by Linda Jones
Resigned, Max sat in the leather-covered armchair behind his desk. He relaxed for the first time since glimpsing Penelope Seton, thrust his ridiculously lavender-clad legs forward, and a true smile crossed his face. “Yes, a woman."
Fletcher grumbled something foul, but Max's mood could not be spoiled. “She's quite remarkable,” he continued, for some unknown reason compelled to do his best to convince Fletcher of Penelope Seton's worth. “Beautiful, sweet, intelligent..."
"What did you do, spend the entire evening mooning after some maid when you should have been hounding Chadwick?” Fletcher snapped. “I'm not wasting my time risking my life while you go off—"
"Five minutes,” Max interrupted softly. “I spent no more than five minutes in her company."
Fletcher groaned. “And that was enough to convince you that this Penelope Seton is some paragon of womanhood?"
"No,” Max whispered. “It didn't even take five minutes. I only had to look at her.” His earlier doubts fled, as the memory of that first glance came back to astound him with its clarity and power.
This time Fletcher did curse aloud, his words low and filthy but very clear. Max allowed his friend the outlet, smiling as he waited for the Irishman to finish.
"You've been too long without a woman,” Fletcher finally said reasonably.
"I have,” Max allowed.
"Let me take you to this house I know."
"No.” What ailed him couldn't be cured by another woman, couldn't be erased by an emotionless pleasurable act. God in heaven, he didn't want to be cured of this particular ailment.
"You can't allow yourself to be taken in by a calculating female, not now."
"Penelope is not a calculating female,” Max said defensively. Too defensively, perhaps. “And there's no reason for you to worry about my involvement with her. I can keep my personal life and the work of the Indigo Blade separate."
"You've become infatuated with the niece of a loyalist, and you can sit there and tell me it won't interfere with your enterprise?” Fletcher scoffed. “Are you lying to me, or are you really so blinded by your ardor that you can't see what a folly this is?"
Max could always count on Fletcher for sound reasoning. In the heat of battle, in the midst of a storm, in their darkest hour, Fletcher had always been the voice of sanity in an insane world.
"Don't forget that through Penelope I can infiltrate a loyalist household and perhaps get close to Chadwick,” he reasoned. “Even if I find that I'm wrong and Penelope isn't all that I believe her to be, this is still a good move."
"I don't know about that. It could jeopardize everything."
Max wasn't ready to admit that the Irishman might be right. But he was able to admit to himself that it didn't matter, not in the least. He would court Penelope Seton, he would look into those eyes and touch that hand again—and he would handle the consequences as they came.
It was afternoon when Penelope came downstairs. She'd taken great care in choosing her gown for the day, finally settling on a green silk print dress with a ruffle at the neck and the sleeves. It was becoming without being ostentatious. Flattering and yet simple. She wouldn't want anyone to think she'd gone to any trouble over Maximillian Broderick's impending visit—even though she had spent more than an hour choosing this particular gown.
He would likely look at her today and realize that last night's flirtation had been a whimsy, and nothing more. Perhaps he'd had too much sweet wine to drink, or had been carried away by the music and the dance, and today he would look into her eyes with that piercing stare of his and see that she was just an ordinary woman, unworthy of instant adoration. Still, his visit was likely to be entertaining, a much-needed diversion.
Her uncle came out of his study so quickly and crisply, she was certain he'd been waiting and watching for her.
"Penelope, my dear,” he said, taking both her hands in his and kissing her cheek. “You look especially lovely this afternoon."
Her uncle William was not much taller than she, and in the past few years his middle had expanded and rounded and his hairline had receded greatly. He wore powdered wigs much of the time, but not at home.
"I can't believe I slept so late in the day,” she said with a genuine smile. “Too much excitement last night, I suppose.” Maximillian Broderick's face immediately came to mind.
He patted her hand. “I'm sorry we old men stole Victor away for so much of the evening. Why, you likely didn't see him nearly as much as you would've liked."
"I had a lovely time,” she said without elaborating.
"I'm going to make it up to you,” Uncle William said with a sly wink. “I've invited Victor for supper this evening, and I've promised to give you two some time alone."
