“Different can be good,” he said, his grin softening into something steadier, more adult. “After all, we are not children anymore, Penelope Adams.”
She flinched faintly at her name in his mouth. It was familiar, yet made strange by the weight of his tone. Hugging the basket tighter to her arm, she forced a polite smile. “No. We are not.”
Henry’s eyes lingered on her face, searching, as though he might coax some recognition of feeling from her. “I imagine you’ve been made aware why we are here.”
Her chest tightened. She glanced toward her father, who stood with Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, their heads bent in conversation that looked more like negotiation than reunion.
Her lips pressed together.
“I suppose our parents mean to remind us of our… acquaintance,” she said at last.
Henry chuckled. “They mean for us to becomemorethan acquaintances, I believe.”
“That is…very forward of them.” Her throat closed. For a moment, she could not even manage a whisper. Then, because propriety demanded it, she managed to speak over the tightness in her throat. “Is another change that you always accept your parents request without protest”
“Notalways.” His smile warmed, unbothered. “Still, for some reason, I cannot find it in me to protest.”
She looked away quickly, her lashes lowering to hide the sharp twist in her chest. He was kind—he hadalwaysbeenkind—yet no flicker of anticipation stirred within her. Instead, trepidation spread through her like weeds choking a garden, curling tight until there was little room for breath.
She forced a nod, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then I am glad for you, Henry.”
But her hands trembled as they gripped the basket’s handle.
Would she even make a good wife? The question rose unbidden, sharp and merciless. No—no. She would not let her thoughts be toyed with, not by the memory of that bastard vampire, nor by the dangerous way his touch still lingered in her mind.
This was good. This wasright. Henry was eligible, steady, known to be respectable and gentle, not to mention his good name. He would give her comfort, and he was not the sort of man to raise his hand against a woman, at least his father was not. Which alone spoke to the character he was raised with. That ought to have been enough. Thatmustbe enough.
Right?
And in any case, she told herself, pressing her lips tight, of course she would make a good wife. It was her duty. Her purpose.
“And what about you?” Henry asked suddenly.
Her lashes fluttered and she lifted her eyes to his. “Pardon?”
“I do hope,” he said gently, “that this… arrangement would make you glad for yourself as well. Not only for your father.”
Penelope blinked, words lodging in her throat. For herself? The notion seemed almost laughable. Her happiness had never been something to be weighed against duty, against the pressing will of others.
“I…” She faltered, lowering her gaze to the basket in her hands. The roses within seemed mocking in their sweetness. “It is not often a young lady is asked what makes her glad, Henry.”
Something in his expression softened, though his smile dimmed at the edges. “Then perhaps I shall ask more often.”
“Perhaps,” she repeated.
Her father approached then, his laugh booming across the garden path, pride etched into the lines of his weathered face. “I see you two have had a chance to catch up,” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming.
Henry straightened, offering a respectful bow to her father just as his mother stepped forward. Lady Whitlock’s hands, adorned with too many rings, cupped Penelope’s face with an intimacy that made her stiffen. The touch was gentle in action yet cool in its weight, her eyes roaming Penelope’s features with a scrutiny that stripped more than it bestowed.
“You ought to let her out of the house more often, Barnaby,” Lady Whitlock remarked, her lips curving though no true warmth reached her gaze. “She has the complexion of aghost.For heavens sake, I can see the veins in her arms.”
Barnaby chuckled low, but Penelope did not miss the way his shoulders stiffened. “Well, with the recent happenings—those vile monsters crawling out of their burrows—I thought it safer to keep her behind lock. As you’ll find in our town, our new curfew has done wonders for our women.”
He glanced at Penelope only briefly, a perfunctory flicker, before returning his full attention to the Whitlocks.
Mr. Whitlock, a broad man with a chest like a barrel, gave his wife’s sleeve a tug, drawing her back to his side with an easy authority. He nodded along with Barnaby’s words, the lines of his face deepening as his lips split into a wide grin. “Well,” he started, tilting his chin at Penelope, “you’ve done a fine job with this one. I only hope some of her poise might rub off on my boy here.” He punctuated the remark with a guttural laugh, the sound rolling through the air like a drumbeat.
The words landed heavy in Penelope’s chest, that strange, bitter pride men seemed to carry when speaking of women. She was raised to take such remarks with pride, to glow beneath such praise. And yet…
