“Devil take me.” His smile lasted only a moment. “You are well-informed.”

“People talk.” And she still listened—even when what she heard wasn’t entirely flattering. “And heroes are talked about everywhere.”

“I’m no hero.” He looked at her from under his brows. “But it was the Battle of Pirano, in the Adriatic Sea. Glorious, sunny day with a good wind. And I was the first lieutenant on Victorious, in charge of sailing the ship while the captain ordered the battle.” Beech ran his good hand through his hair as if he needed to settle his brain before speaking of what she knew must have been an unspeakable trauma. “We engaged in close battle with the French seventy-four, Rivoli, raking her to bloody splinters until we truly were victorious. But as battles go, we both inflicted casualties and took them. And as you see, I was one of those casualties.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep drink of his brandy before he added, “Lucky for me, I was not one of the fatalities. And thankfully the loss has been no real impediment to my career—I can give orders as effectively with one arm as with two.”

“Very sensible of the navy.” And so like Beech to make so little out of so great an injury. “Indeed, we should be the poorer as a nation—and perhaps not even be a sovereign nation—if we had not had Admiral Nelson, damaged as he was, to lead us.”

“Aye.” The scowl came back to mar Marcus’s sun-swept handsomeness. “But I am no longer a commander, and I fear my appearance in the ballroom shall prove a great impediment to my new career now.”

She did not follow his logic. “I should think you could give orders as efficiently as a duke with one arm as with two.”

“True.” He acknowledged her point. “But the business of being a duke is not only giving orders. It is, according to my mother, getting a wife.”

Wife. The word slid under her skin like a wayward thorn—a piercing, misplaced hurt.

She would never marry now, but Beech would have to.

Penelope swallowed the realization like bitter medicine and set herself to being cheerful. For his sake, if not for hers. “Come now, Beech. You are a hero, no matter what you say. You could arrange for some girl to fall in love with you in an evening, if you wanted.” Though she prayed God he did not. “You have but to smile.”

For the longest moment he stared at her over the rim of his glass, before the hint of that wry smile brewed at the corner of his mouth, “Why, Pease Porridge, do you mean to tell me you think I’m handsome?”

“Do have a look at yourself in a mirror, Beech.” She hid her embarrassment behind sarcasm, though it made a wretched fan—her face had gone hot. “Though you could do with a good barbering if you hope to please the bright young things in the ballroom.” She waved her hand in the general direction of the unsullied girls with spotless gowns and unstained reputations who made themselves available to be married, damn them. “On second thought, damn the bright young things. Keep the beard—it gives you a dashing, piratical air.”

“Must be the terrifying combination of the arm—or what’s left of it—and the beard for piratical. Perhaps I should employ a parrot, so I might amuse as well as frighten.”

“Oh, I should like that.” Beech had always been able to make her laugh. “But you are as you always were, Beech—witty and fun and as handsome as the day is long. You’re the same man at four and twenty that you were at four and ten—kind to your core.”

“Hardly,” he demurred. “If the last ten years have taught me anything, it is that I was certainly not a man at ten and four. But I thank you for the compliment.”

“Most welcome.” She ought to have left it at that, but some prideful last vestige of vanity prompted her to ask, “And how do you find me?”

He closed his eyes, as if he could not conceive of an answer. But then he said, “I should never have thought such a gangly girl should outgrow her spindly legs and pigtails to become such a ravishing, rosy beauty.”

Blissful, blessed warmth rose in her cheeks. “Now, Beech, I shall be forced to give you up, even as a secret friend, if you take to such extravagant lying.”

“I am not lying.” He was not to be talked out of his opinion. “Surely you have a mirror yourself?”

She did, though she had stopped looking into it, afraid that she might see what others saw—a woman tarnished and diminished by her own foolishness. And eaten up with her barely concealed rage.

But why should she rage at Beech? “Thank you, my friend.”

“You’re damned welcome.”

How remarkable. Penelope had not felt so comfortable, so blessedly accepted by another person—man or woman—in quite some time. And that he was a man—and a handsome, desperately attractive one at that—made it all the more remarkable. “Thank you for the brandy as well as your company, Beech.” She raised her glass. “It is beyond lovely to have you back.”

“I thank you.” He raised his glass as well. “Do you know, if this is what being a duke shall be like, I might like it more than I anticipated.”

“How should you not like it? To have your own money, and do as you please, and be the person to whom everyone but the king must show deference? Oh, yes, what an intolerable burden.”

His smile was all in the corners of his grey-green eyes. “When you put it like that, the burden does seem negligible, and certainly much less demanding than my former career.”

There was something wistful in his tone. “Will you miss it—the navy—do you think?”

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as weighty as a secret. “Like a dead friend.”

She felt his longing like a weight upon her heart. “Even though it has cost you so much?”

His eyes found hers, and he gifted her with that wry, half-smile. “Not so much as others.”

Others who had lost their lives. Or their legs. Or their minds.

The thought was sobering. “Dear Beech—”

“That is the third time you have called me that, Pease Porridge. If you will insist on doing so, I do think I’m going to have to marry you.”




CHAPTER 5




MARCUS’S impromptu proposal shocked her. Sweet Pease Porridge gaped at him, as if such a thing were not just improbable, but impossible. “Truly, I begin to think we are admirably suited to—”

“What’s this?” Behind them, the barred latch rattled, and a voice from without interrupted the intimacy of the moment. “Who’s in there? I say, open this door!”

Penelope bolted to her feet. “My father,” she mouthed as she practically dove for the window farthest from the door.

