A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  She narrowed her eyes. Her lips started to form the word No, then she changed her mind. “Why?”

  “Because you can’t stay here for at least two powerful reasons. And also because you should be there, for a few more excellent reasons.”

  Her eyes were like flints. “What are the two reasons I can’t stay here?”

  “One, because visitors like Lady T are going to start turning up on the doorstep with distressing regularity. Far from dissuading them, the fact Mama is not in residence will only make them more determined to ensure I’m…doing whatever it is they think I should be doing. Like Lady T, they have difficulty viewing wild and reckless me as the earl.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “That’s their problem.”

  “But it’s also likely to be our problem because, of course, while dear Nicholas could be fobbed off with Cousin Emily, I wouldn’t like to mention her supposed existence to Amarantha Trescowthick, or indeed any of Mama’s other friends. They’ve all known each other far too long, and, witness Lady T’s descent—she knew I was here—are clearly in communication.”

  Her eyes remained narrowed; her lips thinned. “I’m twenty-nine, and your mother’s goddaughter. There’s an entire regiment of staff in this house, all who know me nearly as well as they know you.”

  Unperturbed, he responded, “Your age is immaterial—in the same way they still think of me as a wild and reckless youth, they see you as no more than twenty-three if that. And while you might be Mama’s goddaughter, Mama is not here—that being the pertinent point. Lastly, everyone knows this house is huge and come nighttime, all the servants are in the attics, and it’s over nighttime that imaginations run amok.”

  He held her gaze. “Regardless of any excuses, should the ladies of the district learn of you sharing my roof with no chaperone in sight, there’ll be hell and the devil to pay. Despite—or perhaps because of—my legendary wildness, that is not a scenario I wish to court.”

  The look she threw him was disdainful. “I don’t regard that as a reason of any great weight. But you said there were two powerful reasons—what’s the second?”

  He held her gaze for three heartbeats, then evenly stated, “Because, should you remain under this roof, I seriously doubt I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.”

  She stared at him, and stared, her features expressionless while she decided how to respond. Eventually, she said, “You’re joking.”

  More an uncertain question than a statement. He shook his head.

  Her lips thinned again; exasperation filled her eyes, still searching his. “You’re just trying to…bully me into doing as you wish.”

  He didn’t shift his eyes from hers. “If you think I’m bluffing, by all means call me on it.” He paused, then added, “If you remain here, I can assure you that you’ll end beneath me in my bed or yours, whichever is closer at the time, within three nights.”

  Penny managed not to gape. What she could read in his eyes, what she could feel reaching for her across the polished expanse of his desk…she could barely breathe. “You’re serious.” The faint words were more for her than him, a point he seemed to realize; he didn’t respond. She drew a tight breath. “I don’t think that’s at all fair.”

  He smiled. Intently. “At least I’ve given you fair warning.”

  Warning enough to prod her into running home to Wallingham—indeed. She’d have given a great deal to laugh lightly and assure him he was indulging in fantasies, yet after last night…

  She refused to look away, to simply give in. “What are the reasons I should be at Wallingham?”

  His menacing sensuality receded; she breathed a little easier.

  “So we can mount a watch on Nicholas. In case it’s escaped your notice, he and I are the definition of antipathetic—I can’t turn up there looking for a drinking companion, or invite him out for a night of carousing, or even to put up our feet with a glass of brandy and swap stories of London and the ladies. Nicholas and I are never going to be that close. If you, however, are at Wallingham, then I’ll have a perfect excuse to haunt the house. Simple.”

  She would have loved to blow a hole in his plan—for instance, by refusing in light of his declaration of moments before to have him paying her visits—but they were in this together. “Hmm. And I’ll be there even at night…I don’t suppose, now we’re certain he’s involved, that it matters if he suspects we’re watching him—it can only make him more nervous.”

  “True. With you at home, we can effectively watch him most of the time, which will certainly make him feel crowded and cramped. If we can make him desperate enough, he’ll make some slip, somewhere.”

  The more she thought, the more she favored the idea; if she was at Wallingham with Nicholas under her nose, Charles would find it impossible to edge her out of the investigation—she was well aware he would if he could.

  And there was the not insignificant consideration that if she was at Wallingham, there would be far less scope for Charles to fan the still-smoldering embers—they should have been long dead but demonstrably weren’t—of their long-ago association into a flaming affair, an entanglement she definitely didn’t want or need.

  Retreating to Wallingham could well be her best move all around.

  She’d been staring into space. “Very well.” She refocused on his face, and caught a subtle shift in the dark blue of his eyes that had her rapidly reviewing all they’d done, learned, still needed to do…“You’re going to visit the Fowey Gallants tonight, aren’t you?”

  Exasperation flashed through his eyes. “Yes.”

  She nodded. “I’ll come with you and return to Wallingham tomorrow morning.”

  “No.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “You’ve changed your mind about me going home?”

  His eyes darkened; she met his frustration with complete assurance, enough for him to growl, “I should pack you off to London.”

