A Lady of His Own (10 page)

They left having ensured Nicholas would learn nothing, but also having learned that there was nothing more to know.

Once they’d remounted, Penny using a fallen log to clamber up into her saddle, Charles headed for the Abbey. He was barely conscious of the fields they passed, his mind revolving about one simple fact.

They clattered into his stable yard in the dead of night. His stableman looked out; Charles called a greeting and waved him back to bed. Pausing to light a lamp left hanging beside the stable door, he led Domino into the stable; Penny followed, leading her mare.

The horses were housed in neighboring stalls; Charles set the lamp on a hook dangling from a roof beam, and they set to work. Penny unsaddled, as adept as he, but when she hefted her saddle onto the dividing wall between the stalls, she paused and caught his eye.

“How was it organized? Granville went out with the smuggling gangs, and the lugger was waiting. How did it know to be there?”

He held her gaze, then nodded. It was precisely the question he’d been wrestling with. “There has to be someone—someone who carried a message, or some way, some manner, some route through which Granville communicated with the French. We haven’t found it yet.”

Grabbing a handful of fresh straw, Penny turned away to brush down the mare. “So we’ll have to keep looking.”

He hesitated, but then said, “Yes.” He wasn’t going to stomach her “we,” but he’d fight that battle when he came to it.

They finished with their mounts. He went to help her shut the stall door. She headed out of the stall; the mare shifted, catching Penny with her rump, propelling her forward—into his arms. Into him.

He caught her against him, body to body, saw in the lamplight her eyes flare wide. Heard the hitch as her breathing suspended. Sensed surprise drown beneath a wave of sensual awareness so acute she quivered.

Her shoulder was angled to his chest, his left hand spread over her back, fingers curving around her side, his right splayed over her waist. He only had to juggle her and she would be in his arms, knew that if he did, she’d look up—and their lips would be only inches apart.

He hauled in a breath and found it almost painful. Gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, he steadied her on her feet and forced his hands from her, forced himself to set her aside and give his attention to securing the stall door.

He didn’t—couldn’t—risk meeting her eyes. With any other woman, he’d have made some rakish comment, turned the whole off with a wicked smile. With her, he was too busy subduing his own reaction, quelling his own impulses, to worry about soothing hers.

Not
in the stable. That would be far too reminiscent, too foolhardily dangerous. If he wanted to persuade her to look his way again, that was precisely the sort of misstep he didn’t need.

With the door safely shut, he reached up and unhooked the lamp; she’d already turned and was ahead of him, walking out of the stable. He followed, dousing the lamp and replacing it. Crossing to the well in the middle of the yard, he took the pump handle she yielded without a word and wielded it so she could wash her hands.

He did the same, then they set off once more to walk side by side up the grassed slope to the house.

Except it was after midnight.

Except he’d kissed her the last time they’d walked this way under the spreading branches of the oaks.

She strode briskly along, sparing not a glance for him.

He walked alongside and said nothing; he didn’t even try to take her hand.

Penny noted that last and told herself she was glad. Indeed, now she thought of it, she couldn’t imagine why she’d allowed him to claim her hand over the past days, although of course he never asked. Far better they preserve a reasonable distance—witness that heart-stopping moment in the stable. She really didn’t need to dwell on how it felt to be in his arms, or her apparently ineradicable desire to experience such moments.

When it came to Charles, her senses were beyond her control. They had been for over a decade, and demonstrably still were, no matter how much she’d convinced herself otherwise. The best she could hope for was to starve them into submission, or if not that, then at least into a weakened state.

The oaks neared, the shadows beneath them dense.

It wasn’t the darkness that tightened her nerves.

She walked steadily on, no suggestive hitch in her stride, her senses at full stretch…but he made not the slightest move to reach for her, to halt her.

He didn’t even speak.

As they emerged from the shadows and approached the garden door, she quietly exhaled. Relaxed at least as far as she was able with him by her side. Just because he’d kissed her, almost certainly impelled by some typical male notion over seeing what it would be like after all these years, that didn’t mean he’d want to kiss her again. Her senses might be alive, her nerves taut with expectation, but he, thankfully, couldn’t know that.

He opened the door, held it for her, then followed her in.

The house had many long windows; most were left uncurtained, spilling swaths of moonlight across corridors and into halls. Even the wide staircase was awash in shimmering light, tinted here and there by the stained glass of the central window.

Peace and solidity enfolded her, unraveling her knotted nerves, soothing away her tension. Reaching the top of the stairs, she stepped into the long gallery. She walked a few paces, then halted in a patch of moonlight fractured into shifting splashes of shadow and light by a tree beyond the window. The master suite lay in the central wing; Charles and she should part company. She turned to face him.

