Of course, he would not agree that their fates were entwined. That would be absurd. A vicar’s daughter and a future duke should not even be mentioned in the same sentence, and yet here, among this group of lads, it had somehow happened.

It had happened and she did not like it one little bit.

“Come now, Penning. Once you get beyond all the ruffles and bows, she’s a fetching lass.”

“I do not see it,” he countered.

The heat crept higher in her face.

“Indeed,” another voice seconded. “I would not mind exploring beneath all those ruffles and bows.”

The burn of humiliation now reached the tips of her ears.

“You lads are debauched. She’s a child,” Penning blustered. “And a sanctimonious one at that.”

She should feel grateful in his defense, except she did not appreciate being called a child. Or sanctimonious.

“She’s woman enough for me. And I would not be required to put a bag over her head during procreation like the chit my father wishes me to wed.”

“No, but you would need to put a bag over her personality,” Penning rejoined.

Laughter.

She flinched, feeling their laughter as keenly as the cut of a knife.

She did not know what offended her more. Penning with his clear abhorrence of her or his blue-blooded friends with their lewd comments. It was difficult to decide.

“Come now, Penning. She’s a fair lass and there likely isn’t much feminine enticement to be had in this little backwater. No brothels here, to be sure.”

“Unfortunately,” Amos inserted.

The voice continued as though Amos had not spoken. “All your visits home for holiday and she’s right down the road. Mightily convenient. You’ve never been tempted?”

Tempted? Outrage simmered through her. As though she were free for the picking. For his picking.

She had never rubbed on well with Penning. He never appreciated being stuck with her on those afternoons Papa visited the duke. He’d made his displeasure abundantly clear, treating all her attempts at conversation with scorn. And now she knew why.

You would need to put a bag over her personality.

His next words only further confirmed his enduring dislike of her. “She might not be hideous to behold, but other things matter.”

Might not be hideous to behold? Such a ringing endorsement. That was as much credit as he could grant her? Wretch.

“And what would those other things be, Penning? What is more important than a wife who is fair of face and not a chore to bed?”

“I can think of little else that matters more than possessing a lovely wife.” Another voice seconded.