Page 72 of All Duke and Bothered

He was ready to take all her anger and go through the seven rings of hell if only she would return to him.

“Only if you promise to include my wife in all your invitations and stop any gossip about her. She’s a duchess and her reputation is flawless. She has done nothing wrong and should not be punished for something she has no fault in.”

The countess’s face fell and her hand dropped. Her large bosom rose and fell quickly. “Gossip? How dare you imply it is I who spreads gossip.”

That was ridiculous. Everyone knew the countess held regular tea parties and picnics with the most talkative women in the ton, mulling over the events and the gossip. She and several others were the patronesses of Almack’s balls and decided who was worthy of inclusion and who was not.

And yet, her daughter, Lady Isabella, had not received any marriage offers. He glanced at the lovely young woman who played the pianoforte so passionately, so skillfully, she could as well have accompanied the singer on her tour.

“Please, Lady Whitemouth,” he said. “Do not offend my intelligence by denying something everyone knows. I will not interrupt your soirée for the sake of your daughter. And if you promise to stop excluding my wife and to stop spreading nasty rumors about her.”

Lady Whitemouth’s lips curved downward in a contemptuous expression.

“No one else may hear us,” he insisted. “We can be honest with each other. Just give me your word and I’ll wait until the concert is over. The Society won’t write about your failed soirée. Your daughter will finish it as masterfully as she has started, and perhaps she will finally charm one of the unmarried gentlemen in attendance.”

Lady Whitemouth nodded. “Very well. Your wife will be invited from now on.”

“Thank you,” he said as he pushed his hand through a pocket in his waistcoat and stood still, watching the heads of the spectators and listening to the beautiful concert.

Lady Whitemouth nodded and walked away from him, taking her seat at the back of the rows and throwing an angry glance at him.

Twenty torturous minutes Preston waited, rehearsing every possible word he could say and imagining ways for Penelope to forgive him. His life without her didn’t make sense. But he had made so many mistakes with her, he was afraid he was too late and that he had broken her beautiful, soft heart with no hope to heal it.

Finally, the music and the singing ended, and the room burst into applause. To distract the guests from the footmen lighting the candles, other footmen walked through the room offering trays with champagne and canapés. The room slowly became lit in a warm golden glow and filled with the chatter of voices and the shuffling of feet as people stood from their seats.

Then he finally spotted them—Penelope stood from her chair and, together with Calliope and Richard, approached Miss Democrito while Lord Beckett moved through the aisle towards the footman holding the tray with champagne, who stood two feet away from Preston.

Lord Beckett still wore a powdered wig, but he looked better. Somehow, his back was straighter, and he wasn’t as puffy and red in the face as before. He looked more like a lord and less like a common drunkard. His clothes were still in the fashion of the last century—with a bright ochre waistcoat and a white cravat—but they looked new and recently laundered.

Preston’s gut wrenched as he looked at him. He’d hated the man for months, ever since he’d learned of his wrongdoings in October of last year. Too long, Lord Beckett had been his enemy, the object of his hatred and anger. A furious voice in his head kept saying if it weren’t for this man, Spencer would be alive.

His fists clenched. It had been one thing to decide he was ready to let it all go, to choose love. It was quite another to see the man in flesh walking towards him. Now he was truly being tested.

Would he really be able to make peace with this man and declare that he was no longer the enemy?

His gaze fell on Penelope’s back as she talked to the singer. He could see the delicate outline of her shoulder blades, the curve of her slim neck he had loved to kiss. He knew exactly how her skin smelled, so delicious and soft at that spot under her ear.

Oh, how he’d missed her. Just four days without her and he felt like part of his soul was lost forever. And seeing her now…nothing else mattered.

Just her.

His entire being filled with love, warmth spreading through his chest, and the hatred and anger melted away from his heart like snow in the sun. He was such a fool. There had never been a choice between love and revenge when it came to Penelope.

It had always been her. Every breath, every step he took, everything he did would be for her.

Whether she would choose him today or not, he’d be there for her for the rest of his life. And even if there was no love left in her heart for him, he’d watch over her and those she loved like a loyal dog, protecting her and ensuring her happiness.

But first, he had to try.

As her papa took a glass of champagne from a footman, Preston walked up to him. “Lord Beckett.”

The baron looked up from his glass and froze. His eyes widened in terror, and he took a step back.

“No,” said Preston, stretching out his hands in a placating gesture. “Please, do not be alarmed. I have come to make peace.”

Lord Beckett looked around like a trapped animal. Guests threw puzzled glances at them.

“She doesn’t want you,” Beckett said. “She told you, you ruined everything.”