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Penelope.

The reason he felt so light—something he hadn’t felt like for at least seven months, if not years—was because he’d convinced William Turner to tutor Penelope. Preston couldn’t remember ever being so excited as he was for his wife at this moment. She came to life when she painted. And seeing that light in her eyes, that enthusiasm, was like having his own soul heal.

“Mrs. Brown, where is the duchess?” he asked the passing housekeeper.

“I spoke to Her Grace in the library just now, Your Grace,” she responded with a polite bob.

Preston rushed there. The room was empty, but the door to his study stood just a little ajar.

Worry tightened his gut. What reason would Penelope have to enter the study when he was away?

Cautious, he opened the door, and his world came crashing down.

She stood frozen with the red leather folder in her hand, guilt in her eyes.

He had told her not to snoop around. He had specifically forbidden her to come here and yet…

And yet it was not anger that he first felt. It was hurt. Hurt as painful as stepping on a thousand pieces of broken glass. Because he knew exactly why she had that red folder in her hands.

“Penelope,” he said, his voice sounding as though he had swallowed a handful of gravel.

She dropped the folder onto the desk like it was white-hot. “It’s not what it looks like…” Her tender throat moved as she attempted to swallow. “I…I was just about to put it back.”

Slowly, very slowly, he shut the door behind him. Then walked to her, the floor like a swamp under his feet. “You betrayed me.”

She stepped back, her eyes filling with tears.

Goodness gracious, pain stabbed at him. He should hate her. It was he who should be in tears. And yet, seeing her sad made him want to suffer any wound if only she would smile again.

“I didn’t!” she cried. “I’m sorry.”

Lies. And more lies, he told himself. She wasn’t sorry. She was just pretending.

“Were you going to steal it and take it to your father?” he demanded, walking around the desk to stand right in front of her.

He towered over her, trying and failing to ignore her delicious scent. She was so delicate and so small, and yet no one in his life had such a powerful ability to hurt him.

She straightened her shoulders, her blue-gray eyes never leaving him. “No.”

His lip crawled up. “Do not lie to me. Do not dare take me for a fool. You searched for it in the desk and took it out!”

“I didn’t even look inside!” she yelled back.

“Well, good then that I came home so early. Had I come a minute later, you’d have already left with this.”

She picked the folder up again. “What is it anyway, Preston?”

“It’s best you don’t know.” He snatched it out of her hand and shoved it deep into the upper drawer of his desk. The slam of the drawer was a cannonade exploding around him. “Don’t you understand? Your ignorance is your peace of mind. I’m protecting you!”

She took one step towards him and softly laid her hand on his chest. His mouth went dry. One innocent touch and tingles showered through him.

“You don’t need to protect me, Preston,” she said quietly and gently. “I’m a grown woman. A duchess, no less.”

“Penelope, of course you’re a grown woman. I just don’t—”

He just didn’t want to break her heart, he wanted to say, but she interrupted him.

“I admit it. Papa asked me to bring him a red leather folder. Yes. But, Preston, he was so poorly. He isn’t doing well. He’s much thinner.”