She can't make a baby without a husband! Or can she?
After witnessing the miracle of birth, self-determined spinster Miss Penelope Crone is having second thoughts about swearing off marriage. She wants – no, she needs – to experience the blessed event herself. Dear God, she’s practically thirty! Time is running out!
Hugh Chesterton, Viscount Danbury, is relatively intelligent, good looking, unmarried, and most importantly, close at hand. With a little décolletage, a sway of the hips, and a few drinks of brandy, Penelope is certain she can extract a respectable offer.
If only she’d accounted for the power of passion.
Because unchecked lust takes over, leaving Penelope in a most precarious predicament. And Lord Danbury –– the goose-brained jackanapes –– is proving far less attainable than she’d imagined.
Is Penelope to be cast out of society or will Lord Danbury take a leap of faith and save her from ruin? He'd better act fast if he's going to make her his lady. HIs Lady At Last...
Excerpt
Chapter One
A miracle.
It had taken an apparent miracle to change Penelope Cross’s mind about spinsterhood, but her mind had changed, nonetheless.
Penelope wrinkled her nose. Had it been a miracle? It was simply a baby. A birth. The creation of life.
Perhaps it was a miracle, after all. Penelope placed her gloved hands atop the wooden fence post, leaned her head forward, and pressed it against the wood. The air was crisp; the sun bright. A bit of snow remained in the shaded areas of the meadow.
It ought to be a perfectly normal February evening.
But it was not.
After thirty-six hours of labor pains, her dear friend, Lilly, the Duchess of Cortland, had finally given birth to a red-faced, wiggling, and wrinkled human. He was all of two hours old.
Penelope had witnessed the entire event. And oh, what a spectacle it had been. One would think at the ripe age of eight-and-twenty that nothing could change her mind about what she wanted in life. But this…
Seeing a child enter the world…
Well, it had.
And the craziest thought had developed as she’d assisted the midwife in cleaning the squirming, slimy little creature before handing him over to his exhausted mother.
I want one.
Which, of course, changed everything.
Because Penelope had long ago given up any hope of capturing the attention of her one true love. And if she could not have him, she didn’t want anybody else. She would never marry; she had decided so just this past fall.
And now this!
This bodily need—this hunger—had hit her so very unexpectedly. An emptiness had opened up inside of her, an emptiness that could only be filled by making her own little screaming human.
She smiled and covered her mouth with one hand. Tears flowed down her cheeks. The look on Lilly’s face, in her eyes, when Penelope had handed her the blanketed bundle. Total fulfillment.
Penelope swiped at her tears and sniffled.
Lilly’s husband, the Duke of Cortland, had been in awe—of both his wife and his son. For theirs was a marriage of love. They now had the perfect little family.
Penelope did not begrudge them. In fact, most of the girls who’d befriended her when she’d first entered society were now married. Not only married but happily so. Even Abigail! The least likely of them all to marry!
Again, the image of tiny little hands, tiny little feet and toes, tiny little everything, clouded her vision. And again, she experienced the hunger.
I want one!
But how? Well, the answer was obvious. Hell’s bells. Penelope sighed. I’ll have to find myself a man!
As Penelope marched back toward Summers Park, the duke’s large country estate near Bristol, she mentally calculated whom she ought to marry. Since he was most definitely not interested, she was going to have to find somebody else. Somebody palatable at least.
She could always set her sights upon one of his brothers. But Penelope quickly dismissed the notion.
If she could not have him, then she most definitely did not wish to become a part of his family.
No, she would have to find some other lucky gent.
Hugh Chesterton, the Viscount of Danbury, was the most obvious choice. Except Danbury had eluded marriage for as long as she’d known him. Nearly ten years, in fact!
Ouch. This fact reminded her that the next London season would be her tenth. Most would consider her firmly upon the shelf. At eight and twenty, she could never hope to take the ton by storm. She’d become something more along the lines of a drizzle. She personified London itself—in the form of a woman. Had she really participated in a decade of seasons?
Not to be distracted by these negative thoughts, Penelope enumerated to herself the reasons Danbury would be a good choice.
Proximity, first and foremost.
He was, this very moment, lounging in Cortland’s study consuming copious amounts of celebratory scotch. For this was where the gentlemen had spent the past twenty or so hours awaiting the news of a safe delivery for the duchess and their little marquess.
