Chapter One
"Ijust don't understand, Mother, how on earth I'm supposed to marry a man that I've danced with perhaps three times at a ball and taken a couple of promenades with. It's a lifelong commitment – surely I need to know him better than that?"
Her mother, the Countess Strachan, sighed wearily. It certainly wasn’t the first time Penelope had raised this topic, nor was it the first time she had given the same response.
"That's the way it's done, Penelope. It's the way I met your father, it's how your grandmother met your grandfather, and you cannot turn down every proposal you receive. You're a beautiful young lady, there's no denying that – but every year, more and more beautiful young ladies come onto the marriage market, and those who have been there longer look less appealing."
Penelope had to bite her tongue to avoid arguing with her mother. She never won arguments with her mother, so there really was no use in starting one. They would soon be relocating to London for her fifth Season – and she wondered if she would receive more offers of marriage which she would inevitably turn down, or whether her mother was right and she was growing less appealing to society as the years progressed.
"I just want to know that the man I marry cares for me, and not just for my dowry or title."
"And so he will," her mother said without much conviction. "Now, don't forget that we’re attending the ball at Blackthorne Castle tomorrow night. Your dress is ready. Make sure that if you go out wandering, you're back in plenty of time to change."
Her mother said ‘wandering’ with as much disdain as if Penelope had been out gutting fish or mucking out stables – both of which she probably thought were just as unsuitable as her daughter’s proclivity for exploring nature.
But why shouldn’t she spend time outside? They lived – in Penelope’s opinion, and based on her limited experience – in the most beautiful part of the world: Northumberland. She loved walking far enough to see the sea or taking a horse for long canters through woodland. Sometimes she stayed in the grounds of their beautiful home, Amblewood Castle, and found new pathways to explore. But she was always happiest outdoors.
Alone.
"I won’t forget, Mother," Penelope said with a resigned sigh. The Duke of Blackthorne was one of many men her parents had hoped she would marry. In fact, she had been rather worried when the reclusive duke decided to re-enter society that her parents might arrange a marriage and announce it without her consent.
He was good-looking, certainly, and although she found him rather terrifying, the rumours swirling around him had all been discredited. But she hadn’t known him, not really… And then he had fallen in love with his mother’s companion, shocking the ton and severely disappointing the Countess Strachan.
Penelope had seen them together, though – the grumpy, limping duke and the fair-headed ray of sunshine who was now the duchess. No one could doubt the love they shared. They glowed with happiness, always aware of one another, alwaysclose. It was clearly a true love match – and Penelope was very pleased for them.
Was it too much to want a man to look at her the way the Duke of Blackthorne looked at his wife? She didn’t think so. But as a woman, she did not really have the luxury of hiding away for a decade and still being considered eligible when she re-entered society.
She would quite happily hide away at Amblewood Castle for a decade, she thought. She hated London; it was too loud, too busy, too stressful. But if – or when – her mother succeeded in finding her a husband she was willing to accept, it seemed unlikely she could avoid spending at least part of the year in London. All the fashionable set did, and she had endured the Season there every year since she’d come of age.
It seemed unlikely she would find a husband in Northumberland, given that in five years of searching, no one local had made himself an obvious choice.
If only she were a man, she often thought. Just for the freedom it would offer: the ability to inherit Amblewood, for one. It didn’t seem fair that her beloved home should go to some cousin of her father’s simply because her parents had not had a son.
There had been talk of her marrying the cousin when it became apparent she was not going to accept any of the eligible young men who courted her during her first and second Seasons.
But he was an old man, at least the same age as Papa, and she had struggled with the thought of being married to such a gentleman.
Sometimes she wondered whether she had made a mistake in turning him down. Not that he had ever made a formal offer, but there had been an understanding…
If she’d married him, she thought as she wandered through the rose garden, at least one day she would be mistress of Amblewood.
Well, assuming her husband didn’t pass away before her father. And if he did inherit, and she failed to produce a son – well, once again, everything would go to some unknown male.
It all seemed to hinge on luck – or the lack of it – and having the right man by your side.
The warm summer sun shone down upon her, and she closed her eyes to enjoy its warmth, seeing no solution to her present difficulty. Marrying to secure Amblewood didn’t make much sense, and anyway, she didn’t want a marriage based on such mercenary reasons. She wanted, no matter how foolish her mother thought it, love.
But how on earth did one fall in love during a brief and busy ballroom encounter?
In the end, she lost track of time while wandering the estate and had to sneak in and hurry to her room to dress for the ball before her mother noticed her tardiness.
She pulled the cord to summon her lady’s maid, Sarah. Thankfully, Sarah could be trusted to be quick and discreet. Over the years, Sarah had mended many tears in Penelope’s dresses from her adventures and scrubbed grass stains from her frocks too. They didn’t always manage to hide her activities from her mother, but they did a pretty good job.
Penelope was sitting at her dressing table when Sarah arrived, carrying a pile of clean clothes.
"I’m running late, Sarah," Penelope said. "I think we’ll have to keep my hair simple. And is that the dress Mother picked out?" she asked, gesturing to the pale pink gown hanging on the armoire door.
Penelope hated pink. The reddish tinge to her brunette hair clashed terribly with it, making her look completely washed out. But there was no arguing with her mother, who thought it an eminently suitable colour for a young lady seeking a husband.