  “But you can’t, so you’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  After a moment, he sighed through his teeth. “Very well. We’ll call on the Gallants tonight, then tomorrow morning after breakfast you’ll be on your way home. Agreed?”

  She nodded. “Agreed.”

  “Now that we have that settled”—he rose—“I’m going for a ride.”

  She came to her feet, swiftly rounding her chair to come between him and the door. “Where are you going?”

  “You don’t need to know.” He walked toward her, toward the door.

  She met his eyes and held her ground.

  He kept walking.

  She backed until her shoulders met the panels; reaching behind her she clamped her fingers about the doorknob.

  He halted with less than a foot between them. Looked down at her, and sighed.

  Then he ducked his head and kissed her.

  Witless.

  She hadn’t expected such a direct attack, hadn’t been braced mentally or physically for it. With consummate mastery he swept her wits away, sent them tumbling, spinning; he captured her senses and held them in his palm.

  While he reached around her and with both hands tried to pry her fingers from the doorknob.

  That she’d expected; she’d locked them tight.

  Charles inwardly cursed. He couldn’t break her grip, not without exerting force and very likely hurting her. Not something he could contemplate.

  And the kiss…it was so tempting to simply fall headfirst into it.

  He moved into her, ratcheting the intensity up several notches, pinning her to the door…her grip on the knob only seemed to tighten, as if she were clinging to it like an anchor.

  His mind started to shift focus from what he was supposed to be doing, to what he wanted to do….

  It took considerable effort to lift his head and break the kiss. Yet he couldn’t seem to get his lips more than an inch from hers.

  “Penny…” He nipped her lower lip, trying to focus her attention. “This is seriously unwise.”

  Eyes sti
ll closed, she dragged in a breath. “I know.”

  Her breasts swelled against his chest; his breathing hitched. He caught enough breath to acerbically comment, “You might have reservations over performing certain acts in daylight, but I don’t, if you recall.”

  She recalled very well; a sensual shiver ran through her, sending desire spiraling through him all over again.

  But at least she opened her eyes. She searched his, then sighed. “I know I can’t go visiting smugglers’ dens by daylight—I know I can’t go with you. But where are you going?”

  If she accepted she couldn’t go with him…he mentally cursed. He was losing his touch; she was winning too many concessions. “Lostwithiel first, just to ask around. Then down to Tywardreath. I doubt Granville would have gone that far afield, but I’ll see if they know him down there.”

  He released her hands, still locked on the doorknob, his fingers trailing the length of her bare forearms as he stepped back.

  She held his gaze, then arched a brow. “See? It wasn’t that hard.”

  Before he could respond, she whirled, opened the door, and walked out into the hall.

  He followed, shutting the door. He caught her gaze as she faced him. “Behave yourself while I’m gone—go ask Mrs. Slattery for more of Mama’s recipes.”

  That earned him a glittering, tight-lipped smile.

  He grinned, reached out with one finger and traced her cheek. “I’ll be back for dinner.”

  Penny watched him walk off, arrogantly assured, heading for the stables. Her lips eased into a genuine smile. Now she knew where he was going, she could make sure their paths didn’t cross.

  After an early luncheon, she rode into Fowey, left her mare at the Pelican Inn, and once again descended to the harbor. After checking that the fishing fleet was indeed out, she climbed the narrow lanes to Mother Gibbs’s door.

  Mother Gibbs welcomed her with a cackle, and a shrewd eye for the sovereign she’d promised, but the old biddy was as good as her word; when Penny left some twenty minutes later, all they’d heard thus far and surmised of Nicholas’s interests had been confirmed.

  She turned out of the narrow passageway onto the quay.

  And walked into Charles. Again.

  One look into his eyes was enough to confirm that he now understood why she’d wanted to know wither he’d been bound.

  She raised her brows at him. “You must have ridden like the wind.”

  “I did, as it happens.” His accents were clipped, his jaw tight; he clearly recalled telling her he didn’t want her visiting Mother Gibbs alone. His fingers locked about her elbow, he turned and walked beside her along the harbor wall.

  Refusing even to acknowledge his very male irritation at her intransigence, she looked ahead. “What did you learn?”

  After a tense moment, he conceded. “There wasn’t much to learn in Lostwithiel—no one around who could name any local lads Granville may have called friend. As for Tywardreath, the fraternity there knew of him only by repute—he’d never run with them.”

  “If he hadn’t gone as far west as Tywardreath, it’s unlikely he’d have gone farther.”

  “So I think. With all the gangs about the estuary to choose from, and the Fowey crews are some of the best, why venture to more distant territory?”

  They turned away from the harbor to climb back to the High Street.

  “Incidentally, I’m not amused.”

  “How did you know I was there?”

  “I stopped to chat to the head ostler at the Pelican and saw your mare. The rest was easy.” His gaze lifted to her face. “So what did you learn?”

  She told him.

  Charles listened, inwardly conceding that Mother Gibbs was an excellent source—an inspired choice on Penny’s part, much as he disapproved of the connection. “So Nicholas is definitely setting himself up as Granville’s replacement, specifically putting it about that any contact looking for Granville should now be referred to him.”

