Not to be distracted by these negative thoughts, Penelope enumerated to herself the reasons Danbury would be a good choice.
Proximity, first and foremost.
He was, at this very moment, lounging in Cortland’s study consuming copious amounts of celebratory scotch. For this was where the gentlemen had spent the past twenty or so hours awaiting the news of a safe delivery for the duchess and their little marquess.
Tolerability as well.
Hugh, as a friend, could very possibly be molded into a tolerable husband. He was pleasant, had a fine sense of humor, and wasn’t a complete idiot.
Neither was he hard on the eyes.
And ah, yes, suitability. As a viscount, he was born of a fine lineage. Her parents would not find any fault in him whatsoever. Which wasn’t really an issue for Penelope, but it would make things easier.
Availability.
Hmmm… this was an uncertainty. Not that Danbury was actually attached to any other female of her acquaintance, but he had certainly been successful in escaping wedlock thus far.
The debutantes who’d set their sights upon Viscount Danbury had gone about attempting to capture him in all the wrong ways. They’d endeavored to seduce him with their frills, sighs, batting eyelashes, and empty-headed opinions.
But Penelope had an advantage. SheknewHugh.
She knew him for what he was. A bit of a rogue. He preferred a turn of the ankle to a pretty blush any day. He preferred cleavage to lace, passion to infatuation, and he also preferred…
Red hair.
How did she know this? How could shenotknow this? Every demi-mondaine he’d ever appeared with had had red hair. Quite honestly, he must have worked his way through piles and piles of the stuff. And why had Penelope noticed this tendency?
Well, she had red hair herself. Not the brassy, deep-colored red hair of Danbury’s lady friends, but a sun-kissed sort of red, closer to blond, but definitely red.
This could come in quite handy.
And, she reasoned with herself, Danbury needed to marry eventually. He was halfway through his thirties, for heaven’s sake. He might as well marry her. They got along well enough. Aside from some occasional bickering, that was.
She was a baron’s daughter and tolerably pretty when she put forth an effort. She had a decent-sized dowry, and she was smart as a whip.
Well, perhaps he would not appreciate the last attribute in his wife at first, but eventually, he would be forced to admit that such a characteristic made for a considerable asset in the woman one married.
With her as his wife, he would not beggar any of his estates, nor would he cast any unwise votes in Parliament.
Yes, Danbury could use such a guiding hand as hers.
The cool air sent a shiver through her as she entered the large open foyer of the ancient castle. It reminded her of entering a cathedral—or a museum. The large home at Summer’s Park certainly boasted enough artwork and sculptures to rival either. She handed her coat, bonnet, and gloves to the stoic butler and then commenced climbing the long curving staircase to the upper floors.
Would Danbury still be in the study?
Would he be alone?
Penelope stopped to glance in a mirror at one of the landings and pushed a few tendrils of hair behind her ears. She then removed her fichu and tucked it into her skirt. Shimmying her shoulders a bit, she leaned forward and plumped her breasts upward, so they were nearly coming out of her stays. Ah, yes, a bit of cleavage was just what she needed. She bit her lips to plump them up as well.
Much better. Studying herself again, she untucked the hair from behind her ears and pulled out a few hairpins. The released strands made her look softer… less the spinster she’d been for several years now.
Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks were a bit reddened from the cold outside. Penelope bit her lips one last time and smoothed her skirts.
If Danbury was to be the father to her child, she’d best get to work now.
She spun on her heel and marched purposefully toward the masculine study, her plan to land a husband underway.
Later, she would consider that perhaps she ought to have slept on the matter first—allowed herself a few days to consider the matter practically. One didn’t always make the wisest of decisions when they’d gone two days without sleep.
