Love Forever After

by Patricia Rice

  Penelope listened with amazement, but in all fairness, she had to defend Graham. “You must have an exceptional picture of me. I am no rare jewel, but as common as any other female and quite capable of looking after myself, thank you. I do not know what you hold against Mr. DeVere, but I’m not likely to fall into his hands or anyone else’s. Graham knows that. I think you are developing an imagination as overactive as Dolly’s. And what is this of a madman in London? Have there been more murders?”

  Guy ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “What? No. Not lately. It’s just the description sounded so much like Graham that people are talking, but nobody really believes it’s him. That’s not the point.”

  But Penelope was tired of this talk of herself and more interested in the talk of Graham. “What description do they give?”

  Exasperated with himself for mentioning the subject, Guy answered curtly. “Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wears a cloak. Carries a cane. Some have mentioned an eye patch. The only difference is the hair color. None see it as gray.”

  Penelope made a dismissive gesture. “That could as easily be Chadwell or any number of other men in London. And anyone can feign an eye patch.”

  “Scar on the cheek, too. Who’s Chadwell?” Guy’s glance was decidedly suspicious.

  “Graham’s cousin. Have you not met him? He is something of the family black sheep, I gather. He has a scar on his cheek, too. Not like Graham’s, of course. But after such a war, can you imagine the number of men with scars?”

  Guy’s attention fastened on this mention of a cousin. “I didn’t know Graham had a cousin. Chadwell? Is that his surname?”

  “Clifton Chadwell, from America. I have not traced the family tree, but the resemblance is there. But if there have been no murders, someone must have caught the man, or scared him off. Thank goodness. Graham does not need people staring at him as if he were a fiend of some sort. Can you not see how that would change a person?”

  Guy wasn’t satisfied, but they had arrived at the Reardons’ and the subject dropped. Later, he heard DeVere inquire of Penelope about Chadwell’s whereabouts, and Guy remembered the conversation. Penelope’s disinterested shrug indicated ignorance. If Graham had an American cousin, he must be so many times removed as to be a total stranger. Guy vowed to question his friend at the first opportunity.

  When talk turned to the upcoming church festival, Guy lost any further chance to enlarge his knowledge of this elusive cousin. Both Penelope and Dolly had agreed to help in the festivities, and before the day was out, they had recruited most of their male acquaintances. Even Arthur, who was now able to hobble his way downstairs, was given the assignment of compiling lists of events and judges.

  When Penelope told Graham later that evening that he had been volunteered to judge several of the events, he bent a severe look in her direction. “You expect me to do what?”

  The candle in his study had nearly burned to the stick, but there was sufficient light to judge his surprise.

  Penelope knitted her fingers together and confronted him with false bravado. “Judge the horses. Guy said you are a very good judge of horses. And then of course there are the ceremonials where you will have to present the prize, but that is not so very difficult. The vicar is thrilled to death that you will be able to attend. It means so much to the villagers, and it won’t hurt you to give a little of your time.”

  “My money is not enough?” he inquired dryly, moving away from his desk to find another candle or lamp. Discovering what he wanted, he lit it at the fire in the grate. “Unless they are offering a horror show, I cannot believe they need me there to scare the children and frighten the hens from laying.”

  Penelope placed her hands on her hips and frowned at this great, hulking bear of a man who feared to face the people who knew him better than any. He had grown up here, and she already knew the people remembered him with fondness. She had spent these last days fielding eager and curious questions. It was time he answered them on his own.

  “Do you intend to spend the rest of your life hiding from those who know you? If you can endure the stares of strangers, why not those with whom you must live? And the stares will go away once they grow accustomed to the change. It is only a scar, after all. There are others who must suffer much worse.”

  “We’ll talk about suffering later, after this thing is done,” he growled. “Then I’ll exact the price from your pretty hide.”

  “Yes, master,” Penelope replied meekly, but the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth said she was not fooled by his irascible reply. “I shall go tell the Cook to fix your favorite strawberry tart, and then I shall sit in the coal dust and eat my swill until you call for me.”

