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Preston let out a quick sigh. “I bought Lord Beckett’s debt from Solomon Eastbourne. I couldn’t stand your father hurting another person that I love. You.”
Hurt burst through her like a gunshot. “So you’re forcing him out? You’re continuing your revenge?”
Preston held her gaze for a while, then nodded his head, his eyes wet.
“Stop this, Preston! He’ll be on the streets. He’ll be a beggar!”
He said nothing.
She couldn’t believe this. Her own husband would condemn her papa to the lowest state to which a human being could fall. She guessed this was the answer to her question, whether he chose love or revenge. Tears blurred her vision, and he was nothing but a beige and black spot against the pale blue of the bedchamber. She was burning inside.
“If you don’t stop this, I’ll leave you, Preston. If you choose revenge, you don’t choose me. You don’t choose our happiness. Which will it be?”
He stood, shaking, his jaw muscles working, his chest rising and falling quickly.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
She couldn’t let him destroy the only parent she had left, no matter what her father had done.
“So this is what I was for you all this time, a means to an end? I was nothing to you, while I fell in love with you.”
“No, Penelope, please. I love you!”
She shook her head slowly. Her life was falling apart. She had just lost the father she’d thought she had; she had just lost her husband and her lifelong happiness.
“You may think you do. Or you may say so to make me feel better. But you don’t love me, not really. Or you wouldn’t have hurt my papa like that. I can’t leave him alone. And I can’t be with a man who chooses destruction and hatred over me. I deserve better. So do you, Preston. Buy the house or don’t. I won’t be living in it.”
With that, she walked out to save her poor, old, misguided papa.
No matter what he had done, she knew Papa couldn’t have meant to kill Spencer. He was a wounded person, but not an evil one.
27
Three days later, Penelope furiously embroidered some sort of flower in the sitting room of the hotel suite she had rented for her papa and herself using her allowance.
The sitting room featured paneled walls that were decorated with oil paintings of country landscapes and a view of the city over the Thames. Vases filled with peonies, lilacs, and tulips brightened the corners of the room, providing a pleasant fragrance.
The large paned windows were dressed with violet-fringed curtains. Candles, placed in ornate holders, stood unlit. And a carpet with patterns of red flowers and green vines covered a wooden floor.
It was a pleasant enough suite, with everything she needed…except for the man she loved.
Penelope sat on a comfortable sofa, with plush cushions and soft upholstery. Emma and Calliope sat to her right on the sofa, teacups in their hands. A tea table stood nearby with a delicate tea set.
“Dearest,” said Emma. “Would you take care? I’m afraid you’re going to miss the cloth and stab yourself.”
Penelope stopped and breathed out sharply.
“What is that supposed to be, anyway?” asked Calliope, craning her neck.
Penelope stared at the mess of yellow, orange, and black threads. “A sunflower,” she said sadly.
Emma put her cup on the saucer, slowly leaned forward, and gently took the embroidery from Penelope’s hands. Penelope’s fingers shook as she craved a release of emotion: the fury she felt towards Preston and towards herself for having fallen in love with him, the sadness of the greatest loss of her life, the hurt of her husband’s betrayal, and the frustration at her father.
“What happened?” asked Emma.
“You know what,” said Penelope, taking a cup of tea.
The cup rattled against the saucer, and she put it back. Apparently, she couldn’t stop shaking.
