Penelope glanced at Hugh sharply. “It’s only a dance!” she said as he twirled her back into Pinkerton’s grasp.
“You’ve not answered my question.” Pinkerton leaned his head down and spoke near her face so that she would be sure to hear him over the music. “Have you been locked away in a castle somewhere for most of your life?”
Oh, good Heavens. The man was an utter fool. She’d been at nearly every ball held for the past ten years. “Not exactly,” she answered, turning away from him. His breath was nauseating; onions and garlic and, ugh, cigar smoke.
He released her, and Rome caught her in a turn. “Natalie said you had planned on foregoing the season this year. I have to admit, seeing you here is a pleasant surprise.” Lady Natalie Castleton, recently married, was Rome’s only sister and a friend to Penelope.
Rome’s scent was clean and musky, his grasp warm and firm. “I changed my mind,” she said, feeling breathless.
And back to Pinkerton again. Penelope tried to hold her breath through the steps, afraid of what would happen if forced to inhale. “Funny,” the older man said. “I’ve known your father for years—never knew he even had a daughter.”
Oh, that was complimentary. “Well, he does,” she said on an exhale and was then handed off to Hugh again.
“You look a bit green,” Hugh said, looking concerned. His hands were strong as he guided her along the length of the hall. Luckily, it was time for a long promenade. The twirling had not been a good thing. “Breathe through your mouth.”
She allowed him to guide them through the steps, all the time wishing she could simply lean into him and stop moving. But she did as he said, and by the time he passed her back to Pinkerton, she felt a little revived.
She kept her face averted from him as much as possible as Pinkerton continued to bemoan the fact that they’d never met and was then thankfully handed back to Rome.
“I barely recognized you, Pen,” he said sheepishly as he pressed his palm against hers and they turned a circle. His palm was firm and his clothing impeccable. Rome Spencer had always been one of the most respectable bachelors she’d ever known. He’d never been very rakish, spending much of his time assisting his father in the management of their numerous estates.
She remembered on a few occasions how he’d seemed to disapprove of Hugh’s lifestyle.
But what had happened with the lady from last year? She was certain he must be betrothed by now. She glanced over at him from under her lashes and smiled tentatively. He was not asking her about crop prices, nor was he seeking her opinion on Parliamentary laws.
And back to Pinkerton. Unfortunately, she pulled in a lungful of his odor before remembering to breathe through her mouth. Waves of nausea rolled around inside of her. In, out, in, out. Step, turn, step, step, step…
Pinkerton pulled her closer than was necessary, his clammy hands digging possessively into her waist. She contemplated giving him a facer.
If she didn’t get sick on him first.
The man was saying something to her, but she could not focus on his words.
Air. She needed to get out of here.
When Hugh pulled her alongside him, she could have cried in relief.
Except that this dance seemed as though it was never going to end. She closed her eyes briefly as Hugh’s arms held her up.
And then, all of a sudden, the air on her face was cool and the litany of smells she’d been experiencing turned to a wholesome scent of grass and flowers. As she opened her eyes, she realized she was outside on the terrace and being led to a concrete bench.
Hugh, the ornery, obnoxious, womanizing drunkard, was sitting her down tenderly and smoothing her hair away from her face. Penelope slumped against him as he murmured soothing words over her head.
“It’s all right, Pen. Take deep breaths. That’s a good girl.” He’d tucked her in beside him and was rubbing her arm lightly.
For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.
* * *
Something was very wrong with Penelope Crone. Hugh should have known when she arrived at Augusta Heights uninvited and unchaperoned. She was just so damn proud. Far too independent for her own good.
But not in this moment. He tucked her head beneath his chin and continued rubbing her arm. He heard a sniffle and a muffled whimper.
“Are you crying, Pen?” he asked softly.
Another whimper. “No,” she said.
Shewascrying.
