That did not, however, mean that Penvale was in any mood to be lectured about the sanctity of marriage by a man who, not six months earlier, had sustained minor injuries climbing down a trellis to escape a lover’s irate husband.
“I do,” Penvale said shortly, in a way that he hoped would forestall further argument. “To begin with, I’m fairly sure that if I reject this offer now, my uncle will never sell Trethwick Abbey to me, just to be a bastard.” Every interaction he’d ever had with the man supported this supposition, after all. “Furthermore, what do I care? I’ve a title—I was going to have to marry at some point, if only to have an heir, so who am I to complain when a bride has practically been dropped into my lap?”
“How romantic,” Diana said with an eye roll.
“Oh, yes, and your marrying Templeton in your very first Season was itself the height of romance,” he shot back, referring to Diana’s first husband, whom she’d wed for entirely mercenary reasons and who had left her a very young, very rich widow.
“Penvale,” Jeremy said pleasantly, “don’t be an ass.”
Penvale opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again, scrubbing a hand wearily across his face. It had been a long day, and he did not feel like ending it by quarreling with his favorite people. “The point is,” he said, “I’m not holding out for a love match, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t take this opportunity.” He looked directly at his sister. “Diana… we could go back to Trethwick Abbey at last. We could go home.”
Something in her expression softened. Penvale was often told how strong the physical resemblance was between him and his sister, with their honey-colored hair and hazel eyes—they even shared a few mannerisms. But Penvale could never quite see it; when he looked at Diana, he simply saw his little sister, who had been his most steadfast companion since childhood, even as she sometimes drove him mad.
“I barely remember it,” she said, more gently than he’d heard her speak in quite some time. “I was so young…”
In that moment, their five-year age gap—which normally felt slight, especially now that she’d married Jeremy—seemed to stretch between them like a gulf. Trethwick Abbey loomed large in his memories: the imposing gray stone house, of course, but also the land that surrounded it, the cliffs and rolling green hills and wild, tumultuous ocean offering the constant sound of crashing waves.
He hadn’t seen it in twenty years, yet it had lived clearly in his mind all this time—and he finally had his chance to reclaim it. He damned well wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers. “All the more reason for me to see this through, then—so you can come visit.” He drained the remainder of his drink in one long gulp, relishing the slight burn in his throat. He cast a glance out the window, where a cold rain beat against the glass, and was glad he’d brought his carriage this evening.
The clock chimed eleven, startling Penvale; he hadn’t realized it had grown so late. “I should be off,” he announced, rising.
“You needn’t go yet,” Jeremy said, but Penvale waved him off—he’d never once felt unwelcome here, but he was also sure that, mildly horrifying as the prospect was, Diana and Jeremy would have little difficulty occupying themselves once he was gone.
He paused, surprised by the slight pang he felt at the thought of them tucked up cozily here together while he retreated to Bourne House alone. But, he reminded himself as he said his farewells and waited for his carriage to be brought around, if tomorrow went well, his days of living alone were numbered.
Chapter Two
Jane Spencer hated London.
It was January, so she didn’t imagine anywhere in England was particularly warm and cheerful at the moment, but she couldn’t think of a less pleasant place to spend a gray, cold afternoon than this bleak, dirty city.
Her guardian’s London house was on a quiet street in Mayfair. Although he owned the house rather than renting, there was nothing inviting or personal about the empty rooms she found herself wandering through listlessly.
“Don’t sulk,” he’d told her at breakfast that morning with an amount of good cheer that had set her on edge instantly. “You’re meeting the viscount today.”
The viscount. It seemed like an awful way to refer to one’s own nephew—no name, just a reference to his title—but what did she know? She was not in possession of any uncles, or nephews, or any family at all. That was the reason she was here, in Mr. Bourne’s keeping. He and her father had served together in the navy long ago, before Jane was born, and had evidently been close; what she had learned of Mr. Bourne’s character in the past three years had done little to endear her father’s memory to her.
And so here she was, in London, preparing to meet a man who might marry her—another man into whose possession she might be traded. This time, at least, she did not plan to meekly accept her fate.
Jane stood in the drawing room, staring down at the street below. What would the viscount be like? she wondered. Not that she’d be bothered by him for too long; she’d worked out well enough how to rid herself of her guardian and was fairly certain she could repeat the trick.
“Jane.” Mr. Bourne’s voice came from behind her, curt and impatient. “The carriage is ready—it’s time to go.” She turned to face him, and she saw surprise register on his face. “Oh. You look… quite nice, actually.”
She knew she did. She was not accustomed to dressing in the height of fashion—there was little occasion for it in the wilds of Cornwall—but Mr. Bourne had sent her to the modiste immediately upon her arrival in town a fortnight earlier, and she wore the results of that visit now, a high-necked gown of green wool, cut to hug her curves just so. Her heavy mass of dark hair was pulled back from her face in an elaborate coiffure that Hastey—a former housemaid recently elevated to the position of lady’s maid for the purpose of this visit—had seen in some fashion plate or other. Jane would never be beautiful—her features were a bit too stern and angular for that—but she knew without looking in a mirror that she looked her very best.
Because that was the point.
She had a husband to acquire.
* * *
Penvale was less surprised than he should have been when Diana and Jeremy appeared on his doorstep not ten minutes before his uncle and Miss Spencer were due to arrive.
“Of course you are here,” he said in resignation as Smithers showed them into the drawing room.
“Of course we are here,” Diana agreed, sailing into the room as though she owned the place, then settling herself in her favorite yellow brocade armchair. “You cannot possibly think that I would allow you to betroth yourself to a stranger without my guidance.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Diana,” Penvale said, leaning against the mantel, “that I might not be interested in your opinion?”
Diana paused for a moment to consider. “No. Don’t be absurd. Jeremy, sit,” she added, patting the chair next to hers.
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I’m not a dog, Diana,” he said, before turning to Penvale and adding, “I did try to talk her out of this, you know.”