A Rogue by Any Other Name (The Rules of Scoundrels #1)(6)

As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”

Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”

She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”

When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”

Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed, Yes . . . Yes!

They were all fantasy—each more unlikely than the last—she knew. After all, a twenty-eight-year-old spinster was not exactly fighting off suitors.

But surely she was not out of line to hope for something more than, Let’s make a go of it, shall we?

She let out a little sigh, not wanting to upset Tommy, who was very clearly doing his best. But they’d been friends for an age, and Penelope wasn’t about to introduce lies to their friendship now. “You’re taking pity on me, aren’t you?”

His eyes went wide. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing?”

She smiled. “Because it’s true. You pity your poor, spinster friend. And you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness to be certain that I marry.”

He gave her an exasperated look—the kind of look that only one very dear friend could give another—and he lifted her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Nonsense. It’s time I marry, Pen. You’re a good friend.” He paused, chagrin flashing in a friendly way that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. “I’ve made a hash of it, haven’t I?”

She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”

He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”

The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”

“O, fair Lady Penelop-e . . . Do please consider marrying me?”

She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”

He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”

“Romantic indeed,” she said, “but it would take rather a long time, don’t you think?”

There was a pause as they enjoyed each other’s company before he said, suddenly very serious, “Please, Pen. Let me protect you.”

It was an odd thing to say, but he’d failed at all the other parts of the marriage proposal process, so she did not linger on the words.

Instead, she considered the offer. Seriously.

He was her oldest friend. One of them, at least.

The one who hadn’t left her.

He made her laugh, and she was very, very fond of him. He was the only man who hadn’t utterly deserted her after her disastrous broken engagement. Surely that alone recommended him.

She should say yes.

Say it, Penelope.

She should become Lady Thomas Alles, twenty-eight years old and rescued, in the nick of time, from an eternity of spinsterhood.

Say it: Yes, Tommy. I’ll marry you. How lovely of you to ask.

She should.

But she didn’t.

* * *

Dear M—

My governess is not fond of eels . Surely she’s cultured enough to see that simply because you arrived bearing one does not make you a bad person. Loathe the sin, not the sinner.

Yrs—P

post script—Tommy was home for a visit last week, and we went fishing. He is officially my favorite friend.

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

Dear P—

That sounds suspiciously like a sermon from Vicar Compton. You’ve been paying attention in church. I’m disappointed.

—M

post script—He is not.

Eton College, September 1813

The sound of the great oak door closing behind Thomas was still echoing through the entryway of Needham Manor when Penelope’s mother appeared on the first-floor landing, one flight up from where Penelope stood.

“Penelope! What have you done?” Lady Needham came tearing down the wide central staircase of the house, followed by Penelope’s sisters, Olivia and Philippa, and three of her father’s hunting dogs.

Penelope took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “It’s been a quiet day, really,” she said, casually, heading for the dining room, knowing her mother would follow. “I did write a letter to cousin Catherine; did you know she continues to suffer from that terrible cold she developed before Christmas?”