A Lady of His Own (42 page)

Placing her earrings on a side table, she looked at him, puzzled, but he made no move to explain. Insisting she spend the night in his room, in his bed, with absolutely no concern over who in his household knew of it, was, to his mind, a clear declaration of his commitment to their goal—to her being his wife. Nothing else could explain such a blatant act; he was certain his mother, sisters, and even more his sisters-in-law, would see it for the admission it was.

They’d probably coo. Thank God he wouldn’t be about to hear them.

Penny pulled pins from her hair, then unraveled the intricate braid Jacqueline’s maid had set her long tresses in. She assumed she was in his room rather than him being in hers because her room was near his sisters’, and thus far since returning from Amberly House they hadn’t had a chance to talk—he hadn’t had a chance to persuade her to remain in London. She knew the argument was coming, had known it from the moment she’d jockeyed him into bringing her to town. In London with his mother, or Elaine, was where he would deem her safest, where he would prefer her to be.

That was not, however, where she needed to be.

But she couldn’t explain until he broached the subject. Combing out her long hair with her fingers, she shook it free, then started undoing the buttons on her gown.

Still in his trousers, he stopped behind her and undid her laces. She murmured her thanks, then drew the long silk sheath off over her head; she felt his hands slide around her as she shook the gown out. Tossing it aside, clad only in her fine chemise, she let him draw her back against him. Let him wrap his arms around her and surround her with his strength.

Bending his head, he pressed his lips to her throat, lingered there. She could almost hear him thinking how best to open the debate, then he raised his head, steadied her, and stepped back. “Before I forget…”

Crossing to his tallboy, he lifted a letter from the top. “This was waiting for me.” He handed it to her. “It’s really for you.”

Puzzled anew, she took it, unfolded the sheets, smoothed them, and read. It was an account of an engagement at Waterloo, written by a corporal who’d been in the same troop as Granville.

She read the opening paragraph, slowly moved to the bed and sank down as the action unfolded, told in the young corporal’s unpolished phrases. She read on, aware that Charles sat beside her; blindly, she reached for him. He took her hand, wrapped his around it, held it while through the corporal’s eyes she saw and learned of the circumstances of Granville’s death.

When she reached the end, she let the letter refold, sat for a moment, then glanced at Charles. “Where…how did you get this?”

“I knew Devil Cynster led a troop of cavalry in the relief of Hougoumont. It was likely he or some of his men would know various survivors, so I asked. One of his cousins had assisted Granville’s troop afterward; he remembered the corporal and searched him out.” He nodded at the letter. “The corporal remembered Granville.”

Mistily, she smiled at him. “Thank you.” She glanced at the sheets in her hand. “It means a lot
knowing
he died a hero. In some way it makes it, not easier, but less of a waste.”

After a moment, she looked at him. “Can I give this to Elaine?”

“Of course.”

She rose, crossed to the side table, and left the letter with her jewelry. Turning back, she paused, studied him waiting for her, broad chest bare, his dark mane framing his dramatically beautiful face, his midnight eyes steady on her. He held out one hand. She walked to him, gave him her fingers, and let him clasp them as she sat again on the bed, angling to face him as he shifted to face her.

He searched her eyes, then simply said, “Please stay here and let me and Dalziel handle whatever happens at Amberly Grange.”

She studied his eyes, equally simply replied, “No.”

The planes of his face hardened. He opened his lips—she stayed him with a raised hand. “No—wait. I need to think.”

His eyes widened incredulously, then he flopped back on the bed, gave vent to a pungent curse, followed by a muttered diatribe on the quality of her thought processes and her familial failing regarding same.

She fought to straighten her lips, aware of the tension riding him—aware of its source. “I know why you want me to stay here.”

His dark gaze flicked down to fix on her face. “If you know what violence it does to my feelings to have you exposed to any danger, let alone a madman who’d be quite happy to slit your throat”—he came up on one elbow, patently unable to keep still—“then you shouldn’t have to think too hard.”

She met his blatantly intimidating gaze. “Except that there’s more at stake here, something more important than just catering to your protective instincts.”

For a moment, he stared into her eyes, then he sighed tensely and looked away. And
sotto voce
in idiomatic French reminded himself of the futility of arguing with her.

She tightened her fingers, squeezing his hand. “I understood that.”

He glanced at her, and humphed.

They were both trying to lighten a fraught moment—fraught with emotion rather than threats. Dealing with emotions had never come easily to either of them; what they now had to face, to manage, accommodate and ease, was daunting.

