have to refuse his marriage proposal. The evening, which had started out with such promise and optimism, was fast turning into an unmitigated disaster.
Mr. Pengrove took her hand, placing it between his cold, damp palms. Dorothea’s head snapped up, her mind racing to formulate a response that would firmly discourage him while at the same time spare his feelings.
“Miss Ellingham.” His voice was a high-pitched squeak. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Dearest Miss Ellingham. Dorothea. These past few weeks we have spent together have been a joy. More than anything, I wish to formalize our attachment, to make permanent our relationship and legalize our union. However, before I make a formal declaration to you, I must speak with your guardian. If you are agreeable?”
Dorothea stared down at him, unsure where to begin. He looked unfailingly earnest in the moonlight and terribly young. “My uncle, Mr. Fletcher Ellingham, is my legal guardian, but as you well know he has not journeyed to London for the Season,” she replied.
“Then I suppose that role is now relegated to your sister,” Mr. Pengrove said slowly. “Or rather her husband, Mr. Jason Barrington. I believe I must apply to him with my request.”
Mr. Pengrove blanched slightly as he spoke, and Dorothea could not fault his reluctance. Her brother-in-law was something of a ton legend, known for his wild, scandalous behavior, his daring feats and dangerous exploits. He was hardly the sort of man Arthur Pengrove usually came in contact with, let alone knew.
“Actually, Gwendolyn and Jason are also not in Town. They are at home, awaiting the birth of their first child,” Dorothea reported, seizing on what she thought would be the best way to extricate herself from this sticky situation. “As you no doubt remember, Jason’s sister kindly agreed to be my sponsor for the Season. It therefore has fallen to her husband to act as my guardian.”
Mr. Pengrove blinked. “The Marquess of Dardington?”
“Yes. And I do confess he has taken his role as my protector most seriously.”
The remaining bit of color on Mr. Pengrove’s earnest face drained away. Jason Barrington might be an intimidating presence, but the Marquess of Dardington was positively lethal. She did not blame Mr. Pengrove one iota for feeling ill at the prospect of facing that haughty, powerful aristocrat.
“I am certain he will require a formal request for a meeting.” Mr. Pengrove removed his white linen handkerchief and wiped at the sweat forming on his brow. “It will take me several days to properly compose a letter that will adequately convey the seriousness of my intentions.”
“Mr. Pengrove…Arthur.” Dorothea gentled the tone of her voice. “I think it better for both of us if you do not rush to make an appointment to see the marquess. The household has been in an uproar lately as things have not been going as he wishes in the House of Lords. I daresay, he has been in the very blackest of tempers for the past week, far worse than usual.”
“Egad!” Arthur’s eyes widened.
Dorothea patted his arm solicitously. She genuinely liked Mr. Pengrove. He was but a few years older than her own age of twenty-one, possessed a pleasant face, a tall, lanky frame, and friendly, uncomplicated eyes. He had an agreeable temperament and a kind nature. Many in society labeled him dull, but Dorothea found his unsophisticated, straightforward manner soothing. He had a comfortable fortune and a lovely estate in Kent that he studiously and successfully managed.
She had been more than willing to overlook his close attachment to his overbearing mother, his somber style of dressing, and his enthusiastic passion for collecting insects. But the emotionless, soulless kiss they had just shared could not be overlooked. She shuddered, imagining herself spending the rest of her life trying to endure those kisses.
“I suppose it would be prudent to wait before approaching the marquess,” Mr. Pengrove muttered, more to himself than to her. “So as to be sure I do everything correctly, properly, and most importantly in a manner that will not offend him.”
Dorothea shook her head slowly. “I think ’tis even more prudent to reconsider our future.”
“Reconsider?”
“Yes. I am honored beyond words to receive such marked attention from you, yet I must speak frankly. I think you are too young to wed, Mr. Pengrove. And I am certain that is what the marquess will say to you.” She cleared her throat. “Among other things.”
Mr. Pengrove shifted his weight off his bent knee, then slowly stood. He seated himself beside her, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps a very long engagement would be best. If that is what you truly desire.”
“Alas, I cannot afford that luxury.” Dorothea stared at his profile. His chin was a tad weak, his hairline receding, his nose boasted a sharp hook. He was far from handsome, yet he truly was a nice young man. With time and maturity he would make some woman a good husband. She felt another stab of disappointment as she acknowledged that woman would most definitely not be her.
“As you well know, marriage is different for a woman,” she continued. “My brother-in-law’s family has been exceedingly generous in their support of me, but I cannot trespass on their hospitality for more than a Season. I therefore feel it is my duty to do everything possible to make a match this year. And since we both agree that you should wait several years before taking a wife, well…”
Dorothea’s voice trailed away. She had given him a chance for a graceful, dignified exit. He pondered it for a moment, hesitated, then wisely took it.
“If that is what you truly wish, then I must of course honor your decision.”
“I fear, ’tis our only option.” Dorothea lowered her eyes, hoping she looked despondent. “However, I do expect us to remain the very best of friends,” she said with a sincerity that was heartily felt.
“Nothing would please me more.”
Dorothea smiled. She had not entirely misjudged him. His affections were not so deeply engaged if he could so quickly relent on his desire to make her his bride. And his intelligence had aided him admirably in making the correct choice. Though it was a bit troubling to see how easily he could be manipulated. Sighing, Dorothea admitted it was all for the best. Obviously, it was not just his inadequate kisses that made him a poor choice for her husband.
“Goodness, I have distressed you,” Mr. Pengrove said, misunderstanding her sigh. “Please, forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Dorothea replied firmly.
“Well, if you are certain.” Mr. Pengrove’s brow creased in a worried frown. He shook it off, then stood and held out his hand. “We must not stay out here alone any longer. I am worried that Mother will notice our absence and remark upon it to someone.”
Dorothea hesitated. She was not ready to return. She needed a few moments alone to collect her thoughts and harness the remaining bits of her disappointment, for when she had left the ballroom earlier, she had firmly believed she would be reentering it as an engaged woman.
“You go ahead without me,” Dorothea said. “I should like to enjoy a few more minutes in solitude, taking in the fresh air before returning to the crush of the party.”
Mr. Pengrove’s face darkened in distress. “I would never be so ungallant as to leave a lady unattended in such a secluded area of the garden. Who knows what might happen?”
“I’m
