Elizabeth Powell Read Online Free Page A

over a month left. Give yourself time. I am certain you will find someone to your liking before then.”
    “You mean, find a
lord
to my liking. Why have I not hit upon the right gentleman? Something must be wrongwith me, Jane. Or am I being too particular?” Penelope’s anxious gaze searched her sister’s face.
    “Of course not,” Jane replied with asperity. “It would be easier if you could select a potential husband like you would a horse—check the soundness of his legs, look at his teeth, judge his gait and his disposition—but in this case you’re perfectly justified in being particular. After all, you will be joined to this man for the rest of your life, so you may as well hold out for someone whose presence you can at least tolerate.”
    “But what if I do not find anyone who wants me for who I am and not for my money?” Pen’s question came out as a thready whisper.
    “Stop talking nonsense. Goodness, you have half of the men in London at your feet already! Dozens of your beaux crowd into the drawing room almost every afternoon, and they send you flowers by the greenhouseful. You have to all but fend off the admiring throngs with your parasol when you venture out of doors. You are this Season’s Incomparable, Pen. You will meet someone soon, I am sure of it.”
    And if she did not, Jane would eat her new bonnet, ostrich feathers and all. Penelope was an acknowledged beauty; her ebony curls, perfect oval face, and stunning green eyes attracted men by the score … as did her dowry of twenty-five thousand pounds. But she was also sweet, demure, and even tempered, if a little on the shy side. At twenty, she was perhaps a trifle old to be making her debut, but that could not be helped. Besides, her age seemed to matter only to the jealous misses whose suitors Pen bewitched. Although he possessed no title himself, their late father was the younger son of a viscount, and their family name went back to the age of QueenElizabeth. Pen
would
make a suitable match. It was simply a matter of finding a suitable gentleman.
    Pen closed the ledger with a small sigh. “You are right, Jane. I must not let myself become blue-deviled. Still, I wish I might meet at least one lord who meets all our criteria. I am beginning to think no one like that exists.” She paused, tilted her head to one side, and regarded Jane with a searching gaze. “But I still hold out hope for you.”
    Oh, no. Not this again. Jane averted her eyes. “Don’t, Pen.”
    “Have you even thought about it? You have, haven’t you? You’re blushing.”
    Jane fought to extinguish the heat blooming in her cheeks. “Stop talking nonsense. I am betrothed to Augustus.”
    “That addlepate,” Pen muttered. “And you are
not
yet betrothed, not formally. He has not come right out and asked you to marry him, has he?”
    “He asked me if I would consider it.”
    “And what did you say?”
    “That I would.”
    “Nothing more?”
    Jane fidgeted. “Well…”
    Pen’s eyes rounded. “What did Mama say?”
    “She looked me up and down and wondered why any man would ever want me.”
    “Oh, Jane.” Her sister reached out a consoling hand. “Why did you not tell me?”
    She shrugged. “Because I knew you would try to talk me out of it. I cannot afford to be a romantic, Pen.”
    “Perhaps, but that does not mean you must settle for the first man who offers for you! Especially a man who indulges in gossip and delights in ruining reputations.There is still time to change your mind. Mama will not approve Mr. Wingate’s suit until I am married off.”
    Jane concentrated on twirling a lock of her stubborn, straight-as-a-pin hair around one finger. Seeing her eldest daughter married to a count, a marquess—or even, in her wildest flights of fancy, a duke—was Lady Portia Rutledge’s fondest wish. Her hopes for Jane, however, were another matter entirely. “With Augustus I shall be well settled, and with a minimum of effort.”
    “Oh, what fustian,”