He was descended from warrior lords; one of his strongest instincts was to protect, especially those he cared about, especially the females in his life. Especially her. She’d accepted that in drawing close to him again, his protective instinct would flare again, and it had, even more fiercely than before. But she was neither weak nor helpless, and he’d always acknowledged that and tried to rein in his impulses so they didn’t unnecessarily abrade her pride. However, this time the danger was immediate and very real; he wouldn’t easily be persuaded to let her face it with him.

She searched his dark eyes, saw, understood, and felt certain, this time, that it was important she be with him; why, however, wasn’t easy to explain.

Slipping her fingers from his, she slid from the bed and stood; clasping her elbows, she walked a few paces, then turned and slowly paced back.

Charles watched her, saw the concentration in her face as she assembled her thoughts. As she neared the bed, he sat up. She lowered her arms; he reached for her hands and drew her to stand between his knees.

She looked into his eyes, her gaze steady; her fingers locked with his. “There are two reasons I need to go with you. The minor one is that this ‘game’ was a Selborne enterprise—concocted, instituted, and executed for years by Amberly and my father. Amberly represents his side of it, I represent my father and Granville, who are no longer here. It’s right that Amberly should have one of us beside him to the end.”

She paused, then went on, “I could point out how old and frail he is, but it’s more a question of family loyalties, and that’s something I know you understand.”

He arched a resigned brow. “No point arguing?”

“In my shoes, you’d do the same.”

He couldn’t contradict her. “What’s the other, more important reason?”

You
. Sliding her fingers from his, Penny raised her hands and framed his face, looked into his midnight eyes. She watched his expression harden as he read the resolution in hers. “It’s important to me to see this through
with you
, by your side. We’ve been apart for a long time; I’ve been out of your life for more than a decade, and you’ve been out of mine.
If
we’re to marry, if I’m to be your wife, then I’ll expect to share your life—
all
of it. I won’t be cut out, shielded, tucked away even for my own safety.
If
we’re to marry, then I’ll be by your side not just figuratively but literally.”

She now understood how important that was—for him no longer to be alone, for her to be with him. She’d decided to accompany him to London more than anything because instinct had insisted she should.

Instinct hadn’t lied. Alerted by it, she’d watched him since they’d left Wallingham; she could now see beyond his mask most of the time. She’d observed how he’d behaved and reacted during the grueling journey, through their arrival here, their interview with Amberly and Dalziel, and even more tellingly, in dealing with his womenfolk. She’d seen how he’d coped with her beside him, and contrasted that with how he would have managed if she hadn’t been.

If she’d harbored any doubt of the difference her presence made, his behavior over the evening would have slain it. When they’d greeted the first guests, she’d seen how inwardly tense he’d been, although not a hint showed, even to his sisters; his mask of devil-may-care bonhomie was exceptionally good, exceptionally distracting. At first, knowing his background and experience in ballrooms, she’d been at a loss to understand his difficulty, then she’d caught him swiftly scanning the room, and realized—he held everyone at a distance. He was used to being completely alone, even in a crowd, guarding against everyone, trusting no one…except
her
.

As the evening wore on, and he realized she didn’t mind being used, that she was amenable to being his link, his connection with the glittering throng, his interactions with others subtly changed, shifted. By the end of the night, much of his defensive tension had left him. When he laughed, it was more genuine, from his soul.

She
was the only person he trusted unreservedly, without thought. She could be his anchor, his trusted link with others, one he now, after all his years of being alone, desperately needed. His mother understood, possibly the only other who saw clearly; from across the ballroom, she’d smiled her approval. A few other matrons who knew them both well probably suspected.

He needed her. He’d told her so, in multiple ways, but she hadn’t truly appreciated how real that need was. She was still getting used to the situation; she had yet to learn how, between them, they needed to deal with it.

Lost in his eyes, in all she could now see, she drew in a deep breath; releasing his face she lowered her hands, found his and let their fingers twine and grip. “We’ve missed a lot of each other’s lives, but there’s no reason for that to continue. If we’re to face the future together, it has to be
all
the future, side by side.”

His eyes had narrowed, gaze sharp as he searched hers, reading her message. She wasn’t agreeing to marry him; she was establishing parameters. After a moment he confirmed, “That’s the sort of marriage you want—the sort of marriage you’ll agree to?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “If you want all of my future, then I want all of yours, not just the parts you think safe for me to share.”

Not the wisest ultimatum to put to a man like him. She’d tried to avoid it, but cloaking his need and her determination to fulfill it in her usual willful stubbornness seemed the simplest way forward.

His expression impassive, he stared at her for ten heartbeats, then he carefully set her back from him, stood, and paced away. His back to her, he stopped. Hands rising to his hips, he looked up at the ceiling, then swung around and impaled her with a gaze that held all the turbulent power of a storm-racked night. He’d spoken of violence and it was there; she knew it wasn’t feigned.

