Morning came far too quickly.
And as for Penelope, she barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, the events of the previous evening returned with maddening clarity.
From the garden to the gentlemen, and the wager. And, most troubling of all, Anthony Ravenport.
She had spent the better part of the night trying to convince herself that she was being foolish. Perhaps the gentlemen had been drinking too much. Perhaps the wager had been nothing more than an evening's amusement and, by morning, one of them would have thought better of it.
Perhaps Anthony would lose interest.
Perhaps—
Penelope opened her eyes and stared at the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
No.
She knew better than to rely upon perhaps.
Anthony Ravenport had asked for Ravensmere, and a man did not demand something of such value merely for the sake of entertainment. Whatever else he might be, he was not foolish.
