Promise Me Tomorrow. Candace Camp
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“The pleasure is all mine. You must think me bold to introduce myself, but in truth, I find it excessively silly to sit here not talking because there is no one around at the moment who knows both of us to introduce us.”
“You are absolutely right,” Penelope agreed. “I would have introduced myself if I had more nerve. I’m afraid I am the veriest coward.”
At that moment, Penelope’s mother, who had been droning away the past few minutes, finally realized that her daughter was not listening to her and turned to see what she was doing. At seeing the girl engaged in conversation with a strange woman, she scowled and brought her lorgnette up to her eyes to peer disapprovingly at Marianne.
“Penelope! What are you doing?”
Penelope jumped a little, and a guilty look flashed across her face. She turned back to the older woman, saying brightly, “I was just talking to Mrs. Cotterwood. I met her at Nicola’s last week.”
Quickly, before her mother could inquire more deeply into the matter, she introduced Marianne and her mother to each other. Her mother, Marianne learned, was Lady Ursula Castlereigh.
On the other side of Marianne, Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, saying with delight, “Oh, do you know Lady Castlereigh, Mrs. Cotterwood? Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Castlereigh. If you remember, we met at Mrs. Blackwood’s fete, oh, sometime last Season.”
“Indeed?” Lady Ursula replied in a voice that would have daunted a less determined woman than Mrs. Willoughby.
“Yes, indeed. I admired the dress you were wearing.” Mrs. Willoughby launched into a detailed description of a gown, popping up and moving around the others to plant herself in the empty chair beside Lady Ursula.
Marianne seized the opportunity to escape both women. “Shall we take a stroll around the room, Miss Castlereigh?”
Penelope brightened. “That would be lovely.”
It suited Marianne’s purpose to get away from the chattering Mrs. Willoughby, but she knew that she had proposed the stroll partly to help out Penelope, as well. Penelope, despite her social status, touched a responsive chord in Marianne. She could not help but feel for the poor girl, obviously shy, and just as obviously dominated by her dragon of a mother.
Penelope visibly relaxed as they moved away from Lady Ursula’s vicinity. Marianne glanced around them as they walked, automatically checking the room. There were few of the valuable items she sought in the large, open room. The only access to the doors was a series of long windows, open to alleviate the heated stuffiness created by the crowd of people. Marianne maneuvered Penelope in the direction of the windows.
“Ah,” she said. “It’s much more pleasant here.”
“Oh, yes,” Penelope agreed, following her. “The fresh air feels good.”
Marianne casually looked out. They were on the second floor, looking down at the small garden in the back of the house. There were no convenient trees or trellises nearby. Still, Marianne cast a professional eye over the window and its lock before she guided Penelope away.
As they walked, Marianne felt an odd prickling at the base of her neck that told her she was being watched. She turned her head, scanning the room, and after a moment she saw him—the same man who had been watching her earlier. As she looked at him, he sketched a bow to her. Warmth flooded her, a sensation she was unused to. She told herself it was embarrassment.
“Penelope…” She took her companion’s arm. “Who is that man?”
“What man?” Penelope stopped and looked around.
“Over there.” Marianne indicated him with her head.
Penelope adjusted her glasses, looking in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. “Oh. Do you mean Lord Lambeth?”
“The good-looking wretch with a superior smile on his face.”
Penelope smiled faintly at the description. “Yes. That’s Justin. He’s the Marquess of Lambeth.”
“He keeps looking at me. It’s most disconcerting.”
“I should think you would be used to men looking at you,” Penelope responded, grinning, looking at her companion. With her red hair, vivid blue eyes and creamy white skin, Marianne Cotterwood was stunning. Penelope had noticed her almost as soon as she had entered the ballroom. Marianne’s dress, though simpler than most here tonight, was the perfect setting for her beauty, showing off her tall, voluptuous figure; she had no need for the frills and bows that many women added to their clothes.
“Thank you for the compliment—I think.” Marianne smiled back at her. “But that is the second time I’ve caught him staring at me in the rudest way. And he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by being caught doing it. He just stands there looking….”
“Arrogant?” Penelope supplied. “That’s not surprising. Lambeth’s quite arrogant. Of course, I suppose he has every reason to be. Everyone fawns over him, especially giddy young girls looking to marry.”
“He’s a catch?”
Penelope chuckled. “I should say so.” She looked at her curiously. “Do you mean you have not heard of him?”
“I’m afraid not. I have spent the past few years in Bath, you see, living rather quietly—since my husband’s death.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you would have heard of him. Bath is not the sort of place Lambeth frequents. Not exciting enough.”
“He’s a carouser, then?”
Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know whether he lives a wilder life than most men. But he despises boredom. Bucky says he will go to any lengths to avoid it. Last month, he and Sir Charles Pellingham placed bets on how fast a spider would build its web in the corner of a window at White’s.”
Marianne grimaced. “He sounds excessively silly.”
“Sir Charles is,” Penelope admitted frankly. “But Bucky says that Lambeth is a knowing one.”
“Who is Bucky?” Marianne asked.
Penelope colored slightly. “Lord Buckminster. He is a cousin of my good friend Nicola Falcourt.” She went on hurriedly, “He is considered quite a catch.”
“Lord Buckminster or Lord Lambeth?” Marianne asked quizzically.
Penelope’s blush deepened, “Well, both, I suppose, but I was speaking about Lord Lambeth. They say he’s rich as Croesus, and his father is the Duke of Storbridge, so all the matchmaking mamas consider him fair game.”
“I see.” No wonder the man felt no hesitation in staring so rudely. Probably most of the women at the party would be thrilled to have him notice them. Marianne glanced back in his direction, but he had gone. She and Penelope started their perambulation again.
“But I imagine it’s all useless,” Penelope went on. “Mother says that there’s an unspoken understanding between him and Cecilia Winborne that someday they will marry. It would be a perfect match. Her lineage is as good as his, and there has never been a scandal in her family—they’re all terribly priggish,” she added confidentially.
Marianne laughed.
Penelope looked a trifle abashed. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. You must think me terrible. Mother says I am always letting my tongue run away with me.”
“Nonsense,” Marianne assured her. “I think you are most enjoyable company—and that runaway tongue is one of the main reasons.”
“Really?” Penelope looked pleased. “I am always afraid that I’m going to say the wrong thing—and then, when I’m expected to talk, it seems as if my tongue won’t even work.”
“I have often felt that way myself,” Marianne lied kindly. In truth, she had rarely been