  She bounced a pretty curtsy and swept out, leaving Graham to struggle to control his laughter.

  The day of the festival dawned clear. Alexandra was up at dawn, rushing to the windows to see if the promised jugglers were coming down the road. Then she escaped to the kitchens to lick the icing bowls for the cakes the Hall would donate for the bake sale. Penelope captured her with promises of new flowers for her bonnet, and by the time the carriage was ready, Alexandra was gowned in white dimity and lace with an enormous pink sash and a rose bedecked bonnet to match.

  Penelope chose a pale spring green organdy with puff sleeves and yellow ribbons entwined through the gathered bodice. With no other ornament but the matching ribbons in her honey brown hair, the attire had a country simplicity striking to the eye, but even more so when she moved, for the gauzy material clung and fluttered and made every step a graceful art.

  Blessed with this sight the moment he crossed the threshold, Graham nearly called a halt to the whole proceedings. With the wind plastering the frail gown to every curve, Penelope appeared more nymph than angel, and Graham regarded the sight jealously. The urge to catch her and feel her body mold to his nearly crippled him. He could only stand and watch helplessly from the steps until they discovered his presence.

  Penelope saw him first. Allowing Alexandra to escape their game, she stopped her chase to brush the folds of her gown back into place. Graham stood so tall and straight and forbidding, very much the lord of the manor, and here she played the part of hoyden. He had decked himself out in glowing white linen shirt, a gold brocade waistcoat that rivaled the sun’s shine, fawn doeskin breeches, and a dark green frock coat cut short across the waist to reveal the muscular planes of his flat abdomen. A gold watch fob glittered beneath the coat’s button, and even his mahogany walking stick appeared polished to a high shine.

  Remembering the deadly sword concealed inside that deceptive stick, Penelope hid a shudder. All that glitters is not gold, and she did not fool herself into thinking her husband the genial country squire he chose to portray this day. Whatever he was, she admired him for it, however, and she approached him with a lighthearted step.

  “You will have to hide in the horse ring with the men, my lord, or you will not be able to move for the ladies clinging to your coattails.”

  Graham caught her gloved hand and lifted her to the step beneath him. “I think I am big enough to deal with the ladies. How do you intend to fend off the gentlemen?”

  At the warm look in his eye, Penelope blushed. “I suppose I must choose a protector. Would you do me that honor?”

  Graham grinned. “If you knew the recompense a protector asks, you would not think it an honor. But if you must insist on parading about as a forest sprite, I will assign myself the duty of looking after you, providing I do not need to flit about as you do with yon heathen.” He nodded to where Alexandra stood beneath the noses of the carriage horses, alternately crooning a little song to them and patting their dark manes.

  Penelope rolled up her eyes at the danger the little scamp put herself in, but the horses were growing accustomed to it. She was her father’s daughter in this; no amount of scolding would keep her from the animals.

  “Mrs. Haywood will be here shortly. I am not at all certain that is any guarantee Alexandra will arriv
e home in the same state that she left, but the festival comes but once a year. She can come to small harm among friends and neighbors.”

  He caressed her cheek. “Then let us mingle with the populace, my dear. I am eager to begin slaying dragons.”

  Chapter 22

  Penelope sampled the last of the strawberry jams and consulted with the vicar’s wife while a dozen eager jam-makers watched and rolled their hands in their aprons—all except the one Penelope finally pinned the blue ribbon on, that is. A spry, elderly lady with a serene smile and a halo of silver hair, she had beamed confidently throughout the judging.

  “That’s very unfair of you,” Penelope murmured close to the woman’s ear as she fastened the gaudy bow to the winner’s collar. “The others will never guess your secret.”

  The woman looked startled and studied Penelope with nearsighted gaze. Regaining her confidence, she inquired innocently, “What secret? It’s good strawberries that make the jam.”

