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Sebastian was right. He could still choose love. Choose her. Give up his pride. It was his pride that kept driving him to destroy Lord Beckett, even when he was a fallen man who needed help. Penelope saw that, but he’d failed to because of his stubborn pride. The same stubborn pride that had made him fight with Spencer over her.

“I’m still responsible for his death,” he said as he stood up and started pacing the room. “How can I allow myself to be happy with the only woman my brother loved? How can I live with myself?”

Richard said, “You can’t blame yourself for Spencer’s death. You didn’t know what was going to happen that night. And the thugs would have simply found another way, another time to get at Spencer if you had been with him. Or maybe you both would have been killed.” Suddenly, Richard walked to him and placed his heavy hand on Preston’s shoulder, stopping him. Preston looked into those blue eyes so like their father’s. “I would not trade your life for Spencer’s, as much as I loved him and wish he were still with us. I love you just as fiercely, as does the entire family.”

Preston was stunned. How could his brother’s words have reached right into that achy, old wound in his soul? The chasm that was born when he’d had to sit alone in the carriage bound to Scotland and watch his family and Grandhampton Court grow farther away into the distance.

Only, the wound didn’t hurt anymore. His chest tightened with love and gratitude for his younger brother. He knew he must say something, but his throat was a painful knot, so he simply clasped Richard’s hand for a moment and squeezed it.

Richard continued, understanding and sparing Preston from having to reply. “First of all, before you forgive Lord Beckett, you must forgive yourself. Or you’ll never be able to get past it.”

Preston nodded. Richard was so right. He felt the poison of revenge corroding his own life as well as Penelope’s and her father’s, twisting his very soul. He also knew what it felt like to be free of it. The light and the ease of breath he’d felt in those happy moments with Penelope.

Spencer wouldn’t want Penelope’s father to live like this. Spencer was the kind of man who would see past those things. He’d tell Preston happiness and love don’t come often in this life. That he should cherish that love. Protect it.

Live it.

Because his brother would never be able to.

Forgiveness swept through him in a hot onrush of energy. The walls around his heart had crumbled down and he could be himself.

And he had to go and get Penelope back.

29

Preston walked into the Countess of Whitemouth’s salon the next evening, his gut twisting. The room was full of guests who sat in rows of chairs facing the very end of the room where Lady Isabella, the daughter of Earl and Lady Whitemouth, played something very pretty, and a short woman in her forties sang so beautifully, something squeezed in his gut.

Footmen stood along the walls of the room at attention. The chandeliers and the candelabras were unlit, with the only light coming from the lamps and candles standing on the pianoforte and on the sideboards behind and on both sides of the singer and the pianist.

He craned his neck, trying to see which of the heads in the three rows belonged to Penelope and Lord Beckett. Penelope was regarded by the ton with intrigue and curiosity thanks to the auction. He had managed to intervene a couple of times to ensure she was still invited to society events, but most importantly, the Duchess of Ashton hadn’t excluded her from her circle of acquaintances, which was all that Penelope cared about because of her art.

Even for those who didn’t know about the auction, the fact that they had wed so quickly gave rise to another wave of speculation. Perhaps they thought she’d been compromised. Or she may even be with child.

Preston didn’t care about those rumors, and he knew she didn’t, either, but people such as the Countess of Whitemouth would not want to invite Penelope, unwilling to risk an association with someone of questionable reputation, especially since she had Lady Isabella to marry off.

He had been worried about how Penelope would get on without him interceding on her behalf, but with a powerful patroness such as the Duchess of Ashton, Penelope was managing very nicely. His loyal spy, Calliope, had told him that the Duchess of Ashton had insisted Lady Whitemouth invite Penelope to her musical soirée if she wanted Lady Isabella to continue receiving invitations to soirées at Neverton. Calliope and Richard were in attendance, as well.

Sebastian and Emma were never invited to any of the countess’s events as it had been understood that Sebastian would marry Lady Isabella, but he had instead married Emma.

It was so dark, Preston couldn’t distinguish where any of them were. A stately female left the chairs and hurried to him.

“Your Grace…” the woman whispered loudly as she came near and then stopped before him, with her eyes blazing. It was the Countess of Whitemouth. “I did not think you would come. The invitation must have gotten lost. I am ever so sorry…”

“I realized it must have,” he said, craning his head to see if he could spot a powdered wig or Penelope’s lovely dark blond hair. “Is my wife here?”

The countess looked over her shoulder. “Indeed, she is, with Lord Beckett and Lady Calliope and Lord Richard.”

“Where are they? I must speak to her immediately.”

He made to brush past her, but the woman stopped him by laying her hand on his arm. “Your Grace… She’s in the first row, and I beg of you, you cannot mean to interrupt such a lovely performance. My daughter is playing, you see.”

“I see that, and she’s doing it so well, however—”

“Your Grace, the journalist from The Society is here, reporting on the singer, Miss Renata Democrito. Isabella’s suitors are here, too. Please do not make a scandal out of a lovely night.”

Preston stared at the countess’s imploring eyes, at her hand still clutching his elbow. He was determined. He didn’t care about a scandal or how people would see him or what they said.

He was ready to lay open his heart before her. To stand with his soul bare and vulnerable and wait for her to give her verdict. He didn’t care if he must humiliate himself.