The wind in the hedges sighed,at last.
~~~
Penelope believed she possessed the power of“right,”and she believed that power made her capable of vanquishing men of greed and ill-intent.
But facing a sea of faces—some lustful, some hostile, and all of them marred with the volatile mix of haughty condescension and bitter envy—and armed with only a pretty dress, she suddenly understood the truth.
The men she hoped to vanquish were the same men who had written the laws and owned the courts. They were the same men who commandedallarbiters of power from the armies to the customs houses, to the lowly inquests in pubs.
Against them, the power of“right”was a meager weapon at best.
Pen swallowed as she was announced, feeling the weight of the duchess’s pearls resting against her dried throat.
Give me strength.
Mr. Anthony—standing next to Sir Jerold, the magistrate—made a motion for the music to resume, and the rise of conversation followed. Then, Anthony stretched out his hand in a silent gesture screaming with authority.
Borrowedauthority—less his right than the duchess’s pearls were hers.
She made her way across the room, iron in her gaze, steel in her fixed smile.
“My dear Lady Cheverley”—Mr. Anthony clasped her fingers—“how good of you to join us.”
“But of course,” she replied, grateful for gloves.
“You have deceived me.” He did not return her smile. “I thought you above such petty concerns as fashion.”
“Petty?” She blinked. “I thought you would be pleased. Fashion appears to be among you and your guests’ chief concerns. Did you not insist I make a good impression?”
“I’m pleased, of course.”
His grip tightened. She nearly stumbled as he yanked her close and kissed her cheeks. His lips lingered next to her ear a moment longer than proper—a warning that did not have to be spoken.
“Lady Cheverley,” Sir Jerold greeted, “you look like a duchess.”
“Thank you,” she replied, though reprimand threaded through Sir Jerold’s voice. “Have your patrols been successful?”
“Not a Frenchman to be found”—Sir Jerold rocked back on his heels—“I’m proud to say.”
“I sleep soundly, sir”—she opened her fan—“knowing your militia is patrolling the shoreline.”
“Yes, well,” Sir Jerold replied. “We do our best.”
Anthony sent Sir Jerold a not-so-subtle glance and tilted his head.
Sir Jerold cleared his throat. “If you would excuse me.”
“Of course.” She curtseyed to his bow before he disappeared into the crush.
“I always marvel”—Mr. Anthony spoke low—“how closely you can approximate a person of noble birth.”
“I have many talents which would surprise you.”
He faced her with lifted brow. “I wonder what your sartorial talents”—his eyes fell to the pearls—“are attempting to convey.”
“I should think that is obvious.” She fluttered her fan, forcing an inviting glance. “I wish to retain my place in this household.”
He studied her intentionally inscrutable expression. “Does that mean you are accepting my proposal?”