Tolerability as well.
For Hugh, as a friend, could quite make for a tolerable husband. He was pleasant, had a fine sense of humor, and wasn’t a complete idiot.
Neither was he hard on the eyes.
And ah, yes, suitability. As a viscount, he was of a fine lineage. Her parents could not find any fault in him whatsoever. Which wasn’t really an issue for Penelope, but it would make things easier.
Availability.
Hmmm… this was an uncertainty. Not that Danbury was actually attached to any other female of her acquaintance, but he had certainly been successful in escaping wedlock thus far.
The debutantes who’d set their sights upon Viscount Danbury had gone about attempting to capture him in all the wrong ways. They’d attempted to seduce him with their frills, sighs, batting eyelashes, and empty-headed opinions.
Penelope knew Hugh.
She knew him for what he was. A bit of a rogue. He preferred a turn of the ankle to a pretty blush any day. He preferred cleavage to lace, passion to infatuation, and he also preferred…
Red hair.
How did she know this? How could she not know this? Every demi-mondaine he’d ever appeared with had had red hair. Quite honestly, he must have worked his way through piles and piles of the stuff. And why had Penelope noticed this tendency?
Well, she had red hair herself. Not the brassy, deep-colored red hair of Danbury’s lady friends, but a sun-kissed sort of red, closer to blond, but definitely red.
This could come in quite handy.
And, she reasoned with herself, Danbury needed to marry eventually. He was halfway through his thirties, for heaven’s sake. He might as well marry her. They got along well enough. Aside from some occasional bickering, that was.
She was a baron’s daughter and tolerably pretty when she put forth an effort. She had a decent-sized dowry, and she was smart as a whip.
Well, perhaps he would not appreciate the last attribute in his wife at first, but eventually, he would be forced to admit that such a characteristic made for a considerable asset in the woman one married.
With her as his wife, he would not beggar any of his estates, nor would he cast any unwise votes in Parliament.
Yes, Danbury could use such a guiding hand as hers.
The air felt different as she entered the large open foyer of the ancient castle. It reminded her of entering a cathedral—or a museum. The large home at Summers Park certainly boasted enough artwork and sculptures to rival either. She handed her coat, bonnet, and gloves to the stoic butler and then commenced climbing the long curving staircase to the upper floors.
Would Danbury still be in the study?
Would he be alone?
Penelope stopped to glance in a mirror at one of the landings and pushed a few tendrils of hair behind her ears. She then removed her fichu and tucked it into her skirt. Shimmying her shoulders a bit, she leaned forward and plumped her bosoms upward so they were nearly coming out of her stays. Ah, yes, a bit of cleavage was just what she needed. She bit her lips to plump them up as well.
Much better. Studying herself again, she untucked the hair from behind her ears and pulled out a few hairpins. The released strands made her look softer… less the spinster.
Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks were a bit reddened from the cold outside. Penelope bit her lips one last time and smoothed her skirts.
If Danbury was to be the father to her child, she’d best get to work now.
She spun on her heel and marched purposefully toward the masculine study, her plan underway.
Later, she would consider that perhaps she ought to have slept on the matter first. One didn’t always make the wisest of decisions when suffering from severe sleep deprivation.
****
Hugh leaned back and swung one leg over the armrest of the ancient leather chair. He was more than a little foxed. Cortland had deserted him over an hour ago to go to his duchess and newborn son, leaving Hugh to his own devices. The two men had paced the study for ages before receiving the news of Lilly’s safe delivery. Well, Cortland had paced anyhow. Hugh had languished on the comfortable settee, sipping scotch—liberal amounts of it. And now, even though he had every intention of retiring to the guest chamber he normally used, his body refused to obey. He really must cut back on the spirits.
Even now, he ought to be traveling north. He needed to investigate rumors of tenant unrest at his estate near Manchester. He’d only detoured to Summers Park to consult with Cortland before addressing the situation, but then Lilly had gone into labor, and he could not leave his oldest friend at such a distressing time!
That had been two days ago.
Tomorrow, he would depart.
Hearing footsteps approach the corridor, Hugh glanced toward the door, expecting to see Cortland. He would be strutting like a peacock, no doubt, having sired a son first time around. Preparing for another toast, Hugh reached for the decanter of scotch but then stopped when he saw that it was not Cortland.