He’d prowled in her wake; he halted with a bare foot between them.

She raised her eyes to his face, intending to issue a cool, calm, controlled “good night.” Instead, her eyes locked with his, dark, impossible to read in the shadows, yet not impossible to know. To feel.

To realize that as she often did, often had, she’d misread him.

He did want to kiss her again—fully intended to kiss her again.

She knew it beyond doubt when his gaze lowered to her lips.

Knew when hers lowered to his that she should protest.

She knew when his hands rose, slowly, unhurriedly—giving her plenty of time to react if she wished—just what he was going to do.

Knew it wasn’t wise. Knew she shouldn’t allow it.

Yet she did nothing beyond catch her breath when his hands touched, so achingly gentle for such powerful hands, then cradled her face. Slowly raising it, tipping it up so he could lower his head and close his lips over hers.

From the first touch, she was lost. She didn’t want, yet she did. She told herself it was confusion that made her hesitate, held her back from calling a halt to this madness.

All lies.

It was fascination, plain and simple, a fascination she’d never grown out of, and perhaps, God help her, never would.

His lips moved on hers, bold, wickedly sure; her lips parted, by her command or his she didn’t know. Didn’t care. His tongue surged over hers, and she shivered. Her hand touched the back of one of his; she wasn’t even aware she’d raised it.

Was barely aware when he angled his head, deepening the kiss, and one hand drifted from her face to slide around her waist and draw her—slowly, deliberately—to him.

She went, hungry and wanting, while some distant remnant of sanity cursed and swore. Yet it was she who was cursed, condemned always to feel this madness, this welling tide of unquenchable desire that he and only he evoked, and that he and only he, it seemed, had any ability to slake.

Only with him did she feel this way, did her senses whirl, her wits melt away. Only with him did her bones turn to water while heat rose and beat under her skin.

And he knew.

She would have given a great deal to keep the knowledge from him, but even as the remaining vestige of her consciousness noted that his skills had developed considerably over the years, she was aware that behind his controlled hunger, behind the skillfully woven net of desire he cast over her, he was watchful and intent.

He’d known thirteen years ago that she had been his; as his hands slid beneath her coat and fastened about her waist, and he drew her flush against him, it was abundantly clear he knew she still was.

Her breath was long gone; arms twined about his neck, she clung to their kiss as her breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest, as his long fingers curved about her hips and brought them flush against his thighs.

He moved against her, suggestive, seductive. The feel of his body against hers, all masculine strength, reined passion, and wickedly flagrant desire, flung open a door she’d closed, bolted, and thought rusted shut years ago.

A living ache flooded her, deeper than she recalled, more powerful, more compelling.

She’d been so young then, just sixteeen; what she’d then deemed frighteningly urgent was, she now realized, a mere cipher compared to the compulsion she was capable of feeling, of the sheer wanting that rose and raged through her now.

Oh, God
! She tried to pull back, to at least catch her breath—to think.

Only to discover he’d backed her against the wall. With lips and tongue he’d captured her mouth; he pressed deeper and feasted, lured her further, swept her into deeper waters until she had to cling to him to survive. Until her very life seemed to depend on it.

Until nothing else mattered. Until there was no life beyond the circle of their arms.

She felt unbearably grateful, unbearably eager when she felt his hand between them slipping free the buttons that closed her shirt. Then he pushed the halves apart, with practiced flicks of his long fingers stripped away her chemise and set his palm to her naked breast.

Her senses swooned. Her knees buckled.

His other hand slid lower, cupping her bottom, supporting her. Absently fondling as with knowing fingers he caressed her breast, captured her nipple, gently rolled, tweaked, then soothed.

Within seconds, her senses had totally fractured, unable to fix, to focus on anything, overwhelmed by the sensations of his mouth steadily plundering hers, heated and commanding, of his hand and fingers artfully pleasuring her breasts, already swollen and aching, of his other hand subtly exploring, molding her to him, of the heady, even more potent reality of his hard, heavy, aroused body against hers, surrounding hers.

Making her feel fragile, defenseless—so achingly vulnerable.

No—not again.

She dropped her hands to his shoulders, sank her fingers in, pushed back, and pushed him away.

He acquiesced, letting her break from the kiss. Letting her put a few inches between their lips, enough for her to drag in a breath and gasp, “Charles—no.”

For five heartbeats, he said nothing, his eyes midnight pools behind his long lashes. She realized they were both breathing quickly, her breasts rising and falling; his chest swelled against them.

“Why?”

Charles watched her struggle to summon her wits, felt considerable satisfaction in watching how much effort it cost her. Almost as much as it was costing him to rein in his raging need.