He'd promised whom? Victor, of course. There would likely be another unwanted proposal of marriage, and she'd have no choice but to refuse. Not only would Victor be hurt, but her uncle would be furious with her as well. It was a scene she was anxious to avoid—or delay.
"Well, we can have a grand party this evening,” she said with a wide smile. “You see, I was just on my way to tell you that I've also invited a guest to dine with us. He'll be calling on me this afternoon, and I thought it would be just lovely if he could stay for supper."
Her uncle's smile faded away. Frown lines appeared on his forehead, and his mouth puckered unpleasantly. She was well acquainted with his obvious look of displeasure, though it had never been directed at her. Tyler and Mary were usually the recipients of this scowl.
"I had no idea.” Still, William Seton was a gracious host, and would not refuse her or her guest. “Who have you invited?"
"Maximillian Broderick,” she said, hoping that the odd Mr. Broderick wouldn't decline her invitation when it was put to him this afternoon. “He hasn't been in Charles Town very long, and I thought it would be most kind of you to entertain him. It's our responsibility to offer the poor man a meal, don't you agree?"
"Poor man? He's as rich as any ten successful merchants in Charles Town!” Uncle William's face turned red and his eyes narrowed, but luckily he didn't suggest that she uninvite Maximillian.
"I only meant that he's surely in need of friends, being new in Charles Town and without any family."
He had no choice but to agree with her, though he seemed to do so grudgingly.
The thought that came to Penelope was devious, and wasn't like her, not at all. She would have thought the plan formulating in her mind unkind, if she'd believed a word of Maximillian's assertion of love. Fortunately, she didn't. He was using her as a diversion, no doubt, so surely he wouldn't object if she used him to scare off Victor and his unwanted attentions.
Not that she would tell him of her harmless scheme, of course.
By the time Maximillian arrived, promptly at two o'clock, Penelope was more than happy to see him. She was elated.
Mary watched, motionless and silent. They didn't know she was there, most likely wouldn't have known even if she'd leaned from the second-story window and waved her arms frantically.
Penelope and Maximillian Broderick had been in the garden most of the afternoon, talking and laughing. Walking arm in arm in the sun, sitting side by side in the shade. The day was cool, but not cold, and they both wore long velvet capes that brushed together frequently. Even that unconscious contact was somehow intimate.
They sat now, in dappled shade surrounded by early-blooming wild roses. They touched often, ever so lightly and quickly as if by accident. Hand to hand as they shifted on the bench, shoulder to shoulder as Maximillian leaned toward Penelope ... and it was no accident, of that Mary was certain.
Maximillian Broderick plucked a rose from a nearby bush, carefully removed the thorns, and then placed the rose behind Penelope's ear. His hand lingered, perhaps brushing her ear with those long fingers.
It wasn't fair. Why should Penelope have everything? Penelope Seton was nothing, nobody, an orphan, a poor relation Mary tolerated magnanimously. And everyone loved her. Mary's own father,
the servants at the plantation, Victor, and now Maximillian Broderick.
Mary placed the palm of her hand against the glass and closed her eyes as Penelope laughed again.
She'd tried to do what was right, she really had. Her father forever compared her unfavorably to her older cousin, and she'd been taught again and again that nothing she did was ever quite good enough. She wasn't as smart as Penelope, not as ladylike, not as desirable. Penelope and Tyler had moved in, and William Seton's love and attention had been unfairly divided. Mary was never allowed to forget that Penelope was a paragon she should admire and emulate.
In spite of all that, she'd tried to do what was right. She'd tried to accept and love her cousin, and there had been times when she truly did cherish Penelope—but last night everything had changed.
Last night in the Lowrys’ garden, while the ball was in progress just a short distance away, Victor had kissed her at last. She'd believed, for a few precious moments, that he had finally come around. That he loved her. That was why she hadn't protested when he'd touched her so intimately. That was why she had allowed him to thrust his tongue into her mouth, and to move her even farther into the shadows.
He'd tasted and smelled of rum and cigars, a manly and rather unpleasant combination she still remembered so vividly that it was as if it was forever a part of her. Perhaps it was true. The very idea made her stomach roil.
