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Having already seen the gardener during their earlier tour, Penelope was certain he would be at the very far end of the garden by now, so she crept down the patio steps, making quickly for the stone archway leading around the side of the house to the street out front. There had been one good thing about the tour, it had let her get her bearings enough to know just how far she had to go before she could tell herself she was safe.
Penelope kept glancing over her shoulder, her skin crawling with anxiety, half-expecting Mrs Cartwright to appear and ask if she was well or needed anything. Would the housekeeper instantly guess she was trying to slip away, or would she innocently believe that Penelope was merely admiring the roses some more, reminding her once again that the previous lady of the house had planted them herself and tended to them daily?
It wasn't at all likely that Clara would ever do the same once she was the lady of the house, and Penelope felt sorry for the roses, hoping that the gardener would be well equipped enough to make sure they weren't neglected.
Forget about Clara! Forget about the Comte! Forget about them all!Penelope snapped at herself as she yanked open the large wrought iron gate with a squeak and hurried out onto the street.
At the very last moment she realised she had forgotten to be cautious. In her haste to be gone from the townhouse before the duke and his sisters arrived, Penelope hadn't even thought to check where she was running. She half-turned from glancing back over her shoulder only to realise she had walked right into something.
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed the moment she stumbled backwards. Hands gripped her arms, and she suddenly realised with alarm that it hadn't been something but someone.
Dark yet pleasant brown eyes caught Penelope's the moment she looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. The man who had grabbed hold of her, preventing her from falling backwards onto her rear, was quite possibly one of the most handsome men she had ever laid eyes upon. With a creamy, caramel complexion as though he enjoyed the sun and being out in nature and warm dark chocolate eyes, he smiled at her almost sheepishly.
"I apologise, miss. I appear to have stepped right into your path."
At his apology Penelope's cheeks blushed. Not just because she was embarrassed at how he had been forced to grab her due to her clumsiness but also because she knew that it was most assuredly entirely her fault.
"Oh, no, please," she shook her head and instinctively took a step away from him, relieved and even a little disappointed when his hands dropped from her arms to his sides, "It was entirely my fault, sir."
Respectfully and with no idea of what else to do, Penelope bowed her head and instinctively dropped into a curtsey.
"Oh, please, call me Anthony," the dark-haired gentleman responded, and when she lifted her face once more, barely daring to look at him, she saw he was smiling down at her with genuine friendliness.
"Brother, are you quite alright?" A strange and feminine voice sounded close by, and Penelope quickly realised it had come from the carriage at the side of the road, right in front of the duke's townhouse.
"Yes, Elizabeth, though I appear to have got in the way of a rather pretty young woman," Anthony threw over his shoulder, and Penelope's cheeks reddened further. It was quite clear from his appearance that the man was far from common, though he did not sound entirely prim and proper or even pompous, merely friendly and charming.
"Oh, Anthony, you have always had a habit of getting in the way," came the response, and a beautiful woman, very similar in colouring to her brother, appeared from the back of the carriage, helped down by a man in dark green livery.
Penelope was so taken by the attractiveness of the young woman and an even more beautiful blonde who followed her that she barely heard the sound of the townhouse front door opening atop the porch steps behind her.
"Lord Chatham, Lady Elizabeth, Lady …." came the oddly familiar voice of Mr Mathers, and he cut off just as Penelope's spine began to tense with realisation. "Oh, Lady St Clair, I hadn't anticipated your being out here. I believed you were in the parlour."
A lump formed on Penelope's windpipe, bile rising in the back of her throat, and suddenly she felt as though she couldn't breathe.
Lord Chatham!she exclaimed silently, looking once more into those dark chocolate eyes. Never in a million years would she have guessed that Clara would ever be so lucky. When she had pictured Lord Chatham after hearing about her engagement to him, Penelope had believed that Clara's husband-to-be would be at least ten years older with greying hair and perhaps even a ripened belly to show his love of food and all things fine.
That could not be said for the man standing before her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and even his thickly layered outfit could not disguise the fact that his body was well maintained and banded with muscle.
"Lady St Clair!" the duke exclaimed, clearly sounding as surprised as she felt, though she was certain that it was for quite different reasons to her own. She was both shocked and alarmed when he dropped into a low bow and reached for her gloved hand. "It is an honour to meet you, My Lady."
Chapter 9
The young lady standing before Anthony looked absolutely terrified, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. Sympathy for her gripped his gut the moment he realised just how difficult this situation must be for her. After all, she was entirely alone while he was surrounded by his sisters and servants. He glanced over the lady’s shoulder, half-hoping there might be a lady’s maid at her back, but no, as he had suspected, she was entirely alone.
“Please, Lady St Clair, allow me to formally introduce myself,” Anthony insisted when she continued to stare at him with large almond-shaped blue-green eyes that reminded him a little of the ocean. “I am Anthony Grafton, Duke of Chatham.”
The words threatened to stick in his throat because still, he wasn’t used to them. Calling himself duke made him feel ridiculous, and he wasn’t sure he would ever grow used to it.
Still, the young lady continued to stare at him, looking quite dumbfounded, and oddly, Anthony did not find it off-putting. Instead, he found it gave him the time to look at her properly, and to his surprise, he found that he very much admired what he saw.
As she had been described to him, Lady St Clair was quite beautiful, yet she was even more stunning than he had ever been able to picture. With those large, blue-green eyes, so expressive that he felt he could see her thoughts buzzing about her mind, and her dark brown, almost black hair that fell in a chignon, cascading in waving curls over one shoulder.
The powder blue day dress she wore only accentuated the pale milkiness of her skin, and Anthony’s fingertips itched to reach out and stroke her cheek just to see if it was as smooth as it appeared.
Seeing that she stood before him, trembling in terror, Anthony quickly smiled in the hopes of easing her discomfort and allowed a gentle chuckle to escape his lips. “You may call me Anthony. Might I call you Clara?”
The young lady dipped her head quickly, though he did not miss the way her cheeks blushed. “Actually, Your Grace, those closest to me usually call me Rose,” she told him, though her voice was rather quiet. Before he could ask her why, she blurted a little louder, “It is a middle name, Your Grace.”