She licked her lips. “We…can’t. Not again.”

“Why not?”

She blinked, and couldn’t muster a single reason. That much he could read in her wide eyes, in her blank expression.

He bent his head, not to kiss her, but to the side of hers. Extended his tongue and with the tip delicately caressed the whorl of her ear.

Felt the shiver that racked her from her head to her toes. “Penny…” He breathed all his considerable persuasiveness into the word.

Yet he wasn’t surprised when her fingers tensed again on his shoulders, and she shook her head. “No, Charles. No.”

He hestitated, but he’d told her the truth—he could no longer pretend. He wasn’t even able to attempt it with her; blatant honesty was the only currency he could offer her.

“I want you.” He let the words slide, glide over the delicate hollow of her temple.

“I know.”

She sounded shaky, slightly desperate.

“You want me, too.”

“I
know
that, too.” She dragged in a huge breath, and pushed at his shoulders. “But we can’t.
I
can’t.”

With a sigh, he eased back, accepting that tonight he’d have to let her go. That he’d be sleeping alone yet again.

Not, he vowed, for long. He’d learned what he most needed to know, about her and him and where they now stood. Learned enough to know that he’d been right; she could be his salvation, if she would—with the right persuasion, she might consent to marry him.

She still wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was enough to start with; they could build from there.

Not, however, tonight. Making no attempt to conceal his reluctance, he set her on her feet and released her.

She stepped to the side, tugging her shirt closed, through the dimness met his eyes. She briefly scanned his face, then murmured, “Good night.”

He clamped his lips shut, thrust his hands into his pockets and watched her walk away, turning down the corridor and disappearing from view. Still he remained, listening, until he heard the distant clunk of her bedchamber latch falling. Only then did he let out his disgusted snort.

Turning, he headed for his apartments and his bed.

He stood very little chance of its being a good night.

T
HEY NEXT MET OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE
. H
E WAS
already there, waiting. Penny walked in, nodded his way, smiled at Filchett, sat in the chair he held for her, then poured herself a cup of tea and helped herself to toast.

Charles watched her. He’d got precious little sleep last night. Consequently, he’d had plenty of time to think, enough for the inconsistency in her response to him to rise out of his memories and stare him in the face.

Thirteen years ago he’d thought she’d had enough of him, that after their first and only bout of lovemaking she’d finished with him, never wanted to see him, speak with him, or do anything else with him ever again. That message had reached him loud and clear, but from a distance. A distance she’d insisted on preserving and that, with their families all about, she’d had no difficulty arranging.

Because of that distance, he hadn’t realized the truth. She hadn’t stopped wanting him; she still did. She hadn’t so much been giving him his marching orders as holding him at bay until his real marching orders had taken him away.

Thirteen years ago, she’d been running. Something about their lovemaking had frightened her, but he still didn’t know what. He’d originally, reluctantly, put her adverse reaction down to the physical pain, but he’d never been sure; it hadn’t seemed much like the Penny he knew, but how could he tell when she’d refused to talk about it?

Considering the question now, there were other aspects—her independence, her pride, some unexpected sensibility—that might have contributed to make her take against him, but he knew better than to think he could follow the tortuous processes of her mind. That was the mistake he’d made thirteen years ago; he wasn’t about to make it again.

If she had any difficulty, he’d make her tell him in words incapable of misconstruction. He wouldn’t allow her to deflect him; he had no intention of taking a pert
No
for an answer, or accepting a dismissal, no matter how distant and haughty. This time the situation favored him; their families, the gaggle of females who, with the best of intentions, perennially managed to get in his way, weren’t there for her to use as a screen. This time, there was just him and her and what lay between them. He wasn’t going to let her—the one and only lady for him—slip through his fingers again.

With that resolution firmly made, he’d spent the small hours deciding how to proceed. How to seduce her. The first step was obvious, an absolute requirement; he couldn’t seduce her under his own roof.

Courtesy of his investigation, which investigation she was determined to immerse herself in, that requirement wouldn’t be difficult to meet.

He waited, patient, unperturbed, his gaze on her. Filchett, reading the undercurrents accurately, left in search of more coffee.

Penny buttered her toast, then reached for the jam. After last night, she’d made a firm resolution to restrict her interaction with Charles to the field of his investigation. And to keep at least a yard between them if at all humanly possible.

He’d accepted her refusal last night, but she had no wish to repeat the exercise, even less to tempt him or herself. She might not have the strength to utter the word next time; the likely consequences didn’t bear contemplating. She had absolutely no ambition to be his sometime lover, warming his bed for however long he was there, only to be alone again when he returned to London. To be forever alone once he found his bride.

