"Smile, darling."
Lady Penelope Carrington was beginning to despise that particular phrase.
"I am smiling, Mama," she said through gritted teeth that were, indeed, arranged in something approximating a smile.
"That's your 'I'm plotting murder' smile," Raphael, her youngest brother, whispered helpfully in her ear. "You used to make that face before you put frogs in Edmund's boots."
"I was seven," Penelope hissed back.
"And yet the trauma lingers," Edmund called from her other side, having clearly overheard. At twenty-four, he was supposed to be the responsible one, but he had never quite outgrown his tendency to join Raphael in tormenting their only sister.
The Carrington family made quite the spectacle on their morning promenade through Hyde Park. The Duke of Winterhaven led the way with his usual commanding presence, his silver-streaked hair and aristocratic bearing marking him as a man of considerable importance. Behind him walked the Duchess, Imogen, her arm linked with Anthony, the eldest son and heir at twenty-eight.
Then came Penelope, flanked by all four of her brothers like a prisoner under guard.
"Our baby sister," Adrian said with exaggerated fondness, "all grown up and breaking hearts across London."
"I heard Lord Ashworth nearly wept when she turned down his third request for a dance," Anthony added, his tone far too amused for Penelope's liking.
"And Sir Gerald looked positively devastated," Edmund chimed in. "Though that might have been because she stepped on his foot."
"That was an accident," Penelope protested, though it absolutely had not been. Sir Gerald had earned that crushed toe by staring at her bosom for a solid five minutes.
"Of course it was, dearest," Raphael said, patting her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm. At twenty-one, he was closest to her in age and had always been her favorite, though she'd die before admitting it to the others. "Just as it was an 'accident' when you 'accidentally' told Lord Pemberton that you found his cologne reminiscent of rotting cabbage."
"I said it smelled unusual," Penelope corrected primly.
"You said it smelled like something had died and been left in the sun for a fortnight."
"Which is unusual."
Her brothers dissolved into laughter, drawing attention from the other families taking their morning constitutional. Several young ladies whispered behind their fans, no doubt envious of Penelope's position surrounded by four of London's most eligible bachelors. The Carrington boys were considered quite the catch, handsome, wealthy, titled, and only occasionally insufferable.
"That's quite enough," the Duchess said, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "You're embarrassing your sister."
"She doesn't embarrass easily," Edmund observed. "Remember when she fell into the Serpentine trying to rescue that drowning puppy?"
"It was drowning!" Penelope said defensively.
"It was a very good swimmer," Raphael countered. "You, however, were not."
"I was wearing a ball gown!"
"Which made the whole thing even more entertaining," Adrian said with a grin.
Penelope was formulating a suitable retort, something about Adrian's disastrous attempt to court Lady Beatrice Hartwell last season, when a figure approached their party with the kind of stride that indicated an imminent social interaction.
"Oh Lord," she muttered. "Not again."
The gentleman was perhaps thirty, with carefully pomaded brown hair and a smile that showed too many teeth. He was dressed in the height of fashion, or what he presumably believed to be the height of fashion, though his waistcoat was perhaps a shade too vibrant and his cravat tied with unnecessary complexity.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing deeply to the Duke. "Duchess." Another bow. "What a pleasure to encounter you this fine morning."
"Duke Pembroke," her father said with the kind of polite disinterest he had perfected over decades of dealing with social climbers. "I trust you're well."
"Exceedingly well, Your Grace." The Duke turned his attention to Penelope. "And Lady Penelope. You look radiant this morning. Like a rose in full bloom."
Penelope's smile became fixed. Another flower comparison. How original.
"Duke Pembroke," she said, executing a small curtsy because her mother was watching.
"I wonder," he continued, oblivious to or ignoring her lack of enthusiasm, "if you might do me the honor of taking a turn about the park? The morning is so pleasant, and I would be delighted to have the company of such a charming young lady."
Before Penelope could formulate a polite refusal—she was getting quite good at those—her mother spoke up.
"She would be most delighted to, Duke Pembroke. Wouldn't you, darling?"
The look her mother gave her could have melted stone. It said, quite clearly: You will smile. You will be charming. You will not, under any circumstances, mention rotting cabbage or any other unflattering comparisons.
"Most delighted," Penelope echoed, though her voice came out slightly strangled.
Duke Pembroke offered his arm with a triumphant smile. Penelope took it, feeling rather like a prisoner being led to the gallows.
Her brothers, the traitors, were all grinning.
They began walking, Duke Pembroke launching immediately into what appeared to be a prepared speech about the weather. Penelope made appropriate sounds at appropriate intervals—"Indeed," "How lovely," "Quite so"—while her mind wandered to significantly more interesting topics.
Such as Viscount Ashmore.
She remembered, with perfect clarity, the way he had looked at her. The shocking directness of his observations, so different from the flowery nonsense every other gentleman had spouted.
You're not like the others, he had said.
"Lady Penelope?"
She blinked, realizing Duke Pembroke was looking at her expectantly. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. Could you repeat that?"
His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I was asking if you're fond of the theatre. I have a box at Drury Lane and would be honored if you and your family would join me for the performance next week."
"Oh. How... kind." Penelope scrambled for something more enthusiastic to say. "I do enjoy the theatre. Very much. The... acting. And the... stage."
Good God, she sounded like an idiot.
Duke Pembroke launched into a detailed description of the play they would see, something about Shakespeare and tragedy and star-crossed lovers. Penelope nodded along, making appropriate noises, while her eyes drifted across the park.
And stopped.
There, near the far corner of the walking path, stood a figure that made her breath catch.
Viscount Dorian Ashmore.
She had forgotten nothing about him, she realized with a start. Not his dark hair, slightly too long to be properly fashionable. Not his sharp features. Not the way he carried himself with a casual elegance that suggested he didn't give a damn what anyone thought of him.
He was alone, standing beneath an oak tree with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at something in the distance. His expression was.….troubled. No, that wasn't quite right. Melancholy, perhaps.
"Lady Penelope?" Duke Pembroke's voice had taken on a note of irritation. "Are you listening?"
"Yes," she said automatically. Then, because she couldn't help herself: "Excuse me, Your Grace. I've just remembered something terribly important that I must attend to immediately."
Before he could respond, before she could think better of it, Penelope extracted her arm from his and hurried across the grass toward the oak tree.
She was halfway there before the absolute impropriety of her actions caught up with her. A young lady did not abandon her escort. A young lady did not approach a gentleman unchaperoned. A young lady absolutely did not chase after a man she'd met once, in the dark, while he was being insufferably rude.
But Penelope had never been terribly good at being a proper young lady.
Lord Ashmore looked up as she approached, and she watched surprise flicker across his features before settling into that infuriating smirk she had been thinking about all night.
"Well," he said, straightening from his casual lean against the tree. "We meet again."