“But you planting him a facer was one of the best things I’ve experienced in a long time. I am very cross with that man. I remember very well how you suffered back at the seminary, waiting to hear from him. You were always watching the street and never left the window in the library.”
Pen leaned her dark head against Lucy’s shoulder.
The door opened, and the butler entered. “The Duke of Rochford, Your Grace.”
“Speaking of the devil.” Lucy jumped up.
Pen wrung her hands. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. Ever.”
“I don’t blame you. But Pen. Think. You’ve been waiting for him for years, and scoured London for him, and now he’s finally here, and you don’t want to talk to him?”
Pen didn’t understand it herself. She wanted to run away, stick her head in the sand and pretend none of it ever happened.
The duke sauntered into the room, his hair dishevelled, his necktie loose, and aside from sporting a purple-black eye, he seemed sober.
“Good morning, ladies.” He gave a small bow. “Duchess?” His smile was crooked.
Lucy nodded frostily. “I shall sit over there—” she pointed to an armchair by the window, “sewing.” Lucy, who never sewed, picked up an embroidery ring, sat in the armchair and stabbed the cloth with her needle.
Marcus and Pen inspected each other in silence.
“I am sorry for the black eye.” Pen finally said. “But I am not sorry that I hit you.” She crossed her arms.
“I suppose I deserved it.” He raked a hand through his hair and slouched into a chair with a sigh. “I thought I’d done my duty when I dropped you off at that school.”
“All those years, you might’ve written a word or two. Or visited me. Or sent me a package with sweets and books. Or allow me to stay during the holidays with you, in London, or wherever you were all this time—” Pen’s voice sounded more and more damning.
Lucy, from the window, made assenting noises but did not raise her head from her embroidery.
“I am a hideous guardian,” Marcus agreed. “A wastrel and a cad.”
“A rake and a scallywag,” Pen added.
“Scoundrel and blackguard,” Lucy contributed from the window.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Have we exhausted the synonyms yet?”
Pen racked her brain for more but drew a blank. She’d been prepared to battle with him. Not having anything else to say regarding the nature of his awful guardianship, she merely glared at him.
“I want to apologise, Pen. I had no idea you ran away. I thought my lawyer had everything in order and was in regular contact with you. You must believe me. It was only when Fariq found me and told me what you’d been up to that I, er—”
“Remembered me,” Pen finished his sentence with a scowl.
“Not precisely in those terms, but well.” He cleared his throat. “It appeared you were doing rather well on your own anyhow.” He shrugged.
“To sum it up: when you were finally reminded of Pen’s existence, you did nothing at all,” Lucy’s censorious voice came from the window. “Only to declare later to all and sundry that you were her guardian. You might as well have shouted it from the moon. Couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut when it really mattered? Pen’s reputation is in tatters.”
A flush of red crawled over his neck. “I was foxed. I didn’t think.”
“Obviously.” Lucy lifted her needle as if she intended to stab him. “But I suppose you can’t tell someone who doesn’t care about his reputation to care about someone else's.” Pen had never seen her so angry.
Marcus had no reply to that.
“You know, I used to worship the ground you walked on,” Pen said quietly into the silence.
Lucy looked at her with a worried frown between her eyes.
“Damnation. I know.” He pulled at his already loose cravat.
