Chapter 1
Amiracle.
It had taken a miracle to change Penelope Cross’s mind about spinsterhood, but her mind had changed, nonetheless.
Penelope wrinkled her nose. Had it been a miracle? It was simply a baby. A birth. The creation of life.
Perhaps itwasa miracle, after all. Penelope placed her gloved hands atop the sturdy fence post, leaned her head forward, and pressed it against the wood. The air was crisp; the sun bright. A bit of snow remained in the shaded areas of the meadow.
It ought to be a perfectly normal February evening.
But it was not.
After thirty-six hours of labor pains, her dear friend, Lilly, the Duchess of Cortland, had finally given birth to a tiny, red-faced, wiggling, and wrinkled human. He was all of two hours old.
Penelope had witnessed the entire event. And oh, what a spectacle it had been. One would think at the ripe age of eight-and-twenty that nothing could change her mind about what she wanted in life. But this…
Seeing a child enter the world…
Well, it had.
And the craziest thought had developed as she’d assisted the midwife in cleaning the squirming, slimy little creature before handing him over to his exhausted mother.
I want one.
Which, of course, changed everything.
Because Penelope had long ago given up any hope of capturing the attention of her one true love. And if she could not have him, she didn’t want anybody else. She would never marry; she had decided so just this past fall.
And now this!
This bodily need—this hunger—had hit her so very unexpectedly. An emptiness had opened up inside of her, an emptiness that could only be filled by making her own little screaming human.
She smiled and covered her mouth with one hand, tears flowing down her cheeks. The look on Lilly’s face, in her eyes, when Penelope had handed her the blanketed bundle. Total fulfillment.
Penelope swiped at her tears and sniffled.
Lilly’s husband, the Duke of Cortland, had been in awe—of both his wife and his son. For theirs was a marriage of love. Not only did the duke have his heir now, but he and Lilly and that miniature human were a family now.
Penelope did not begrudge them. In fact, most of the girls who’d befriended her when she’d first entered society were now married. Not only married but happily so. Even Abigail! The least likely of them all to wed!
Again, the image of tiny little hands, tiny little feet and toes, tiny little everything, clouded her vision. And again, she experienced the hunger.
I want one!
But how? Well, the answer was obvious. Penelope sighed.I’ll have to find myself a man! A husband to be exact.
As Penelope marched back toward Summer’s Park, the duke’s large country estate near Exeter, she mentally calculated which gentlemen of her acquaintance she’d be willing to tolerate. Sincehewas most definitely not interested, she was going to have to find somebody else. Somebody she could bear for the remainder of her life—or his, whichever the case may be.
She could always set her sights upon one of his brothers. But Penelope quickly dismissed the notion.
If she could not havehim,then she most definitely did not wish to become a part of his family.
No, she would have to find some other lucky gent.
Hugh Chesterton, the Viscount of Danbury, was the most obvious choice. Except Danbury had eluded marriage for as long as she’d known him. Nearly ten years, in fact!
Ouch. This fact reminded her that the next London season would be her tenth. Most would consider her firmly upon the shelf. At eight and twenty, she could never hope to take thetonby storm. She’d become something more along the lines of a drizzle. She personified London itself—in the form of a woman. Had she really participated in a decade of seasons?