  “And a currant or two for tartness.” Penelope grinned as the old lady looked taken aback at her knowledge. “I’ll enter my own jam next year and we’ll see who comes out ahead.”

  The woman broke out in a broad, beaming smile, took Penelope’s hand and patted it approvingly. “Lord love you, honey, then I’ll just have to enter the baking competition. You won’t know the secret of my plum cake.”

  They laughed and the other disappointed losers joined in, hearing enough of this last to hope they had a chance in the following year. Guy had difficulty extricating her from the conversation.

  “The horse judging contest is next. Graham sent me to find you. Said he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself unless you’re by his side.” Appropriating Penelope’s gloved hand, he tucked it in the crook of his arm and steered her out of the jam booth.

  Children whooped and hollered and dashed in and out among the legs of their elders, and Penelope cast a prayer to heaven that one of them was not Alexandra. The aroma of meat pies sizzling in their earthen oven competed with the sugary scents of the confectionery table until they passed the booth selling fried pies. Penelope held a hand to her stomach and stared wistfully at the treats as Guy hurried her along.

  “How can you make me smell horses when there is all this to sample out here?” she complained as Guy rudely informed her food would have to wait.

  “Because I have my nag in one division, and Graham will give the prize to O’Donalson if I don’t bring you as ordered. You’ve done your job over-well, my sweet. He will be the most officious judge in all the kingdom. Plead my case, Penny. I’ve got a few pounds riding on the outcome.”

  This was said as Guy led her up to the judge’s stand at the ring. Dolly ran up to join them, her chiffon scarf blowing in the breeze as she clamped her overlarge hat to her head. DeVere straggled along behind, his impassive gaze appraising everything.

  Graham stepped out of the stand to claim Penelope, clasping her hand as he greeted his friends and neighbors. His stiff stance and formidable features made him difficult to approach, but his manner with Penelope softened his gruffness. The other judges and observers lingered to hear the viscount’s opinions.

  Before the end of the competition, the men were arguing as vociferously with Graham as they did among themselves. The furious glare of one golden eye did not quell the men who had known him since he was a lad. The taut drawn muscle of his scarred face might momentarily terrify, but who could fear a man whose wife dared stick her tongue out at him? Or a man who lost his own tongue when trying to explain to her why the gelding was better suited to the wagon pull than the stallion?

  The teasing Penelope received after that made it obvious her ignorance was not needed in the horse booth. Leaving Graham to debate the merits of Guy’s roan over O’Donalson’s gray, she excused herself to join the judging of the baby contest.

  Bored with the horses, Dolly joined her. They indulged themselves in sticky taffy from the confectioner’s booth, found Alexandra scaling a tree on a dare from a group of young ruffians no older than herself, rescued her, and fed her candy while locating the terrified Mrs. Haywood, then wandered on to the booth where the mothers gathered to show off their youngest.

  Graham found her there later, a baby in each arm, a child clinging to her skirt, and a wide smile on her face. The broad smiles of the young women around her indicated their enchantment with the new viscountess, and Graham feared a general squall would ensue should he invade this feminine territory.

  At his side Guy groaned, for Dolly had entangled herself in a group of urchins who seemed to be as fascinated with her glorious hair as the tales she told.

  “Look at them! What is it about women surrounded with children that makes a man think of bankruptcy?” Guy shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Graham couldn’t tear his gaze from the scene. “Is that what you think of? Strange, that’s not what comes to my mind.”

  Guy hooted with laughter and regarded his friend’s impassive expression. “Then you’re not dead yet, old fellow. I was beginning to wonder.” As Graham continued to stand beneath the tree instead of claiming his prize, Guy asked, “What are you waiting for? She’s ready and you’re willing. Has some law been passed that you can no longer enjoy yourself?”

  At that moment Penelope glanced up. Her gaze locked with Graham’s, and a slow blush suffused her cheeks under the intensity of his stare. If she were as imaginative as Dolly, she would see longing in that look, but that could not be. Whatever it was, she could feel it warm her blood all the way to her bones.

