Free Penelope by MC Beaton Page B

Lady Skeffington.”
    Rather in the manner of a jailer, Miss Stride led Augusta away.
    Mr. Manton looked helplessly at Penelope. He tried to speak but could only manage a few choked sounds. Finally he gasped, “Excuse me, Miss Vesey,” and fled out into the garden.
    The Earl of Hestleton, who had entered the Skeffington’s estate by a side entrance, paused in amazement. The most dreadful choking sounds were coming from behind a clump of rosebushes.
    He peered round and found his friend, Guy Manton, doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter. Tears streamed down his face, and he chortled and gasped and snorted.
    “Control yourself, Guy,” said the Earl, much amused. “What is the reason for all this mirth? Have the Skeffingtons hired Grimaldi for the evening?”
    He had to wait several minutes before his friend could compose himself enough to reply.
    “It’s that Harvey woman,” said Guy when he could. He told the Earl about Miss Harvey’s vision of hell, but the Earl was not amused.
    “And you left Penelope standing alone,” said the Earl crossly. “I had better go and look after her.”
    He strode off, leaving his friend to look after him in some amazement. Roger could not possibly be serious about the pretty Penelope. The girl was well enough but—oh, my stars—the aunt!
    The Earl was thinking much the same as he went in search of Penelope. He could not possibly marry the girl! There was a certain amount, after all, that he owed to his name.
    Penelope was not beside the buffet, nor was she in the ballroom. He diligently searched the house and gardens and at last, under the light of an enormous full moon, saw her sitting in a dark corner of the garden on a rustic bench. He could make out the pale aura of her hair.
    He felt a little wrench at his heart as he leaned over her and saw that she was crying. He sat down beside her and gently drew her hands away from her face. He found himself murmuring silly nothings, the way one does to a hurt child. “There, there, Come now, silly little puss. What a fuss! Dry your eyes and tell me all about it.”
    The fact that the stern Earl was talking to her in such a kind way helped to dry Penelope’s tears.
    “Now,” he said, kissing her forehead, “what’s all this about?”
    “I feel so silly,” wailed Penelope. “I can’t tell you.”
    “I am your friend, Penelope,” said the Earl, using her Christian name for the first time. “Tell me.”
    Penelope stared miserably at the toes of her slippers. How could she explain her muddled feelings about her aunt? Augusta often seemed like a summer’s day when a storm is approaching: serene and sunny calm with gathering black clouds of suspected cruelty lit with sudden lightning flashes of pure madness.
    “It’s… it’s just that I am so ashamed of being ashamed of her,” said Penelope at last in a low voice. “I feel so disloyal. Mr. Manton was escorting me to the buffet and Aunt started talking some awful nonsense about hell and it made me miserable to hear her talking so wildly—so strangely.”
    The Earl bit his lip. He longed to tell Penelope that he was sure Augusta Harvey was using her beautiful niece as a sort of calling card on the best houses but did not want to hurt her feelings. Instead he said gently, “Miss Harvey is a trifle eccentric, that is all. London is full of such eccentrics and no one thinks them strange. Also, you have
my
social patronage. I promised you.”
    “You only promised me vouchers to Almack’s,” said Penelope, suddenly shy. “I was afraid I would not see you again.”
    “I had to go to my estates. There was trouble with one of the tenant farmers. How else could I leave you?”
    Penelope’s heart began to beat very quickly indeed, and she looked shyly up into his face; it was in the shadow as his back was to the moonlight. “I cannot see your face,” she whispered.
    “Can you feel my lips?” he asked, bending slowly towards her until his head blotted out the moon and his warm