Chapter Six

Four days passed before Stephen could again go to the park with Penelope. They always went early in the morning with the hopes of avoiding most everyone of high society. The existence of a Salsbury sister was known by only a few; the knowledge that she had some challenges and behaved in such a juvenile manner even at the age of nineteen was known by almost no one outside their family. He had never personally spoken of it to anyone but Lady Catherine. He shocked himself as the words came out of his mouth. But though that moment carried with it certain risks, he could not regret it. Even though she was an Aster.

They guarded the potential in their family line to birth such children as Penelope with a careful eye. If you looked at the family journals, it was obvious that every other generation claimed someone of questionable age and behavior. In the early years, unthinkable things happened to these relations. Sent off to live in solitude as wards was the most merciful thing he had read.

As he and Penelope made their way across the street to the expansive park, he shivered to think of what someone would do with Penelope in such a time. Even now, the gossip and tongue of the ton could be ruthless.

His eyes searched the snow-covered ground for Lady Catherine. He had little hope she would come, especially since it had taken him so many days to return. If she held him in any kind of regard, what had she thought, all those days when he and Penelope had not come outside?

“Snow!” Penelope laughed as she reached down to grab a handful. She threw it up in the air, the soft powder falling all around her, lighting on her eyelashes.

“You will get all wet.”

“Not wet. It’s too cold.” She reached down again and grabbed a handful as if to throw it above her head again but instead threw it in his face.

He coughed in surprise. Loud, musical laughter called out to them from across a small expanse of green between two trees. Lady Catherine ran to approach them. “Good throw, Penelope.” When she stood at their front, her cheeks rosy, her eyes alight with energy, he had to resist a strong urge to swing her around in his arms in welcome. “Hello, Your Grace.” She curtsied, her suddenly shy smile warming him.

“Your Grace, she says.” He shook his head. “The woman who will agree to a dance with a stranger insists on calling me Your Grace.”

“What would you like me to call you?”

A wicked idea nudged him. His interactions with Lady Catherine were already so clandestine, he longed to hear his name from her lips. “I’d love you to call me Stephen.”

She gasped. “Surely not.”

He tilted his head. “But as we don’t know each other as well as I would like, would Salsbury do?”

She cringed.

“Salsbury carries with it a certain hesitance, does it not, given our ridiculous family situation?” He didn’t have another suggestion, and he longed to hear his name on her lips.

She stepped closer, her expression pensive. “I wanted to share something with you—something I learned—and to ask you a question.”

He gestured to a bench. “Shall we sit?”

“No! No sit.” Penelope put her hands on her hips. He had almost forgotten she was there.

Lady Catherine stepped toward her. “Oh Penelope! We are talking quite a bit, are we not?” She stooped to gather her own bit of snow. “Too much talk when we could be doing this!” She threw it up in the air above Stephen, and it fell all around him.

Penelope laughed and grabbed more.

“Oh no. You two. That’s hardly fair.”

“Fair. No fair, Stephen.” Penelope threw snow over her shoulder at him as she ran away. He barreled after her until he heard the sought-after squeal of her laughter.

Lady Catherine’s face lit with happiness.

He stopped, caught by it, the magic of her carefree joy filling him as a good snow at Christmastide would. He held out his hand. She took it, their gloved fingers interlocking. “Will you be in London over Christmastide?”

She nodded. “We will. Mother does not wish to travel.”

He nodded. “Mine neither.”

They paused a moment. Stephen assumed both in respect for the mourning of their mothers. Then he said, “I’m sorry for your mother’s sorrow.”

Her eyes misted. “And I yours. These past two years have been sad ones for both our houses, I would imagine.”

He nodded.

Penelope began lifting piles of snow onto the bench. He turned to Catherine. “What did you want to tell me?”

She burned bright red, and he found her even lovelier.

“I . . . well . . . I came upon my mother reading old letters and journals.” She stepped nearer to him, and as her big eyes widened further, he fought the desire to wrap his arms around her. “She said that your father desired her hand, that they were to marry at first.”

His eyebrows raised. “Were they?” He had not heard. “I shall dig up what I can to find out what happened there.”

“Would you? I cannot get any more information out of my mother. And I . . . I’m interested.”

He lifted her chin. “As am I.”

The air between them crackled, pulling them together. She leaned in. “When will I see you again?” Her face showed a touch of pain, and he considered the torture of the past four days.

“Perhaps I shall come call?”

Her face blanched. “You mustn’t.”

He shook his head. “This feud is not mine. I share no animosity for your family that others seem to cling to.”

“My uncle.”

“Is he always at home?”

“Whether he is or isn’t doesn’t signify. He rules the household. My brother, the duke, he is too young and hesitant to cross our father’s brother.”

“Then meet me here? Or at the opera?”

“We just went. And so many attend. People we may not wish to see.” She looked down.

He remembered their uncomfortable conversation with her uncle. “Are you to be married?”

“No!” She cleared her throat. “Nothing has been decided, nothing discussed openly, except by my uncle the other night.”

He felt an undeserved relief. He couldn’t ask for her hand, not without alienating his family, not without bringing more Aster wrath and threats on them all. And yet he was happy things were still undecided between her and Channing.

“And Lady Fenningway?” Her small voice warmed him.

“I cannot abide the woman.” He held up his hand. “I apologize for my abrupt manner. But we have nothing in common.”

“But there are expectations.” She looked away, her hand still in his.

“There are, yes. For you as well, I’d imagine.” The hopelessness of their situation settled around him again, dropping the corners of his mouth. “And yet, I long to see you. I have made no promises. Shall we meet here again, as often as we are able?”

She nodded. “And, perhaps, the museum?”

His heart picked up. “Capital idea! Tomorrow?”

She grinned. “If I can manage it. I’ll be there during the afternoon, after tea.”

“Perhaps we shall come to an epiphany while admiring the great creative genius of our time.”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes, her countenance, her shoulders all seemed to droop for a moment, then she squeezed his hand and stepped away. “Penelope. What are we doing here?” She moved to help her collect snow for the pile she had gathered on the bench.

He watched the two of them, marveling at Lady Catherine’s large and sweet heart, wondering how fate had smiled on him in such a way as to enable him to know her.

But the more he spent time with her, the more he watched her with Penelope, the more he wanted her in his life. As yet, he could find no easy way to court her, and the longer he waited, the more they each became entrenched in other entanglements. Perhaps the solution lay in the source of their family’s age-old hatred for each other. The fact that his father had courted her mother, however unsuccessfully, gave him hope. He determined to discover those secrets that very night.