The carriage fell quiet again.
But Francesca soon began speaking of the evening, recounting some amusing exchange she had shared with one of the young ladies, and Lady Sophia happily joined in.
Penelope listened. She said little, yet beneath her silence, her thoughts continued to turn towards him.
She had known of him, of course. Everyone did; the famous Rake of Monclair.
A man whose name was spoken in drawing rooms with amusement, admiration, and occasionally disapproval. But knowing of him was entirely different from knowing him, and worse still was the fact that she had met him before she ever knew his name.
Penelope remembered the lake, recalling the humiliation that followed that dreadful encounter. Everything seemed to make sense now—his lack of manners, his shameless confidence, the teasing edge to his voice, and the complete absence of embarrassment when he had found her in such a compromising state.
She'd mistaken it for arrogance, but now she knew better.
