A Midsummer Bride by Amanda Forester Page B
Authors: Amanda Forester
righted the table.
Harriet looked up slowly. “If you ever think of this conversation, can you forget that part?”
A slow smile spread on his face. “Never happened. Ye are grace itself.”
Harriet stifled a laugh. “Don’t stretch the truth too far. Your imagination will rebel against the patently absurd.”
“Good eve, Grace.”
“Good eve, my lord.”
Nine
It was not every day Penelope received a summons from a duke to have a clandestine meeting. But that was exactly what the Duke of Marchford had done. The short note said to meet him in the blue parlor before dinner. The blue parlor, which was used exclusively for breakfasts, would be isolated at this time of the evening. Nothing could be clearer. The Duke of Marchford wanted to speak to her alone.
She had to dress, naturally. Her options were limited. Nothing the dowager had packed for her seemed appropriate. The gowns were all things other people would wear, gowns her sisters would wear. She sat heavily on the bed with a sudden realization. The dowager, wrong as she was, was actually right.
Penelope had given up. Why should her sisters, some older, some younger, all wear gowns of the latest fashion while she was relegated to their rejects and more sensible, unattractive options?
When had she given up on marriage for herself? Was it her first season? Was it even before that time? Her sisters, whose welfare had consumed her, were now all married and well cared for. So when was it time for Penelope to take a chance on the marriage mart?
She wished to say never. It was easier not to. Easier not to care. Easier to remain in her old clothes. Easier to remain…
Invisible .
She turned the word around in her mind. Obscurity was exactly what she wanted. She wanted to remain invisible. People who could not be seen could not be criticized. They could not fail, for they never tried. They could never lose, for they never played the game. They were safe. And they were cowards.
Penelope Rose was many things but never a coward. She went back to her closet and picked not the dress she wished to wear, but a gown one of her younger sisters would choose. She picked the gown of the most gossamer fabric over a silk underdress that was so light it practically floated off the ground. Most shocking of all was its color. Pink. A soft rose pink with a deeper rose-colored ribbon to form a high waistline, and a low-cut neckline revealing more of her bosom than had ever before seen the light of day.
She called for a maid to help with the enclosures, which were in the back and impossible to do herself unless she had detachable arms. To her surprise, Madame Leclair came herself. She helped Penelope into her gown as if being dressed by the duchess’s own lady’s maid was commonplace.
“You will allow me to fix your hair,” said Leclair.
It was not a request. Conscious of the honor being bestowed upon her, Penelope could only agree and watch in horror as Madame stuck the curling iron into the fire.
“Do not concern yourself. I have not ever left a permanent scar.”
It was reassurance—or possibly a warning not to move about or complain. When Leclair was done, Penelope stared back at the image in the glass, unsure who the woman was. She was unrecognizable to herself. Her plain brown hair looked anything but ordinary, piled high and falling down in ringlets, framing her face and cascading down her back. In her hair were little jeweled pins, which picked up the light and sparkled.
The dress clung to her in places no other dress had ever clung. The underdress was a darker rose with soft pink gauze over it. The gown hugged her body and caressed her curves. Madame had insisted on a different corset than she was accustomed to wearing. This one lifted parts of her to new heights, such that her cleavage blossomed out of the gown in a suggestive manner. The effect was soft and sensual and, dare she say it? Arousing.
“I cannot be seen looking like this,” she muttered.
“Of
Harriet looked up slowly. “If you ever think of this conversation, can you forget that part?”
A slow smile spread on his face. “Never happened. Ye are grace itself.”
Harriet stifled a laugh. “Don’t stretch the truth too far. Your imagination will rebel against the patently absurd.”
“Good eve, Grace.”
“Good eve, my lord.”
Nine
It was not every day Penelope received a summons from a duke to have a clandestine meeting. But that was exactly what the Duke of Marchford had done. The short note said to meet him in the blue parlor before dinner. The blue parlor, which was used exclusively for breakfasts, would be isolated at this time of the evening. Nothing could be clearer. The Duke of Marchford wanted to speak to her alone.
She had to dress, naturally. Her options were limited. Nothing the dowager had packed for her seemed appropriate. The gowns were all things other people would wear, gowns her sisters would wear. She sat heavily on the bed with a sudden realization. The dowager, wrong as she was, was actually right.
Penelope had given up. Why should her sisters, some older, some younger, all wear gowns of the latest fashion while she was relegated to their rejects and more sensible, unattractive options?
When had she given up on marriage for herself? Was it her first season? Was it even before that time? Her sisters, whose welfare had consumed her, were now all married and well cared for. So when was it time for Penelope to take a chance on the marriage mart?
She wished to say never. It was easier not to. Easier not to care. Easier to remain in her old clothes. Easier to remain…
Invisible .
She turned the word around in her mind. Obscurity was exactly what she wanted. She wanted to remain invisible. People who could not be seen could not be criticized. They could not fail, for they never tried. They could never lose, for they never played the game. They were safe. And they were cowards.
Penelope Rose was many things but never a coward. She went back to her closet and picked not the dress she wished to wear, but a gown one of her younger sisters would choose. She picked the gown of the most gossamer fabric over a silk underdress that was so light it practically floated off the ground. Most shocking of all was its color. Pink. A soft rose pink with a deeper rose-colored ribbon to form a high waistline, and a low-cut neckline revealing more of her bosom than had ever before seen the light of day.
She called for a maid to help with the enclosures, which were in the back and impossible to do herself unless she had detachable arms. To her surprise, Madame Leclair came herself. She helped Penelope into her gown as if being dressed by the duchess’s own lady’s maid was commonplace.
“You will allow me to fix your hair,” said Leclair.
It was not a request. Conscious of the honor being bestowed upon her, Penelope could only agree and watch in horror as Madame stuck the curling iron into the fire.
“Do not concern yourself. I have not ever left a permanent scar.”
It was reassurance—or possibly a warning not to move about or complain. When Leclair was done, Penelope stared back at the image in the glass, unsure who the woman was. She was unrecognizable to herself. Her plain brown hair looked anything but ordinary, piled high and falling down in ringlets, framing her face and cascading down her back. In her hair were little jeweled pins, which picked up the light and sparkled.
The dress clung to her in places no other dress had ever clung. The underdress was a darker rose with soft pink gauze over it. The gown hugged her body and caressed her curves. Madame had insisted on a different corset than she was accustomed to wearing. This one lifted parts of her to new heights, such that her cleavage blossomed out of the gown in a suggestive manner. The effect was soft and sensual and, dare she say it? Arousing.
“I cannot be seen looking like this,” she muttered.
“Of