Rose Lerner - In for a Penny

Penelope had been kissed before, once or twice. (Not by Edward, of course. He had always been all that was respectful, never given her more than a chaste kiss on the brow or the cheek.) She had found it awkward, wet, and extremely unwelcome. But Lord Bedlow’s mouth was warm and coaxing against hers. It was not really one kiss, but several in quick succession, and she found herself instinctively responding. It was clear that Lord Bedlow knew what he was about. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and a feeling that was unfamiliar and hot and uncomfortable-at least, she thought it was uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure-began to stir in the depths of her body. She ached in places it wasn’t ladylike to think about. And for all she still hadn’t decided if the new feeling was uncomfortable or not, she was sure she wanted more.

When he raised his head and let go of her chin, she half expected him to smirk or look triumphant. But he only looked pleased and flushed; his blue eyes, when he opened them, sparkled a little. “And you like Arne’s arias.”

Penelope liked Arne a great deal. She suspected she had liked the kiss a great deal too, but it was civil of him not to point that out. “Still, that is hardly a basis to be considering matrimony,” she said, as severely as she could when her pulse was racing and she knew she was blushing all over.

The pleased light died out of his eyes; turning, he stared out the bow window. “I know it. But I’ve tried everything else.”

She pitied him sincerely. “Have you no other way of making money? Surely you needn’t rush into a marriage that-that cannot be what you wish.” She looked away, conscious of her folly in fishing for a compliment when he would have had to be an idiot to contradict her. “I know it isn’t done, for a gentleman of your class to engage in business, but-I remember you told me that you thought it was clever, making money.”

“Well, I am not particularly clever.” His crooked profile was bleak.

She wanted-she hardly knew what, but to touch him, to comfort him.

“And I need money right away, a great deal of it. I’ve sold off my mother’s favorite estate and my father’s guns. I’ve sold half the silver and most of the horses and all the jewels my mother hasn’t hidden under her mattress. I’m putting the town house up for sale tomorrow-but it won’t cover a tenth of the debts. I’ve sold everything I can think of, and it isn’t enough. The only thing I have left is myself.” His self-mocking smile was out of place on his boyish face. “I know it’s not a very good bargain.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was very sorry, but it would be the height of imprudence even to consider, etc., etc.-and heard herself say, “All right then.”

“You mean you’ll marry me?” He turned back to her, his face lighting up.

Again her tongue moved without consultation with her brain. “Well-yes.” Even in the midst of her consternation, his smile was contagious; she found herself smiling foolishly back.

“Oh, this is wonderful! Thank you!” With an effort he looked more grave. “I hope I am sensible of-you won’t regret it.”

She regretted it already. Had she really consented? Had she lost her mind? Faintly she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She ought to back out-to tell him she’d made a mistake, that she hadn’t considered-but she knew she wouldn’t. Some part of her didn’t want to.

She squared her shoulders. “I shall do my best to be a good wife to you, even if I’m not the wife of your choosing. I see no reason why two people of good sense and amiable dispositions should not find a tolerable measure of conjugal felicity, even if they are not, perhaps, united by those bonds of affection and familiarity which one might wish.”

He looked a little bewildered by this speech, but he said, “Precisely my sentiments.”

She was still caught in the grip of a sense of unreality. “You have already spoken to my father, I presume.”

“Of course. He said he would let me ask you myself, but-to be honest, I don’t think he had any expectation of your agreeing.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, the scene to come already clearly before her eyes. “Here-I shall undertake to make him keep his word, but perhaps you had better not talk it over with him now. I know speed is important to you, but can you come back tomorrow to arrange all the details?”

His eyebrows rose, but he answered, “Certainly.”

“Will eleven o’clock answer?”

“Very well. He will agree, won’t he?”

“I believe he will.” Privately, Penelope wasn’t sure. “Only-you’d better bring a statement of your debts with you. Have you got one?”

He looked abruptly frustrated. “Not a good one, no. New bills come every day, and-I’ve no head for numbers, Miss Brown. I’ve added it all up enough to make my eyes ache and come up with a different answer every time.”

Here at least she was on sure ground, and the sudden sense of her own competence bolstered her. She smiled at him. “Well, I cannot help you with your other problems until we are wed, but that one I can help you with now. Has anyone ever taught you to cast out nines?”

“What is that?”

“It’s a method for verifying sums. Here, come over to the writing desk.” She scribbled a short column of numbers and totted them up. “This won’t catch all mistakes, but it’ll catch most.” She showed him what to do. “…Now when you add up all the one-digit numbers-again ignoring any nines-they ought to be the same as your sum. Do you understand?”

His eyes were narrowed in concentration. “Do it once more?”

His evident amazement that the trick worked a second time made her want to laugh. “Here, let me try,” he said, scrawling an example of his own in a sloping Italian hand. “Jupiter! That’s astonishing! However did you come to know such a thing?”

She looked down. “I sometimes help my father with his books.” Keeping the books of a brewery was not a proper occupation for a young lady. It was a moment before she could raise her eyes to his, knowing she could not but be lowered in his esteem.

His eyes were filled with such azure wonder that she caught her breath. “I knew you were just what I needed!”

She laughed. “Perhaps you had better bring your man of business with you tomorrow.”

But all laughter was at an end when Evans arrived to show him out. Any moment now her mother or father would come in, and she would have to admit what she had done. She would have to admit that she had agreed to spend the rest of her life with a man of whose character she knew nothing-or worse than nothing! A man, in fact, of whom she knew only that he had a spendthrift father, a taste for strong drink, and a very pretty mistress.

He likes music, an insidious voice whispered inside her. And he kisses well. She flushed with mortification. She had always prided herself on her self-command, her firmness of purpose. Yet she had staked her future on one throw of the die; she had agreed to give herself, body and soul, to a handsome young man on the strength of a kiss. She was a weakwilled, foolish girl, indeed. Her eyes ran listlessly over the desk-and lighted on Edward’s letter.

She had forgotten Edward! Her eye dwelt in horror on his familiar neat script. This weekend, an associate insisted on taking me on a tour of Paris’s most picturesque Gothick churches, though I assured him I have no part in the great fad for all things Gothick that ensnares so many of my countrymen. But I think you would have enjoyed hearing the organ of Notre Dame de Paris-it is larger than anything you can imagine, and though I could not judge myself I am told that the organist is prodigious talented.

What was she going to tell Edward?

Penelope was still staring at the letter when her father walked in a few minutes later. “My, you got rid of that Bedlow fellow quick, didn’t you? I told him it were a waste of time, but he seemed awful set on talking to you, and I knew you’d be able to send him about his business with a sight more tact than I could.” He noticed her dazed face. “He didn’t insult you, did he?”