Three Sisters Torn - Penelope - Book 1

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CHAPTER ONE

The music was dreadful.

Penelope Hartson winced as the pianist, a young debutante eager to show off her skills, missed another note, wondering how much more one could take before their ear drums burst. When her mother had mentioned a musicale tonight, she had anticipated a graceful violinist or robust opera singer. Not a debutante who clearly should have chosen needlepoint over her piano playing.

But one must suffer if they wanted to be seen in the London’s social scene, which was what her sister, Margaret, was striving for. She was well on her way to becoming part of the inner circle that was the Haute Ton, having snagged the Duke of Morose two weeks prior. Penelope had stood on the edge of the ballroom floor as the duke and his now soon to be duchess had danced the waltz that solidified their engagement, finding herself wishing that she had been the one dancing. An engagement, after all, would allow her to have her pick of social events to attend. This one would be at the bottom of the list.

Penelope, her mother hissed. Do sit up. You are slouching again.

The chairs are not the most comfortable, she hissed back, receiving a warning look from both her mother and Margaret. They weren’t and if one was to listen to this torture, then the chairs should at least be comfortable. With an inward sigh, she looked around the room, noting some of the more elite Ton member in attendance. Her mother had forced her girls to learn every noteworthy name on the list this season, including all the eligible bachelors, doting mamas, and debutantes that would be considered the competition for the upcoming season. Margaret had done it diligently and as a result, she was now to become a duchess in a month’s time.

Penelope on the other hand, had not fared so well. She was forever getting the gentlemen confused, causing some awkward dances as a result. While her sister had flourished during the morning visits, Penelope had only received a marriage proposal once, from a gentleman old enough to be her grandfather.

Not that she wanted to marry anyone she had met so far during this season. All of gentlemen that had taken a chance were handsome, the epitome of polite society with titles and coffers large enough to rival the king of England. But none of them had held her interest for longer than a few seconds and she had found herself wishing for the musicians to keel over in the midst of the song. It was positively nothing like what her mother had touted it to be, though Margaret seemed to think so. That was, of course, because her search was over. Penelope had never been so jealous of her sister until this season.

Thankfully, the debutante ended and after some polite clapping, they were allowed to exit the parlor. That was wonderful, her mother exclaimed as they walked to the dining room where an array of delectable goodies would be laid out. I can hear her progress in her lessons.

Are we referring to the same musicale mother? Penelope asked. I heard what sounded like an animal dying.

Penelope! Margaret exclaimed, looking at her sister in horror. You shouldn’t say things such as that. You do realize that is the daughter of a baron.

Margaret is right, her mother added, shooting her daughter a look. You should be making compliments about the baron’s daughter. If one is to make the appropriate connections in the Ton, you must learn when to hold your tongue.

I am only telling the truth, Penelope muttered as they entered the dining room. She was dismayed to see that the baroness was serving bitter lemonade and stale sandwiches again, a telltale sign that there were money issues afoot. That or the baroness had considered that her daughter’’s talents were already the talk of the Ton and no one would show.

Ah Miss Hartson. I hear felicitations are in order?

Your grace, her mother murmured as the Duchess of Tolsone looked down on them all. The duchess was one of the women that had given both sisters the approval at Almanacks so they might enter the social season, her opinions weighed heavily within the Ton itself. My daughter has been fortunate indeed to warrant the attentions of the Duke of Morose.

The older woman snapped her cane on the floor, causing Penelope to jump slightly in response. Morose you say? I didn’t think he cared for the bookish ones.

Penelope flushed as her mother gave a little laugh, pushing Margaret forward. No, your grace, it’s Margaret that will become a duchess, not my dear Penelope.

The duchess eyed Margaret closely, taking in her angelic features and her willowy frame, all the complete opposite of Penelope and cackled with laughter. Ah yes, this is more like what he would want. Impossibly dull if you ask me.

Margaret colored as Penelope covered her laughter with a cough, the shock on her mother’s face almost too much to bear. Before her mother or Margaret could reply, the duchess moved on, her cane tapping on the wooden floor.

Well I’ve never, Margaret exclaimed a moment later, her cheeks still red. How dare she refer to me in such a manner.

Now darling, her mother said in a soothing voice. We must remember that the duchess is in the highest circle of the Ton and though a bit, well, eccentric, her approval matters above all else.

I quite like her, Penelope said with a smile. She was the first person that Penelope had encountered to speak her mind.

You would, Margaret grumbled. I am going to find my future husband. Something you do no currently have my dear sister.

Penelope wanted to stick her tongue out at her sister as they had done when they were children, but her mother gave her a warning look as Margaret flounced off to find her duke. Margaret is right in one thing Penelope, you do not, nor do I think you have tried to catch a husband. No one wants to be a spinster.

Penelope did not respond as she looked at the people filing into the dining room. Currently a spinster sounded quite nice if it got her out of this debacle that currently her life.

CHAPTER TWO

Another season on the betting books, eh? Is this season going to be the season that the great Duke of Embry finally meets his match in the marriage mart?

James Barstow, Duke of Embry, chuckled as his closest friend joined his table, reaching for the crystal decanter of brandy that James had just had brought over. Must I hear those words here as well? he asked.

Lucas Travsley, current Viscount Palmer, poured himself a snifter full of brandy and held it up, a grin on his face. To the duke of Embry. May he fall this season and give some of us other fools a chance!

You’re foxed, James replied with a grin. Already and the night is still young.

I was at the card table, Lucas said, downing the glass in one smooth movement. Which debutante will go with the name of Embry?

James shook his head, amused by his friend’s comments about this season. Every season, his name along with a dozen others, made the betting books at White’s, known for some of the most outlandish and comical bets over the generations. Some were driven by motivation, some by greed, but all were touted in the on dit social papers nearly every morning. His own name had appeared just this week, when the social whirl was in full swing, as being one of the highest bets in all of White’s for his marriage. You know I do not cohort with debutantes Lucas. They are too much trouble.

And widows are not? Lucas asked, arching a brow.

James chuckled again, reaching for the decanter to refill his own glass. Perhaps, but most are easily swayed by a pretty bauble.

Hear, hear, Lucas laughed. I saw the widow Forseth showing off her bauble this evening.

Taking a healthy swallow of his brandy, James thought of his latest bedroom partner, the widow Forseth. Her husband had died suddenly in the arms of his own mistress, leaving his young wife the sole heir to his wealthy fortune. The vivacious widow enjoyed the company of men now, James included. While he was certain he wasn’t the only one warming her bed, she was not after his title or his fortune, which made their arrangement amicable. The widow is easy to appease.

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