Eventually, unable to continue to pretend to be unaware of his gaze, she looked up and met it. “How are we going to learn how Granville communicated with the French?”

Down the length of the table, his dark eyes held hers. “Other than by continuing to ask, perhaps being rather more specific in our questions, I’m not sure we have that many avenues to follow.”

He looked down, long fingers idly stroking his coffee cup.

Suddenly realizing she was staring at those mesmerizing fingers, she looked up as he did.

“One thing—I think we need to pay more attention to Nicholas.”

She swallowed. “In case he knows how Granville arranged things?”

“I doubt he knows—if he did, he wouldn’t be asking so many questions, and so widely. But it’s possible, even likely, that he knows a piece of the puzzle—he at least knows enough to realize that there has to be someone else, or something else, involved.”

“Hmm…so how can we learn more from him?”

Charles resisted the temptation to jump in with his solution. Not yet—let her ponder, weigh up the options, think things through. If she came up with the answer he wanted by herself, so much the better. “There’s still the other gangs to speak to. The more we learn of Granville’s activities, the better chance we stand of stumbling onto some clue. But Nicholas is the one person we’re sure was involved—keeping apprised of his movements would be wise.”

He set down his cup, pushed back his chair. “I’ve estate matters to attend to. If you can think of any way to improve our intelligence of Nicholas’s activities, I’ll be in the study.”

Rising, he walked out of the room, knowing he’d surprised her. Finding Filchett hovering in the hall with a fresh pot of coffee, he directed him to the study, and followed.

Penny remained at the breakfast table, sipping her tea, nibbling her toast, and trying to fathom Charles’s direction. Eventually reflecting it was never wise to question the benevolence of the gods, she rose and headed for the parlor. A sun-warmed, feminine sitting room his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law used when relaxing
en famille
, the parlor was empty.

She sat on a window seat, looked out over the manicured lawns, and considered what to do. What she could do.

For years she’d been accustomed to keeping a close eye on all estate matters, yet once Amberly and his stewards had taken over at Wallingham, she’d been restricted to distantly overseeing hers, Elaine’s, and her half sisters’ inheritances; she’d filled in her time helping Elaine run the house. Now…she had nothing to do, and idleness fretted her. She felt restless and worse, useless. Good for nothing because she had nothing to do. Some part of her mind was examining and studying the problem of how to keep a more comprehensive watch on Nicholas, but she thought better while doing.

Ten minutes passed before the quietness about her finally fully registered. There were no ladies in this house, only her.

In lieu of managing her home, there was no reason she couldn’t manage Charles’s. In the absence of his mother—her godmother—there was no reason she couldn’t keep herself occupied by performing the myriad overseeing tasks involved in ensuring the smooth running of the Abbey.

Mrs. Slattery certainly wouldn’t mind.

Rising, she headed for the housekeeper’s quarters.

In the study, Charles noted their findings from the previous night and his consequent direction for inclusion in his next report to Dalziel. That done, he sat back and reviewed his plans for Penny. Despite his personal goal, if it had been possible to isolate her from the investigation he would already have done so, his preferred option being to send her to his mother in London with strict instructions she be kept under lock and key until he came to fetch her.

A lovely conceit, but not an achievable one. And given his personal goal, not a wise one, either.

He would have to work with the options fate had dealt him.

At least he now knew what his personal goal was; he just had to ensure she didn’t get too tangled in the web of his investigation while he was steering her to it.

The thought of steering, of influencing her female mind, left him considering the piece of the puzzle she’d given him that he was finding difficult to ease into the picture; to his mind, it didn’t fit.

She seemed to have accepted it, but his instincts were prodding him, experience insisting that pieces that didn’t fit meant he was seeing some part of the solution wrongly.

He couldn’t question Granville. There was, however, one thing he could check, and despite her apparent acceptance, it might go some way to easing Penny’s mind. After fifteen minutes of mulling over his contacts and how best to approach them, he drew out fresh sheets of paper and settled to write two letters. One to his mother, who suitably adjured would deliver the other to her old friend Helena, Duchess of St. Ives.

If anyone had a hope of establishing the details of how Granville Selborne had died, Devil Cynster, now Duke of St. Ives, was that man. He’d led a cavalry troop in the relief of Hougoumont; he would know, or know how to learn of, the survivors, and how to elicit the pertinent facts.

Charles hadn’t known Granville well; for all he knew, Penny might be right. Yet the contradiction between running military and government secrets to the French, and then enlisting to fight them at Waterloo, was too big for him to swallow easily.