“What you ask isn’t—” He sliced off his next word with an abrupt gesture.

“Easy?” Propping her hip against the bed, she folded her arms and lifted her chin. “I know—I know you.”

He held her gaze, then exhaled through clenched teeth. “If you know me so well, you know that asking me to let you go into danger—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He frowned.

“I said I wanted to be
with you
. If I am, by definition I’m not in danger.” Pushing away from the bed, she walked to him. “If there’s danger, I’ll be perfectly content to stand behind you. I don’t even need to help with what you have to do.” Halting, she laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I simply need to be
with
you.”

A certain wariness filled his eyes. Raising a hand, he closed it over hers, held her palm to his chest. “You don’t have to be with me physically—”

“Yes, I do. Now, I do. Years ago, perhaps not.” She held his gaze. “The youth you used to be is not the man you are. The man you are learned to be alone—very alone, very apart. You can keep the rest of the world at bay, but if we marry, you can’t and won’t keep me at a distance.” After a moment, she softly added, “I won’t let you—I won’t accept that.”

She wouldn’t accept leaving him to deal with life alone.

He understood what she was demanding; she saw comprehension in his eyes, a center of calm coalescing in the darkness.

A long moment passed, then he exhaled. He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. “Very well.” His eyes were still stormy when they met hers. “
We’ll
go to Amberly Grange tomorrow, and…we’ll see.”

H
E’D KNOWN WINNING HER WOULDN’T BE EASY, BUT HE
hadn’t expected it to be this hard. It had been bad enough when she’d returned to Wallingham; given all that had evolved between them since, taking her with him to Amberly Grange was a hundred times worse.

As the carriage rocked and swayed, four horses swiftly drawing them into Berkshire, Charles sat beside Penny and contemplated fate’s ironies.

Beside him, calmly expectant, sat the lady he wanted for his wife—the one and only lady who would do, who could fill the position as he needed it filled. A fortnight ago, he’d been staring at the fire in the library at the Abbey, impatient for her to appear—and she had. She’d marched into his house, reclaimed him, and nothing had been the same since—nothing had gone quite as he’d planned.

Last night, in the ballroom, without a word she’d stepped in and eased his way, acted precisely as he’d needed her to, been what he’d needed her to be. For the first time since returning to England, he’d been able to relax in a crowd. Later still, after forcing him to accede to her view of how things should be…he hadn’t been in any mood for gentle loving—she not only hadn’t cared, she’d taken wanton delight in encouraging him to be as demanding as he’d wished, so she could match him and meet him, drive him wild, and in her own inimitable way soothe his soul.

She’d proved she was the only lady for him—then blithely extrapolated his need for her to encompass his entire life, and made his agreement to her constant presence by his side a condition of their future union.

He’d got precisely what he’d wanted, but not as he’d expected. Looking back, looking forward, he strongly suspected that would be the story of their lives.

It was midafternoon when the carriage swept into the graveled drive of Amberly Grange. Dalziel and Amberly had been half an hour ahead of them in Amberly’s carriage.

They were welcomed as expected guests. Shown into the drawing room, they found Amberly awaiting them. He looked tired, but his gaze was shrewd. He greeted Penny, shook hands with Charles, then waved them to chairs. “Let’s have tea, then we can commence.”

The first step proved easy enough; his butler and housekeeper hadn’t hired anyone in recent weeks. All the staff in the large house had been there for years.

Charles went out to the stables to convey the news to Dalziel, who’d spent the hour since they’d arrived dozing in the carriage. Charles returned to the house alone; when darkness fell, Dalziel joined them.

Over dinner, they put the final touches to their plan.

The next morning, after breakfast, Penny and Charles went for a short ride. On returning, they joined Amberly on the terrace for morning tea. Afterward, all three went for a stroll in the gardens, keeping to the wide lawns circling the house. When the luncheon gong rang, they repaired to the dining parlor; later, Penny and Amberly strolled about the conservatory while Charles read the news sheets on the terrace outside. In the late afternoon, the marquess retreated to the pianoforte in the music room. Penny and Charles saw him launched on a sonata, then, arm in arm, they left the room, strolled along the terrace, then descended to the lawns.

After a lengthy stroll, never out of sight or hearing of the music room and the delicate airs wafting forth on the breeze, they returned and, shortly after, all three withdrew to their rooms to dress for dinner.

Dinner, and the evening spent in the drawing room, followed the predictable pattern, then they retired to their bed-chambers, to their beds, and slept.