  Surrendering the babes, she extricated herself from the final contest. Nervously tucking strands of hair back into their pins, she approached the men beneath the tree. Graham stepped out to claim her, and she completely forgot that Dolly and Guy were about.

  “My turn now, is it not?” Graham demanded, catching her hand and holding it captive.

  She did not need to inquire into his meaning. With an uncertain nod she agreed and caught her breath at the blaze lighting her husband’s eye. That blaze did not signify anger, she knew, because it was accompanied by his half smile.

  The afternoon sped by on wings of sunshine and laughter. They sampled the wares of all the food booths, dripping hot gravy down their fingers and ringing their mouths with sugar. Despite the disadvantage of one eye, Graham won the archery contest but gallantly forfeited the prize to his runner-up. Guy gambled on the pea beneath the shells and to everyone’s surprise, won the pot. Graham pointed out that the next wagers tripled as everyone pressed around to try their luck after seeing someone win, but that didn’t dampen his friend’s delight. Guy insisted on spending his winnings on an outrageously gaudy brooch to hold Dolly’s scarf in place.

  They saw a sleepy Alexandra carried off by a bedraggled and exhausted Mrs. Haywood. They laughed as the polished DeVere fell victim to a mud-ball fight. The day was wearing to an end, but no one was eager to acknowledge it. Graham scarcely heeded his need for a walking stick but swung it jauntily, using it to ward off running little boys and to nudge away Penelope’s fingers whenever she reached for another excruciatingly ugly object created by some eager if not talented hand.

  Finally in a rare moment of self-defense, Penelope caught the stick and tugged it away from him. The surprise on Graham’s face brought laughter all around, but the gleam leaping to his eye warned of the punishment to come. Penelope whirled around and fled, stick in hand.

  In the growing dusk she caused little stir among the weary holiday crowd. Laughing as she heard Graham’s heavy footsteps thundering after her, she dodged between the booths and headed for the church. She had no illusion of outrunning him, but planned on claiming sanctuary once within the hallowed interior.

  Graham caught up with her just as she slipped through the side doors into the unlit gloom of the first pews. His powerful arm wrapped around her waist and literally lifted her from the floor, pulling her back against his strong frame. Penelope gasped and giggled as she held the stick out in front of her and Graham reac
hed around her to grab it. In one last frantic struggle he twisted it from her hand.

  The second the stick left her hand, all interest in it died. Penelope felt her heart thudding against Graham’s hard arm and squirmed to break his grasp. At the same time Graham lowered her to her feet and turned her around. She remained within the circle of his arms, staring up into his face as he drew her closer.

  Without warning, Graham bent his leonine head and touched his lips to hers. A tingle of mixed alarm and joy flooded through her, but Penelope did not resist. Instead she bent closer to the warmth of his broad chest, resting her hands there as she turned her mouth up to sample more of this pleasure he offered.

  And pleasure it undoubtedly was. It took root in her toes and spread upward. Her fingers twisted in his waistcoat as his kiss grew warmer. His lips moved across hers, finding the corners and tasting them before returning to cling fiercely and with an ardor that stole Penelope’s breath.

  Incredibly she found herself responding, pressing for more, standing on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck in ardent invitation. With a groan Graham slid his hands up and down her back. His mouth closed possessively over hers, drinking deeply.

  Only when she felt his tongue trace between her lips did Penelope realize where this led. Her experience with Chadwell had taught her much, and terrified of making such a cake of herself again, she tore away. This was a church, after all. What they did here had no place in a house of worship, although her body ached for more.

  Before Graham could recover, she was off again, not out the door they had entered, but through another. He heard her breathless laughter and relieved that he had not scared her, he gave chase.

  The door led to a winding staircase and Graham took the stairs as agilely as a mountain goat. The glow of the setting sun lit the interior of the bell tower as he climbed through the hatch. He halted in the opening to admire the scenery.