If they could discover exactly how Granville had died, it might shed some light, and perhaps relieve him of the premonition that in all he’d learned of the Selbornes’ scheme, he was misreading something. His memories of Penny’s father, too, didn’t fit well with coldly calculated long-term treason.

The heat of battle burned away all falsity; if Granville had gone to his end unswervingly pitted against the French, then no matter Penny’s stance, he would find it very hard to believe Granville, at least, had knowingly assisted the enemy.

He’d just set his seal to the packet of letters when Filchett tapped and entered.

“Lady Trescowthick’s carriage is coming up the drive, my lord. Are you at home?”

Charles raised his brows. “I suspect I better be.”

Rising, he went out to meet her ladyship, one of his mother’s bosom-bows, also his sister-in-law Annabelle’s mother—no surprise Lady T knew he was in residence. If she didn’t catch him now, she was perfectly capable of laying seige to his house, and with Penny about…

He paused in the front hall, then turned to issue an order to the footman who’d come hurrying from the kitchen. The footman bowed and retreated. Overhearing the exchange, Filchett cast him a surprised look. Ignoring it, Charles donned an easy smile and went forth to greet her ladyship.

A small, rotund, matronly lady, Amarantha Trescowthick was delighted to have him hand her down from her carriage and escort her up the steps.

“But I really can’t stay, my boy—oh!” She lifted a hand to her bosom. “It’s
so
hard to think of you as the earl. Such a tragedy—first Frederick, then poor dear James. I’ve no idea how your mother kept her sanity—so brave, she was. But at least you survived and are here to take up the reins. I never did think to be ‘my lording’ you, bent on every dangerous venture as you were.”

“Such are the vagaries of fate,” Charles murmured, well aware that as part of those vagaries, her ladyship’s daughter, while still styled countess, would not be the mother of the next earl.

“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked as he guided Lady T into the hall.

“I’m holding a small party tomorrow night—just the usual crowd, those of us who haven’t gone up to town—and I expressly wished to invite
you
. It’ll be an excellent opportunity for you to get to know us better. Why”—she fixed him with a stern look—“what with one thing and another, we’ve hardly set eyes on you since you returned from Waterloo.”

His most charming smile to the fore, he bowed. “Tomorrow night will suit admirably.”

Her ladyship blinked, then beamed, having, it seemed, been girded for battle. “Excellent! Well, then—”

She broke off, following the direction of his gaze as he glanced to the rear of the hall.

The baize-covered door swung open, and Penny came through. She saw him—he’d positioned Lady T so the stairs blocked Penny’s view of her.

Penny smiled. “There you are.” She came forward.

Lady T leaned across and peered around the stairs. “Penelope?”

For one fraught instant, the two ladies stared at each other, speculation clearly rife in both their minds. Then Penny’s smile, which hadn’t faltered in the least, widened; she continued smoothly toward them.

“Lady Trescowthick! How lovely to see you. I hope you haven’t looked for me at Wallingham—I’ve been here all morning consulting with Mrs. Slattery over a recipe for quince jelly
Tante
Marissa gave me—it just
won’t
come right.”

Charles inwardly grinned; she was really very good at necessary lies.

Lady T offered her cheek to be kissed; Penny had known her since childhood. “I know just how difficult that recipe is—my chef Anton swore it was impossible, and he’s French, after all! But indeed, it’s fortuitous I caught you here, my dear—I’d intended to call at Wallingham on my way home. I’m giving a party tomorrow evening, and I’ve just inveigled Charles here into attending, and you must come, too, of course.”

Penny kept her smile in place. “I’ll be delighted. It’s been rather quiet since Elaine and the girls went up to town.”

“Indeed! I’m sure I don’t know why—” Lady Trescowthick broke off, raising a hand in surrender. “But we won’t retread that argument. For whatever reasons you dislike the ballrooms, you’re here, and must come tomorrow night.” She turned to the door. “Now I must be on my way. Oh—and George bumped into your relative, Arbry, yesterday, and invited him, but of course George forgot to mention you, assuming goodness knows what.”

With Charles on her ladyship’s other side, Penny saw her out of the house and into her carriage.

Lady Trescowthick leaned out of the window. “Eight sharp—none of your London ways here, Charles—Lostwithiel!” She sighed. “Will I ever get used to calling you that?”

The question was clearly rhetorical; the carriage lurched into motion. Her ladyship waved and sat back. Charles stood beside Penny on the steps, hands raised in farewell.

“Quince jelly?” he murmured.

“Your mama’s recipe is justifiably famous. Why the devil did you send for me?”

“I sent the message before Lady T arrived.” Just before.

The carriage was gone; turning, he waved Penny into the house. “I wanted to discuss how best to achieve an adequate watch on Nicholas.”