  “That must mean he’s expecting someone to make contact.” Penny looked at him. “But why would that be? The war’s over. There’s nothing, surely, that the French would pay to learn—is there?”

  “Nothing military. But Nicholas is Foreign Office, and they’re involved in trade pacts and so on.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll ask Dalziel.”

  Twisting her elbow from his grip, Penny closed her hand over his wrist and halted. She lifted her eyes to his. “Is there any way you can ask without mentioning names?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then turned his hand and caught hers. Confessed. “I’ve already told Dalziel about Nicholas, but believe me, Dalziel’s no threat to you. I trusted him with my life for thirteen years—no danger to you or your family will come through him.”

  When she just looked at him, her gray eyes momentarily blank, inward-looking, he squeezed her hand. He wished he could read her mind as well as he could most women’s, then made a plea he wasn’t sure it was wise to make. “Trust me.”

  She refocused, stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right.” Turning, she slid her hand back on his arm.

  They continued on, while he grappled with his reaction.

  All right. Just like that, without further questions, she trusted his decision, one involving her family’s honor, no less. He steered her back to the Pelican, buoyed and touched by her accepting his word on a matter so profoundly important to her with so little reservation.

  Reaching the Pelican, they retrieved their horses; once more side by side, they rode back to the Abbey.

  Cassius and Brutus came lolloping up as they walked out of the stables. The hounds gamboled about them, pushing shaggy heads under their hands for pats. Penny laughed and complied. Charles looked across at her.

  “Come for a walk—it’s too early for dinner, and these two need a run.”

  The hounds had understood enough; they circled, barked encouragingly.

  She smiled. “All right.”

  They followed the dogs east to the long sweep of the ramparts. Steps led up to the broad grassed walk atop the sloping mound; they climbed them side by side. In companionable silence, they walked along, drinking in the wide views over the lush green fields to the silvery blue estuary and farther, to where the waves of the Channel glittered on the horizon, gilded by the sun.

  The breeze was brisk, tugging wisps of her hair from her chignon, rakishly ruffling Charles’s black curls. The hounds bounded up and down the slopes, ranging out, noses to the ground, then circling back to check on them before ambling off once more.

  Charles scanned the fields as they walked along. “What was it like around here during the war?” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all before them. “Did anything change?”

  She understood what he was asking; she shook her head. “Not fundamentally. There was more activity in the estuary—naval ships and the like putting in, and our local privateers were especially active. There was always talk of the recent engagements whenever one went into village or town, and no dinner party was complete without a full listing of all the latest exploits.

  “But underneath, no, there was no real change. The same day-to-day activities still consumed us—the fields, the crops, the fishing. Which family’s son was walking out with which family’s daughter.” She paused, remembering. “Life rolled on.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he’d asked; instead, she observed, “But if there were any real changes wrought by those years, you, coming back to it so rarely, would notice more than anyone.” She glanced at him. “Has it changed?”

  He halted, looked at her, then looked out over the fields, now his fields, to the sea. His chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath, then he shook his head. “No.”

  Turning, he walked on; she kept pace beside him.

  “If I had to identify the most important motivation driving those who fought in the war, then it would be that we fought to keep this”—he gestured to the fields—“and all the other little
pieces of England unchanged. So the things that define us weren’t washed away, debris cleared to allow a victor’s rule, but would endure and still be here for the next generation.”

  A moment passed, then he added, “It’s comforting to find things the same.”

  She caught the waving wisps of her hair. “You spent years over there, years at a time. Did you think of us often?”

  He looked over her head at the Channel, beyond which he’d spent all those years; there was, to her educated eyes, something bleak in his gaze. “Every day.”

  Her throat tightened; she knew how he felt about this place—the fields, the sky, the sea. There were no easy words she could offer him—would offer him—in the face of what she more than anyone understood had been his sacrifice. Small wonder those years had chipped and chiseled and separated the man from the superficial mask.

  She was watching when he glanced down. His blue eyes met hers. For an instant, recognition and acceptance were simply there, as they so often had been in years past.

  “Why didn’t you marry?”

  The question took her aback, then she nearly laughed; it was typical of him to cut to the heart of things, blatantly ignoring all social convention. Her lips curved; she continued strolling. “As I’m sure your mother told you, I had four perfectly successful Seasons, but none of the gentlemen caught my eye.”

  “As I heard it, you amply caught theirs. Several of theirs—a small platoon, it sounded like. So what didn’t you like about them—they can’t all have had warts.”

  She laughed. “As far as I know none of them did.”

  “So why were you so fussy?”

  Why did he want to know? “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

  He hesitated. She wondered, but then he said, “Not this time.”

  She glanced at him, surprised at the undercurrent of steel in his tone, at a loss to account for it.

  He caught her glance, lightly shrugged. “You were one of the things I was sure wouldn’t be here when I got back.”

  She owed him no explanation, yet it was hardly a state secret. Looking ahead, she walked on. He walked beside her and didn’t press.