Penelope primly arranged herself on the sofa once again, and retrieved the knitting. She had been just about ready to turn her findings over to Hugh, before he’d insulted her.
He hadn’t insulted her hair or her dress or her face. No. He’d insulted the very essence of who she was. It took all of her concentration to keep tears from falling.
Hugh sat on the floor and simply looked at her, dumbfounded. “It was just a question!”
Penelope blinked hard so that she could see what her needles were doing. There really wasn’t enough light in here to knit properly. “I am who I am,” she replied.
She did not look up but sensed Hugh’s continued contemplation of her.
“You think I am insulting who you are?”
“I don’t wish to discuss this.” Penelope was already far too emotional these days.
Hugh pushed himself up and returned to sit beside her. She scooted away from him, deliberately avoiding his touch.
But he would not let this go. “I did not insult who you are, Pen. I was merely wondering if it was necessary to be so different in order to be you.” Now his voice was cajoling, sympathetic. Dash it all, her eyes burned again.
She’d always been different.
For if she was the same… she would lose… herself.
“It’s the way of our world, Hugh,” she said, realizing she’d just created a bungled knot of yarn rather than a proper stitch.
“So, you truly believe that if you ever dressed up a little, flirted a little, married and had children, you could not live by the values you believe in?”
The question threw her into even more turmoil. For when she’d made that blasted decision to have a child, she’d compromised her own position on women and the potential of womanhood in general.
“What of you, Hugh? Would you wish to marry a woman who was of her own mind? Would you marry a woman who disagreed with you and was not afraid to say so? Would you marry a woman who didn’t laugh at all your jokes? Or look at you adoringly in wide eyed innocence? What if she were smarter than you? Could you marry a woman like that?”
“We aren’t talking about me,” Hugh said stubbornly.
“But we are, Hugh, for you represent the typical London Gentleman Bachelor. You are titled, you own land, you are of a good family, and will eventually have to set up a nursery. Tell me, Hugh, what kind of woman do you foresee as your wife?”
This was crazy. Why was she goading him so? Soon, very soon, she was going to take away all of his options. How was she going to feel when she knew he wanted somebody who was completely opposite from her?
Even if he truly needed a strong woman by his side—a strong,smartwoman.
Hugh was considering her question, however. “Honestly, Penelope, I’m not looking for a certain ‘type’ of woman.” He’d leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and was staring at his hands. He sounded pensive, almost melancholy. “Against common practice, against the advice of my mother and my sister and pretty much all of theton, I foresee marrying a woman I can love. As besotted as Cortland is, I want what he has finally found. I want a woman who is a friend to me, who is a lover to me. I want to marry for love. Did you think I had avoided marriage all of these years because I wished to shirk my responsibilities to my title and my family?”
Penelope was stunned.Oh no, no, no!What had she done? Hugh and she had discussed numerous subjects over the years they’d known each other. They’d discussed politics, society, fashion, and gossiped about common friends even. But they had not ever discussed the desires of their hearts. And now here he was, declaring that he had simply been waiting all this time to marry because he hadn’t yet found the right woman.
He’d not yet found the woman he wished to marry.
But here she was. Ready for him to marry her, desperate for him to marry her, in fact.
And she was not the right woman.
Oh, hell.
* * *
Hugh let out a long sigh and leaned into the cushioned back of the sofa. Why was he having this conversation with Penelope Crone, of all people?
And what was he blathering on about the “right woman” to her for? He’d not really even admitted such to himself. But as he sat next to this termagant, he concluded to himself that it was exactly why he’d not given into his mother’s matchmaking. He’d not ever felt… interested enough in one woman to the point that he could consider spending the rest of his life with her. In fact, the mere idea of pledging himself to any of them was enough to send him as quickly as possible in the opposite direction. The debutantes he’d met were almost always only slightly more entertaining to him than… a new pair of boots. He frowned. Some, not even that, for a pair of good or bad fitting Hessians could make or break a gentleman’s day.
Indeed, he’d learned quickly not to dally with a debutante unless he wished to be netted.
Chorus girls and dancers could not net themselves a gentleman. Upon which thought, Talia came to mind. He’d been her protector for nearly two years, the longest attachment he’d ever allowed himself. But Talia had received an offer from a French gentleman and actually left him. She’d given him an ultimatum, the impertinent chit, said if he’d see fit to marry her, she would turn the Frenchman down.
