of Ashton.”
Penelope’s head swam as she stared into the kind, sad, chocolate-brown eyes of the duchess. She was stunning in her fashionable scarlet gown with a high waist and puffed sleeves, which complemented her flawless complexion.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Duchess,” Penelope breathed out. “This is my father, Lord Beckett, and my cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”
This was her chance. Finally, she was meeting the woman who might change her life.
“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Beckett.” The duchess nodded. “It is wonderful to meet all of you. Is this your first time at Almack’s?”
“It is.”
“And how are you enjoying it so far?”
“It is very splendid.” She beamed at the duchess. “I couldn’t help but admire the statues. I wish I could draw them.”
“Are you an artist?” asked the duchess with curiosity.
“No, she is most certainly not,” said Papa. “My daughter will not be involved in such nonsense. Like all women, she’ll be a wife and a mother one day.”
Curiosity died in the duchess’s eyes, and she frowned. Penelope’s face burned as though scalded. Heavens, she wished the floor would crack open and swallow her like a sea beast. With just three sentences, Papa may have ruined her rare chance to make an important connection in the art world.
“Then why did you say you wanted to draw them, Miss Beckett?” asked the duchess.
Penelope opened her mouth to say something, but Papa interrupted her.
“To please you, of course, Your Grace,” replied Papa. “My Penelope only cares for the happiness and comfort of others. Just like her deceased mama. As a woman should be.”
Penelope felt the hot glare of the duke on her skin.
Now would be a great moment for the ground to swallow her. Now, please, God!
Before she could say anything to defend herself or save her reputation before the duchess, the next dance was called.
“Shall we?” asked the duke.
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Pushing aside her instinct to refuse him and save her reputation as an artist, she smiled politely to both duchesses, Alex, and her papa.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Under Papa’s heavy glare, she followed the duke. Her knees trembled as she threaded her way through the crowd, assailed by the perfume of roses, sandalwood, and lilacs. Her own cheeks were still ablaze, her hands and back were moist, and she pleaded with herself to calm down.
They both took their places in the lines of ladies and gentlemen, facing each other. He looked at her with a glare that could freeze a snowman.
The orchestra struck the first notes of an English country dance, and she and the duke moved. Every time his hand touched hers, a shiver ran through her skin despite the glove. They danced silently for a while. She shook off the unease that he seemed to have bestowed upon her from the moment he came in. Why should she let him intimidate her? He was just a man. Just another obstacle in her path towards making a favorable connection with the Duchess of Ashton. After the dance, she would try to talk to the duchess alone and salvage the situation.
“It seems the entire ballroom is enthralled with you tonight, Miss Beckett,” he said finally as he grasped her hand to take the next four steps together.
Despite her resolve to not be affected by him, heat crept from her face onto her neck and upper chest. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I’m never mistaken.”
She chuckled. “That can’t be true. No one is without fault.”
“I have faults. Being mistaken isn’t one of them.”
Her chest rose and fell quicker with an unwelcome anger. He was a very arrogant man. But never mind that. Perhaps he knew something about tonight that she didn’t.
