Page 40 of One Night of Temptation
“Seems to be,” Eastleigh said. “My grandmother was invited to the dinner, but I don’t know if she’s able to attend the new date—Wednesday, I believe. Her social calendar numbs the mind. And body. I don’t know how she does it.”
“Some say she feeds on the souls of the weak,” Cole cracked, earning him a wry stare from his best friend.
While Hugh appreciated the injection of humor, he was distraught over the news about Pen’s betrothal. He was certain she didn’t want to marry this earl. All her planning had been for naught.
Cole stroked his jaw. “I do wonder if Lady Penelope would have preferred to remain missing. Diana said she doesn’t think Lady Penelope is enthusiastic about the match.”
Eastleigh snorted. “Your wife has the right of it. No one wants to marry Findon.”
Hugh wrapped his hand around his tankard.“Why is Findon such a terrible match?”
“For one, he could be Lady Penelope’s grandfather.” Eastleigh’s shoulder twitched with a shudder.
“For another, he’s as lecherous as they come. Makes no secret of his desire for a young, nubile wife on whom he can sire sons like a mare.” Cole winced. “My apologies for the crude language, but that is precisely how he speaks.”
Eastleigh shook his head. “He’s awful. I don’t understand why her parents would allow the match, to be honest with you.”
“Because Bramber wants to control Findon’s boroughs and make them as rotten as his own.” Jack Barrett, an MP and Eastleigh’s brother-in-law, sat down in the chair Langford had vacated. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
Hugh silently cursed himself for allowing the volume of their conversation to rise as he turned toward Barrett. “Bramber is trading his daughter to a blackguard for political reasons?”
Barrett lifted a shoulder. “Makes the most sense to me. Bramber is wealthy enough, and I can’t think of anything else Findon might have to offer.” Barrett’s eyes darkened, and his dislike for the marquess was evident. “Bramber makes alliances to benefit himself and only himself.”
That was precisely what Penelope had said. Hugh tightened his grip on the tankard as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Or seated. Because right now, he wanted to hunt Findon down and ensure the man couldn’t marry anyone, least of all Pen. He also wanted to pummel her father into the ground.
Agony tore through him—Hugh knew she didn’t belong to him, and yet the idea of her belonging to someone like Findon filled him with anguish. No wonder she’d been so desperate to avoid the marriage. Now Hugh regretted returning her at all.
But what would the alternative have been? She’d expected to be on her way to Lancashire.
You could have married her.
The voice at the back of his mind had been begging to be heard for two days now. He’d pushed it away, reasoning that it was a moot consideration. The daughter of a marquess would never marry him.
“Hugh, you seem awfully interested in Lady Penelope’s marital situation,” Eastleigh observed quietly, his voice tinged with concern and care.
“Just curious.” Hugh finished his ale and slammed his empty mug on the table. His eyes fell on the second, untouched tankard, but he didn’t pick it up. “I have to go.”
He didn’t want to sit here and talk about Pen anymore. He couldn’t. She was out of his hands. Out of his life.
Still, he would worry about her. Care about her.Pine for her.
Hugh left the tavern and told himself to focus on the bishop’s visit tomorrow. He had no room in his mind for Pen. He couldn’t allow it. Losing her was already too painful, just as losing his mother had been. But knowing that he’d somehow contributed to Pen’s unwanted future—even just by returning her home, which he’d had to do—tore him up inside.
Was he always destined to lose the people he cared most about?
After leaving the Wicked Duke, Hugh had returned home, where he’d overimbibed in brandy and a bit of port. He was, however, recovered in time to greet the Bishop of London when he arrived late the following morning. Tom led Bishop Howley into the vestry, where Hugh had tea and cakes waiting.
“Good day, Mr. Tarleton,” Bishop Howley said. His expression reflected nothing so much as an unflappably even temper. In some ways, Hugh sought to model the man’s demeanor. However, the bishop was more reserved than Hugh and wasn’t known for his ability to speak in public. One might think that would have prohibited him from ascending in the clergy, but it obviously had not.
“Welcome, Bishop Howley. You honor us with your presence.” Hugh gestured to the settee situated in front of the hearth, where a modest fire glowed. The morning had been cool, and Hugh recalled that the bishop liked to be warm. “Would you care for tea?” Hugh asked.
“Yes, thank you.” The bishop took the seat Hugh had indicated. At a half century, Howley possessed a youthful gaze and a long, sharp nose that made one think he was aware of everything, as if he could smell what was going on.
While Hugh took a chair angled toward the settee, Tom poured the tea, filling two cups, and handed the first to the bishop. He then gave the second to Hugh, who nodded in silent appreciation.
“I understand you are receiving many donations this spring from the ladies of the ton,” the bishop said. “That must be a great help.”
“Indeed it is. I can’t fault their generosity, though it would be wonderful to receive books and writing implements for the children of St. Giles.”
