Page 65 of All Duke and Bothered

Preston closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them and said, “The men your father hired beat him up so viciously that Spencer died of his wounds.”

Her hand shot to her mouth and covered it. Her eyes blurred with tears. Her chest burned and squeezed the breath out of her. She understood.

Preston thought her father was to blame for Spencer’s death.

And therefore, she was to blame, as well.

Preston covered her hand lying on her knees with his. “I’m sorry, Penelope. If I could take this pain away from you, I would. Do you want me to stop?”

She shook her head, still holding her hand to her mouth, afraid she was going to be sick right on Preston.

“But what did Spencer ever do to Papa?” she finally managed.

“You know about Spencer’s reputation.”

She nodded. “And Papa thought he’d only ruin me because he would never marry a baron’s daughter…”

Preston nodded. “And ruin his chances to find a rich match for you.”

“Oh no,” Penelope breathed. “Oh no!”

The worst thing was, she understood what she really was to her father. He was never there for her. She’d always tried to impress him, but in vain. He’d only thought of her as another possession to be sold off.

“As far as Lord Beckett was concerned, Spencer hadn’t had serious intentions towards you. He couldn’t risk you being dishonored only to be dismissed by one of the oldest ducal lines in England.”

Penelope felt the waves of shock thunder through her.

“At that time, your father had been anticipating a wedding proposal from the wealthy Duke of Woodley.”

“Right. He did come to visit often and danced with me and talked to me at the balls.”

“But then that fell through when the duke learned the extent of Lord Beckett’s debts. After that failed, he had hoped for another match, but eventually he got desperate. It took a few months for your papa to resort to auctioning you off.”

Preston barely appeared to breathe as he waited for her response.

She sat there stunned, her mind reeling through all that she had learned and somehow returning to that night in his study, the letter from Spencer, the first time she’d realized he’d felt more for her than friendship. He had asked Preston to go with him that night. The night he died. “You didn’t go with him,” she said, realization jolting her. “You think that’s why he’s dead. You blame yourself. You blame my father. You blame me.”

She felt like she was an executioner holding the noose.

“Yes.”

The single word blew up her world like a bucket of gunpowder lit on fire. That was why they were married. She was nothing but revenge for him. To punish her father, to punish himself, and to punish her. He had thought she’d been leading Spencer, that she’d wanted to marry him for money.

The carriage stopped, and they both looked out of the window at a beautiful, dark-bricked, sunlit town house behind a wrought iron fence with elaborate friezes. An oval fanlight sat above a large chocolate-brown entrance door surrounded by a white reeded architrave. The very fashionable large paned sash windows had iron grilles along the bottom for safety. Violet wisteria bloomed above the door.

It was gorgeous. Homey. Inviting. After the cold and mausoleum-like Chalworth, she had wished for a home exactly like this one—for Preston and for herself. Warm. Cozy.

Happy.

But grief and pain weighed in her chest. The three of them—she, Preston, Papa—were all entangled in Spencer’s death. That was what had plagued Preston this whole time. Part of her regretted she’d ever asked Preston to tell her the truth. She now wished she didn’t know it.

The door opened, Preston stepped from the carriage, and the footman offered Penelope assistance as she climbed out. Without a word, they proceeded inside, where the butler showed them around. The house was spectacular. Light and modern, with a water closet and a shower installed. It was not too big but allowed space to entertain and even throw a ball. There were plenty of bedrooms for guests and to convert into a nursery.

When she stood in the room that could be their bedroom and looked outside onto the quiet Mayfair street with petals of magnolia flowers sweeping the ground in the wind, Preston came to stand next to her. She tensed. Her chest felt like it had been slashed open, and ragged pieces of her bled.

It was hard to watch the sunlit street and know that happiness had been within reach but now would never be. Even though they didn’t hate each other anymore, their story was tainted. Her father was a horrible man, after all, and Spencer’s death would always hang between her and her husband. If Preston had wished for a punishment, he’d gotten one.

“The house belongs to a viscount who needs money,” said Preston without looking at her.