Page 52 of All Duke and Bothered

Her palms tingled, and she ached to go to the painting and study its every detail, then ask Mr. Turner about his process in two days when he’d come to tutor her. “He did my portrait, too,” said the duke proudly, waving his arm towards the wall of his own portraits.

“Beautiful,” said Penelope with a stiff smile. They were all great portraits, but Penelope wondered what man really needed fifteen portraits of himself. “They all do you justice.”

“Duchess of Grandhampton,” said the prince as he narrowed his eyes at her. “Now I know why I remembered this name.”

“Oh?” asked Penelope, frowning.

“It’s a silly rumor, no doubt.” The prince chuckled. “But quite a funny one. Perhaps with your talent in art it makes more sense. But I’m sure it cannot be true.”

“Perhaps it’s best we make a tour and see the paintings,” said the dowager, her blue eyes suddenly worried. She stretched her arm out to Penelope. “Come, darling. Let us indulge in the pleasure of seeing the portraits of Ashton.”

But the dark cloud that had lingered at the back of Penelope’s psyche since she’d first learned of the rumor made itself known, and there was a heaviness that spread at the bottom of her stomach. “I’d like to know the rumor, Your Highness.”

The Duke of Ashton cleared his throat. “Certain rumors are, perhaps, best kept from gentle female ears.”

“No, no,” said the prince regent. “I’m sure the duchess would be able to deny it once and for all. Wouldn’t you?”

Penelope held her back very straight against the feeling of an impending disaster, like an unstoppable carriage driving towards her at full speed. “Once I know what it is.”

The prince chuckled and licked his thin lips. They reddened and glistened in the light of the candles. “Apparently, they say that the Duke of Grandhampton bought you at a secret auction held by your father.”

Penelope paled. Silence fell on their small group as she felt the eyes of six people on her. The walls of the grand room began closing in, and all air disappeared from her lungs.

There it was. The secret. The red folder. It must be. The secret that would hurt her, like Preston had said. The knowledge he was protecting her from.

That her father would sell his only daughter to pay his debts. She could even guess the exact price… Ten thousand pounds, no doubt.

Only, if Preston had bought her for that amount at the auction, why was her papa still ruined? Why was he still in debt?

“Well?” asked the prince. “It’s not true, is it?”

Her eyes burned with tears, and she commanded herself to keep calm. To keep up appearances. She plastered the biggest smile on her face and chuckled gently. “No, Your Highness, it’s not true. Could you imagine? How barbaric.”

Everyone chuckled with relief. The prince took a large sip of his champagne. “The Earl of Whitemouth told me he witnessed it. But he must exaggerate. You’re right, Duchess. What peer would sell his daughter at an auction in these modern times? That’s unheard of. No. We are far too civilized in England for such things.”

But if he really knew her husband, he wouldn’t think that. With a dark premonition, Penelope knew she had a hard conversation with Preston awaiting her once she got back home.

22

Joel, Preston’s valet, grasped his dress coat and helped him remove it from his shoulders. His dressing room was quiet, with only the coals crackling in the small fireplace. The dark navy, almost black walls of the room had given him the sense of being in a tomb before, but not tonight. Not after such a very pleasant evening with his family that his wife had organized.

And not when standing leaned against the back of the chair was his portrait by Penelope, finished now. Joel had brought it in earlier, as he explained, at the request of Her Grace.

Preston stood staring at it, speechless. It was even more impressive than when he’d first seen it, now that she had added the finer details. He was struck, again, by the way she’d managed to capture his true essence, something even he could no longer see in himself.

No one saw him like that. With softness in his eyes. With that loneliness and pain he’d thought he’d hidden behind his walls so well. He thought he remembered looking like that when he was six or seven years old. Still undamaged, still himself. When was the last time he’d felt like that?

Right. When he had been in her bed. When they had talked. When he had made love to her.

Despite his anger with her, every day Chalworth felt more and more like home.

“Was the evening to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” asked Joel.

Joel, now in his forties, had been his valet ever since Oxford. Preston trusted the man. It was Joel who’d seen Preston fall apart after Spencer’s death, sitting and bawling into his hands back in his dressing room in Sumhall. It was Joel who made sure Preston dressed and had his hair cut in the latest fashion because Preston couldn’t care less about such things. Joel was a hardworking Scotsman, and Preston knew how fortunate he was to have a valet like him.

Preston raised his chin to allow Joel to undo his high cravat. “Yes, Her Grace and all the servants went above and beyond to make it a great success.”

Preston was looking forward to seeing Penelope. He’d had to push back against the rumors that kept going around London about her. Had he still been indifferent to her, he wouldn’t have cared. But now, thinking that his kind, talented, well-bred wife would be denied entry made him sick to his stomach, and he did everything to protect her and her reputation.