The next day, they repeated the performance. Exactly. The program was precisely what one might expect of a nobleman of Amberly’s age being attended by a female relative and watched over by someone like Charles.

All believable, and all very regular. They adhered to their schedule like clockwork. Dalziel was never visible to any outside the house. They’d agreed their best route was to exploit Fothergill’s arrogance and overconfidence, so they set the stage for him, and waited for him to make his entrance.

They’d accepted it might take a week and had resigned themselves to playing their roles for at least that long.

On the afternoon of the first day, while sorting through music sheets with the marquess, Penny overheard a muted discussion between Charles and Dalziel. It was clearly a continuing argument between them. In typical fashion, neither said what they meant outright, but the crux revolved about who would deliver the
coup de grâce
once they had Fothergill trapped between them.

Charles had a strong case; ruthlessly, with a few quiet phrases, Dalziel demolished it. Penny gave no indication she heard his words, nor felt their glances as they rested on her. Charles wavered; Dalziel subtly pushed, and he gave in. The final act in the drama would fall to Dalziel.

Days passed, and they religiously played their parts, their assigned roles. Amberly, accepting that he could do no more than that, cocooned himself in the regimen; through the hours they spent together strolling the conservatory and lawns, Penny learned more of him, leaving her with a degree of respect and burgeoning affection for the, as Nicholas had correctly termed him, incorrigible old man.

For herself, she was conscious of a heightened awareness, of her senses being alert, alive, and always awake in a way they never had been before. Waiting, watching, ready. Confident that she, Amberly, and his staff were safe under Charles and Dalziel’s protection, she found the tension more exciting than frightening.

That alertness, however, made the changes in Charles and Dalziel very apparent. The tension that invested them was of a different caliber, possessed a far more steely, battle-ready quality. And day by day, hour by hour, that tension escalated, subtle notch by notch.

By the third day, Amberly’s staff were walking very carefully around them. Neither had raised their voices, neither had done anything to frighten anyone; the staff were reacting to the portent of barely leashed danger that emanated from them.

Every night, when Charles joined her in her room and her bed, she opened her arms to him and met that dangerous tension. Welcomed it, not for one instant turned aside from it, but challenged it with her own confidence, channeled it into the wildness of passion.

On the third night, when he collapsed in the bed beside her, he reached out and drew her into his arms, cradled her against him, gently smoothing back her tangled hair. “Do you still want to be with me, even now—even through this?”

She shifted to look into his face, into his darkly shadowed eyes. “Yes—even now. Especially now.” Freeing a hand, she brushed back a black lock from his forehead, drinking in the hard planes of his face. “I need to be here, with you. I need to know all of you—even this. There’s no reason to hide any part of what you are, not from me. There’s nothing, no part of you, I won’t love.”

He studied her face as their hearts slowed, then he tightened his arms about her, murmured against her hair, “I’m not sure I deserve you.”

He was too tense, too brittle at present for this; she drew back to smile at him. “I’ll remember you said that when next you complain about my wild Selborne streak.”

He smiled back, accepting her easing of the moment; he settled his arm over her waist, she snuggled her head on his shoulder, and they slept.

The following day they were returning from their afternoon stroll about the lawns while the marquess spent his customary hour at the pianoforte, when Penny noticed a gardener kneeling before the flower beds a few yards from the steps leading up to the terrace.

Why her senses focused on him she had no idea; she was used to seeing staff constantly about—there was nothing about him to alarm her. He was weeding the beds, an understandable enough enterprise.

As she and Charles approached, idly discussing the Abbey and the missive that had arrived from London that morning, matters about the estate Charles needed to decide, she watched the gardener pull three weeds and toss them into the trug beside him. He had streaky, fairish brown hair and wore the usual drab clothes the gardeners favored; he also wore a battered hat jammed down to shade his face and a tattered woolen scarf loose about his neck.

She and Charles reached the steps, passing the man; as they climbed to the terrace, she suddenly knew—was absolutely certain—but didn’t know why. She didn’t dare look back; forcing her mind to retread the last minutes, she reviewed all she’d seen.

Charles noticed her absorption. He looked at her, caught her eyes, a question in his.

They reached the music room and stepped over the threshold; she exhaled and sank her fingers into his arm. “He’s here.” Across the room, she met Dalziel’s eyes as he rose from a chair against the wall. “He’s the gardener weeding the beds by the steps.”

“You’re sure?” Charles kept his voice low.

She nodded. “He doesn’t look the same—he’s dyed his hair—but his hands—no gardener has hands like that.”

Charles looked at Dalziel, who nodded. “Your move.”

Charles returned his nod, looked at Penny, lifted her hand to his lips. “Remember your part.”