“Let me go.” Marcus was beside her in an instant.

“No—I’ll never get that blasted chest of drawers moved myself,” she whispered as she flung back the draperies. “I’d have gone out the window in any event, and just circled back around.”

An excellent plan—and one that she, who knew the house, could accomplish more stealthily than he. Marcus threw up the sash and stuck his head out into the frigid night to reconnoiter. “All clear. Handsomely now,” he cautioned. “It’s an easy drop—I’ll let you down.” He clasped the bare skin of her forearm with his right.

She stilled at the sudden contact but didn’t object. Instead, she said, “Thank you. For not arguing. Or questioning.” The chill night wind whipped through the window, blowing her closer—so close she pressed an impulsive kiss to his cheek. “For everything.”

Her lips were unspeakably soft against the taut, sun-scoured skin above this beard. “My dear Pease Porridge, the pleasure was mine.”

She was so close.

So close, he felt the febrile warmth of her chest just barely brushing against his. So close, his eyes fell to the sweet curve of her lips. So close, he could think of nothing but what they might feel like against his.

“Devil take me, Pease Porridge, but I very much want to kiss you,” he murmured, as if he could not fathom why. As if his lips were not already descending toward hers. “Properly.”

Her own voice was nothing but breath and desire. “Oh, Beech, I do wish you would.”

He met her mouth with all dispatch. And of course, Penelope Pease kissed like an angel. A lovely, impish, fallen angel—if she was to be believed—who looped her arms around his neck and pressed herself to his lips, so he could taste the brandy on her tongue when he opened her mouth ever so slightly to appease the needy ache that washed through him like a rogue wave.

“Devil take me,” Marcus breathed against her forehead, before he lowered her down until her tiptoes scraped against the frozen gravel of the courtyard. “Damned if you don’t give ruined a bloody good name.”

Marcus made sure his lovely bundle of contradictions was safely delivered to the ground and well away before he turned to the door. “Belay that racket,” he growled as wedged himself between the wall and the chest of drawers. He put his back into it, leveraging the hulking piece back to its proper place, before he flipped the latch and snatched the door open wide.

In front of him, Sir Harold Pease was bent double in an attempt to peer through the keyhole.

Marcus drew himself up to his full height and weighted all his displeasure into his voice. “What the devil do you mean interrupting a man’s peace?”

“This is my house, sir,” the startled father barked before he demanded, “Who the devil are you?”

“Warwick. Newly duke thereof. Commander Marcus Beecham, as was, Sir Harold.” Marcus stepped forward into the corridor and shut the door behind him—Penelope’s brandy snifter lay overturned on the floor near the chair she had only just vacated. “Is there something I might do for you, sir?”

“Your Grace.” Sir Harold lost a great deal of his bluster and made him a hasty bow. “Your pardon. Looking for m’daughter.”

“Which daughter, sir?” Marcus asked with the wry directness he had perfected as a commanding officer. “Or have you lost more than one?”

Sir Harold turned a satisfying shade of puce. “Miss Pease. Penelope.”

At least the damned man had lowered his voice, but by now Sir Harold’s commotion had drawn an even dozen neighbors waiting breathlessly for fresh scandal.

Marcus was just the man to give them satisfaction. “Ah, yes, Miss Penelope Pease. How fortunate— I should very much like to speak to Miss Pease myself.”

“Your Grace?” the man stammered. “Surely you know—”

“Good of you,” Marcus cut in, already moving back toward the ballroom, towing Sir Harold along like an empty barge in his wake. “Come along, sir.”

They arrived at the ballroom door just as Penelope cleverly managed to take a chair on the far side of the room. “Is that not she, sir?”

Sir Harold followed the line of Marcus’s gaze to the improbable sight of his daughter doing her best to look idle, innocent and bored. Which was impossible, especially in that claret gown that set off her creamy complexion to perfection. She drew Marcus’s eye like a ship on a wine dark sea.

“Ah, yes, indeed. Beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Sir Harold blathered. “Seem to have overlooked her there.”

“Indeed.” Marcus could only agree. “It appears everyone has overlooked her there.” He gave his coat an unnecessary tug. “Let us remedy that at once.” He came to moor directly in front of where his Pease Porridge was pretending to make a concentrated study of the parquet floor. “Is that my old friend, Miss Pease?”

Pease Porridge looked up at him from under her lashes with such a delicious, dark angel combination of astonishment and delight that he very nearly laughed out loud. “Why, it is you!” He began to enjoy himself. “Sir Harold, if you would be so kind as to make the formal introductions?”

“M’daughter, Miss Pease, Your Grace.” Sir Harold gestured awkwardly. “Penelope, His Grace, the Duke of Warwick.”

“Miss Pease.” Marcus reached out his hand to raise her to her feet. “What a pleasure it is to be reacquainted with you after all this time.”

“Your Grace.” Her eyes danced with impish glee. “Why, it seems only a moment.”

Oh, she was fine—as nimble and quick as a yacht.

Marcus took command of the deck. “Indeed, it has been so long since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to you, I wonder if you would take pity on an old sailor and take a turn about the room, while we talk of old times?” He turned to her father with the uncompromising smile that had made naval lieutenants jump to do his bidding. “With your permission, of course.” Which he did not wait for, making off with his prize ship while he showed her father a clean pair of heels.

“Well done, Commander Beecham. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father so flummoxed, even after he’s had an argument with me.”

It was a pleasure to hear the familiar rank from her lips. “That is what we navy men call a cutting out expedition,” he explained before he steered the conversation back to her comment. “Happen often, those arguments?”