But they weren’t, because of Penelope, who, ironically, had been considered the most darling of darlings of the ton when she’d first been out—the chosen bride of the impeccably behaved, impeccably pedigreed Duke of Leighton. After their match had dissolved in a perfect storm of ruined young women, illegitimate children, and a love match for the ages, Penelope—tragically, for her sisters—had lost darling status. Instead, she’d been relegated to good friend of the ton, then welcome acquaintance and, more recently, guest, complete with long-overstayed welcome.

She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t clever. She wasn’t very much of anything except the eldest daughter of a very rich, very titled aristocrat. Born and bred to be the wife of an equally rich, equally titled aristocrat.

And she’d almost been just that.

Until everything had changed.

Including her expectations.

Sadly, expectations did not make for good marriages. Not for her, and not for her sisters, either. And, just as it was not fair for her to suffer because of a near-decade-old broken engagement, it was not fair for her sisters to suffer for it either.

“I never intended to make it difficult for you to marry,” she said, quietly.

“You are lucky, then, that you are able to rectify the situation,” Olivia offered, obviously disinterested in her eldest sister’s feelings. “After all, your chances of finding a quality husband may be slim, but mine are very good indeed. Even better if you’re married to a future viscount.”

Guilt flared, and Penelope turned to Pippa, who was watching her carefully. “Do you agree, Pippa?”

Pippa tilted her head, considering her options, finally settling on, “It can’t hurt, Penny.”

Not you, at least, Penelope thought under a wave of melancholy as she realized that she was going to accept Tommy’s suit.

For the good of her sisters.

She could do much worse, after all. Perhaps, in time, she would love him.

* * *

Dear M—

They burned the Guy tonight in Coldharbour, and the entire Marbury clan headed out for the impressive display. I had to write, as I was quite distressed to discover that not one young man was willing to test his skill at climbing the woodpile to steal Mr. Fawkes’s hat.

Perhaps at Christmas, you can teach them a thing or two.

Your loyal friend—P

Needham Manor, November 1813

* * *

Dear P—

They don’t need me to teach them—not when you’re there and perfectly capable of stealing that shabby cap yourself. Or are you too much of a lady these days?

I shall be home for Christmas. If you are very good, I shall bring you a gift.

—M

Eton College, November 1813

That night, when all the house was asleep, Penelope donned her warmest cloak, fetched her muff and a lantern from her writing desk, and took a walk on her land.

Well, not precisely her land. The land that was attached to her hand in marriage. The land that Tommy and any number of handsome young suitors would happily accept in exchange for plucking Penelope from her family fold and taking her to wife.

How very romantic.

She’d gone too many years hoping for more. Believing—even as she told herself not to—that she might be that lucky, too. That she might find something more, someone more.

No. She wouldn’t think on it.

Especially not now that she was headed straight for precisely the kind of marriage she’d always hoped to avoid. Now, she had no doubt that her father was committed to marrying off his eldest child this season—to Tommy or someone else. She considered the unmarried men of the ton who were desperate enough to marry a twenty-eight-year-old with a broken engagement in her past. Not a single one seemed like a husband she could care for.

A husband she could love.

So, it was Tommy.

It would be Tommy.

She braced herself against the cold, ducking her face into her cloak and pulling her hood low over her brow. Well-bred ladies did not take walks in the dead of night, she knew, but all of Surrey was asleep, it was miles to the nearest neighbor, and the bitter cold matched her bitter irritation at the events of the day.

It was not fair that a broken engagement from the distant past made for such a challenging present. One would think that eight years would have made London forget the legendary autumn of 1823, but instead, Penelope was plagued with her history. In ballrooms, the whispers remained; in ladies’ salons, the fans still fluttered like hummingbird wings, hiding the quiet conversations of which she caught snippets now and then—hushed speculation about what she’d done to lose the interest of her duke, or about why she thought herself high enough to turn down the other offers.

It wasn’t that she thought highly of herself, of course.

It was that she thought highly of the promise of more.

Of a life filled with more than the husband she’d been trained to expect would be fond of her but not love her, and the child or two who she’d always assumed would love her but not know her.

Was that too much to ask?

Apparently.

She marched up a snowy rise, pausing briefly on the crest of the ridge, looking down toward the blackness of the lake below, the lake that marked the edge of Needham and Bourne lands . . . or, former Bourne lands. And, as she stood, staring into the darkness, thinking on her future, she realized just how little she wanted a quiet life of pastel colors and quadrilles and tepid lemonade.

She wanted more.

The word whispered through her thoughts on a wave of sadness.

More.

More than she would have, it turned out.

More than she ever should have dreamed.

It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her existence. It was luxurious, really. She was well kept and well fed and wanted for very little. She had a family that was, for the most part, tolerable, and friends with whom she could spend an afternoon now and then. And, when it came right down to it, her days weren’t that much different now than they would be if she were married to Tommy.