Definitely not Cortland.
Rather, it was a disheveled Penelope Crone. The good old girl was one of the rare single ladies with whom a bachelor was safe to find himself alone. As an unmarried viscount, he remained vigilantly mindful of ambitious mamas and debutantes. He enjoyed his own bachelor status far too much to risk it for a peck and a feel.
No, Penelope, a confirmed spinster, was as reluctant to marry as he.
Except this evening, there was something different about her.
As she entered the room, she had something of a sway to her hips. Very unusual. Penelope was pragmatic about all things. Was she ill? Was she foxed? Holy hell, he must be foxed indeed, because Practical Pen appeared to be moving toward him seductively!
Surely, he was mistaken.
Her face was flushed, and her lips tilted upward in a secret sort of smile. Soft tufts of reddish golden hair framed her face. Hugh also could not fail to notice that her breasts were very close to spilling out the top of her bodice.
He pulled his leg off the chair and sat up straight. “Pen,” he said, feeling somewhat as though he were choking, “I trust all is well with mother and babe?”
Hugh had known Penelope for ages and being alone with her was not something he’d normally find concerning. She was like a cousin to him, practically a sister! Obviously, she’d become so disheveled from assisting the ladies with the long birth. She'd most likely not slept in over twenty-four hours. This sensuality he thought he was seeing must be an aberration. The concoction of her tousled appearance and too much scotch on his part.
And then she turned toward the window, raised her hands up and behind her neck, and stretched, like a feline soaking up the sun. Her position thrust her bosoms forward and emphasized the long, swanlike column of her neck. Her skin was the color of porcelain except for a few delicate freckles sprinkled here and there. Hugh gulped as he watched the edge of her bodice.
She then turned her head toward him and gave him a look.
This could not be reality, for Hugh knew women, and that look was the look a woman gave a man when she wanted him. “Lilly and the little marquis are perfect.” Her voice sounded breathy as she walked toward him.
Hugh’s body stirred.
Jumping to his feet, he ignored the unwanted sensation of lust. Where had his manners gone? A gentleman always rose to his feet when a lady entered the room.
“What a day, eh, Pen, old gal? Join me for a toast?” He reached for the glass he’d been going to pour for Cortland, tipped a few fingers of the amber liquid into it, and held it out toward her. He struggled with his balance but managed to avoid spilling any of the liquid onto the table. His hand barely shook as he handed her the drink.
Penelope stepped closer to him. Closer than necessary for her to retrieve the drink. “I’ve never tasted scotch before.” She wrapped her fingers around his atop the glass, her voice low and velvety.
Hugh wanted to release the drink, but fragile fingers had captured his own and, for the life of him, he could not figure out why he would ever want to free them. His mind was unusually distracted by her moist plump lips, which opened slightly when Penelope lifted the glass, along with his hand, so that she might take a sip.
He was enchanted watching the aromatic liquor flow into her soft, wet mouth. When she pushed the glass away, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She licked her lips and swallowed the strong spirit.
“Mmm…” She surprised him by not coughing. And then she tipped her head back down and opened her eyes again. Emerald eyes that he’d not really ever noticed before. With her hair not pulled back so tightly, they appeared wider. Her lashes were lightly colored but lush and thick. Studying her closely, he noticed little blue flecks. Why, her eyes were nothing short of spectacular!
She stood intimately close to him, her hand still covering his. Hugh glanced down to her bodice and pleasantly noted how proximity gave him quite an eyeful of cleavage. His groin tightened when she again lifted the glass.
This time, to his lips.
He watched her over the rim as he swallowed. She then took another drink for herself before returning it to the table. What in the hell was going on?
And then Miss Penelope Crone, queen of all the spinsters, pressed her body up against him and wound her arms around his neck. She was tall, not as tall as Hugh, but tall enough that when she spoke into his ear, he could feel her breath on his skin.
“We ought to celebrate, don’t you think?”
Of their own volition, Hugh’s arms wound themselves around his fantasy. That’s what this was, a dream, a drunken hallucination. He might as well enjoy it!
One hand reached for her bottom, and the other wrapped around her waist. With no reluctance whatsoever, he held her against his torso and groin. “Damn straight we should,” he growled in agreement before claiming her lips.
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