“I will.” She squeezed his hand and let him go.

Turning, she watched as he strode back onto the terrace. She followed as far as the open French doors and reported for Dalziel and Amberly in the room behind her. “Fothergill’s gathered his things and is walking off across the lawns toward the back of the house. Charles has just reached the lawn.”

“Here—you! Wait!”

Charles’s voice reached them. Penny watched as Fothergill glanced back, realized Charles wasn’t far behind. He dropped his tools and ran.

“He’s off. Charles is following.”

Inwardly, she started to pray. They’d assumed Fothergill wouldn’t try to face Charles, but would lead him well away from the house. The grounds were extensive, with large areas devoted to gardens and stands of trees and shrubs—lots of places to hide and lose a pursuer.

If they’d assumed wrong, Charles would face Fothergill alone. Waiting, not knowing, not doing, was harder than she’d thought, but she’d accepted they had to script their play that way to leave Fothergill believing he was still in control.

So she waited and watched, and prayed.

Charles raced after Fothergill, keeping him in sight, simultaneously keeping mental track of their progress through the grounds. As they’d guessed, Fothergill was leading him away from the house; he didn’t stick to the gardens, but plunged into a wooded stretch. Charles saw him leaping down a winding path; following, he forged up the rise beyond, followed the path over the crest—and saw no one ahead of him.

Bushes closed in a little way along; Fothergill might have made their shelter in time. Charles felt certain he hadn’t. There was a minor path to the left that would lead back to the house; catching his breath, he plunged on, keeping to the major path heading away from the house. He didn’t glance back; senses on a knife-edge, he strained to hear any movement behind him—anything to suggest Fothergill was intent on becoming his pursuer and killing him.

He heard nothing. Not a rustle, not a snap. Beyond the thick bushes he moved off the path, halted and listened.

Nothing near. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, senses searching.

Faint, at some distance, he detected a large animal moving stealthily back toward the house.

Fothergill had swallowed the bait.

Lips curving in a cold smile, Charles turned and headed across the grounds; he needed to get into position for his next appearance in their play.

Once Charles had disappeared, Penny quit the doorway and went to sit beside Amberly at the pianoforte. As agreed, the marquess continued to tinkle out a melody—the lure to draw Fothergill back, to assure him his target was still there.

Dalziel had summoned reinforcements; two burly footmen and the butler, a stalwart individual, stood by the wall nearby, ready to provide additional protection if needed. By the window, Dalziel kept a silent watch over the lawns, waiting to see if Fothergill would behave as they’d predicted.

“He’s coming.”

The words were uninflected, curiously dead. Amberly dragged in a labored breath and kept his fingers moving unfalteringly over the keys; Penny briefly touched his shoulder reassuring, supporting. She looked at Dalziel. He gave no sign of being aware of anything or anyone beyond the man he was watching. Tension thrummed through him; he was a powerful, lethal animal, leashed but knowing the leash was about to be released. Poised to act.

Without sound or warning, he moved, walking to the doorway and stepping out onto the terrace.

Penny left her seat and equally silently followed; halting in the doorway, she saw Fothergill coming quickly up the steps, scanning the lawns behind him—back in the direction he’d led Charles.

Relief flooded her; Charles was still out there—Fothergill hadn’t attacked him.

Detecting no pursuit, Fothergill stepped onto the terrace, lips lifting coldly as he turned to the music room—and came face-to-face with Dalziel.

Three yards separated them.

Fothergill’s mouth opened; incomprehension filled his face. Then his eyes met Dalziel’s.

Fothergill whirled, flung himself down the steps and fled across the lawn. Toward the maze. Dalziel paused for an instant, then went after him.

Penny watched the pair race away, then Fothergill ducked through the arched gap in the high green hedges; a few seconds later, Dalziel followed.

Turning indoors to reassure the marquess, Penny wondered if Fothergill had yet realized that he was no longer running to his plan, but theirs.

At the center of the maze, Charles stood at the end of the long narrow pool farthest from the house, and waited. The maze was a symmetrical one in which it was possible to enter from one side and exit from the other. He could hear Fothergill approaching; his lips curved, not humorously. He’d predicted that in the absence of Fothergill’s favorite escape route—a shrubbery—he would instead use the maze, and he had. Whoever he was, Fothergill would shortly reach the end of his road; he and Dalziel intended to make sure of it. Cornering a man on an open lawn wasn’t easy; capturing him in a room of green twenty feet by eight feet was a great deal more certain. The yew hedges were high and densely grown; the only routes out of the rectangular court were the gap in the hedge at Charles’s back, and the other gap Fothergill was fast approaching, Dalziel on his heels.