“Of course,” Penelope promised as she put on one of her cloaks, and she felt Cecil adjust it slightly for her.
“Let me escort you to your carriage,” he murmured, leading her away from his sister, who cooed and waved at them both.
The evening air was cool and pleasant, the gravel quiet beneath their feet, and he stayed close at her side as they descended the front steps. When they reached the carriage, he held the door open and helped her in himself before she could take the footman's hand, which made her smile.
“Tomorrow,” he said, standing at the carriage door with his hand still resting on the frame. “I will come to your house tomorrow morning. At a reasonable hour, this time.”
“Lionel does prefer callers to arrive after ten,” she offered helpfully.
“I shall arrive at ten and one minute, then.” He looked at her with an expression she was learning to read – open andquiet and entirely his own. “I will ask for your hand, Penelope. Properly. And then there will be nothing standing in the way of us.”
“No,” she agreed softly, her heart lifting with a happiness so genuine and uncomplicated that it almost surprised her. “Nothing at all.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, as though committing the sight of her face to memory, and then stepped back and allowed the footman to close the door.
She watched him from the window as the carriage pulled away, standing at the end of the drive until she could no longer see him.
By the time she arrived home, the joy was so thoroughly written across her face that she had barely set foot inside the foyer before Lionel appeared from the direction of his study, a book tucked under his arm, and raised his brows at the sight of her.
“You look extraordinarily pleased with yourself,” he observed. “Did you have a nice time at tea with Nora?”
Penelope beamed at him – brighter than she had in weeks, brighter perhaps than she had in months.
“I had a wonderful time,” she said. “The most wonderful time.”
Lionel studied her a moment longer with the particular look he wore when he suspected there was considerably more to a story than he was being told. She held his gaze, unable to suppress the happiness, but leaving her features open and honest, so he would know there was nothing to worry about.
Eventually, he smiled, shook his head fondly, and returned to his study.
Penelope exhaled in relief and hurried up the stairs to her room, pressed her back against the closed door, and let herself feel it – every last bit of the warmth and wonder and impossible, exquisite joy of it.
Tomorrow, she thought.Tomorrow, everything would truly begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Are you all right, Penelope?”
She startled, nearly upsetting her teacup in the process, and looked up to find Lionel watching her from across the breakfast table with the particular expression he wore when he was deciding between amusement and genuine concern.
“Perfectly well,” she said, and reached for the marmalade with perhaps more purposefulness than was necessary. “Why do you ask?”
Lionel set down his newspaper with deliberate care.
“Because you have been staring at that window for the better part of ten minutes, your eggs have gone entirely cold, and –” he paused, a flicker of something crossing his face– “You have just mixed jam into your tea.”
Penelope looked down and quickly confirmed that she had indeed done as he said. A perfectly good cup of mint tea was now swimming with what appeared to be an alarming quantity of strawberry conserve, turning the whole thing a deeply unappetising shade of pink.
“I am fine,” she said, with as much dignity as she could manage, as a servant appeared at her elbow. Lionel caught the man's eye and gave a brief nod, and the ruined cup was whisked away and replaced with a fresh one before Penelope had time to protest.
“You are not fine,” Lionel said pleasantly. “You are distracted. Which is entirely fine if you are being honest about being all right. But I do wish you would do it somewhere other than directly in front of me, as I find myself unable to pretend I haven't noticed.”
“I am simply tired. I did not sleep as soundly as I might have wished.” Penelope said, which was technically the truth.
She had not slept especially well, though not from sorrow this time – rather, from an alarming amount of anticipation so keen it had kept her awake for most of the night.
Lionel studied her for a moment longer, the way he always did when he suspected she was telling him only part of a story. “Are you unwell? Should I send for a physician?”
“Absolutely not,” Penelope said firmly. “I am not unwell. I am tired. They are not the same thing, as I am certain the physicianwould confirm, and I would prefer not to inconvenience the man simply because I had a restless night.”