When Victor had lifted her skirts she'd been afraid, but she hadn't said anything. Cold air had whipped beneath her skirts, even colder fingers pushed and prodded, and she'd uttered not a word of protest. This was proof that he loved her, of that she was certain, and so as he spread her legs even wider and freed his manhood, she kissed him back with all the ardor she could muster.
It had hurt, but she'd bitten her tongue and accepted the pain and the invasion without protest. The act had been painful at first, and then merely uncomfortable, but it had been mercifully quick. She'd tolerated it all, welcomed it, because it was proof that Victor had finally realized that he loved her.
That illusion had kept her happy, as long as it had lasted. Unfortunately it hadn't lasted long. Victor had told her, still huffing and sweating from the encounter, that after he and Penelope were wed he would like to continue their relationship. He found her, he said, an exciting woman. He would teach her, he said, how to please him and how to please herself.
She'd protested then—hadn't she? Softly whispered protests that he must love her, objections that had stuck in her throat. She'd been stunned and hurt and she couldn't quite believe what she'd been hearing. How could he even consider marrying Penelope after what had just happened?
Victor had even reminded her, as he straightened his trousers, that if she told anyone what had happened it would reflect more badly on her than on him. She was a vixen, he said, and no one would believe that she hadn't tempted him beyond reason with the intention of tricking him into marriage.
At that moment she'd known the truth—that Victor didn't love her at all, and that no one ever would.
On the trip home, she'd tried to ignore the ripped underclothes beneath her fine gown, the soreness and the stickiness between her legs, the pounding of her heart that threatened to burst through her chest. She wanted to scream and cry, but didn't dare.
Penelope, serene and safe at her side, had spoken naively of love and of choices while Mary had fought the screams and the tears that were building inside her. It was then that Mary had realized how she hated her cousin.
In the garden below, Maximillian Broderick leaned close and whispered into Penelope's ear. Penelope laughed, and when she turned her head Mary saw a bright and brilliant smile.
It wasn't fair.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Four
Penelope couldn't remember the last time she'd had such a fine day.
Maximillian had arrived, resplendent in royal-blue silk and a silver waistcoat, with flowers and compliments and a dazzling smile for her and her alone. He'd watched as she'd painted a simple watercolor of a cluster of flowers, and then she'd blushed as he declared it a masterpiece. When the day grew too cool, they retired to the parlor for a cup of chocolate and a game of backgammon. Throughout the day they'd talked and laughed, and the hours had flown by so quickly she couldn't believe how fast the afternoon disappeared.
Even now, sharing their dinner with her uncle and Victor Chadwick and a sulking Mary, Penelope was uncommonly happy.
Maximillian was seated at her side, and when the discussion at the table deviated to politics, he turned to her and they had their own soft conversation about music and art and roses.
There was something hypnotic about this man. He had not professed again to love her, but he had given her his undivided attention since his arrival hours earlier, and there were times she was certain they communicated without words, that he could look at her with those hypnotic eyes and know what she was thinking. She found it not odd at all, but strangely comforting.
"Mr. Broderick.” Her uncle's voice snapped sharply from the opposite end of the table. “You have nothing to add to this conversation?"
A subtle change came over Maximillian's face. The bright eyes dulled, the lids drooped as he turned to face William Seton. “Faith, my good man, you're discussing politics, and Penelope and I have agreed that the topic is much too dull. We have resolved, in fact, not to discuss politics at all."
He gave Penelope's uncle a weak, lazy smile.
"How can you have no interest,” Victor returned without patience, “in something so important as the possibility of revolution? Have you no allegiance to your king?"
Maximillian withdrew a fine handkerchief from a lace-trimmed pocket in his waistcoat, and stifled a yawn with linen and lace held daintily to his mouth. “Pardon me,” he said as he returned the handkerchief to its place. “You see, the mere mention of politics and I begin to fade like a plucked daisy in a dry vase."
Penelope laughed at this outrageous comment, and Maximillian turned a blank expression to her, eyebrows slightly raised and chin lifted obstinately “Are you laughing at me, m'dear?” The lifting of the corners of his mouth was so slight, Penelope was certain no one but she saw it. It was a smile meant for her and her alone.
"You're an amusing dinner companion, Maximillian. How could I not laugh?"
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Laugh at me all you like,” he said softly, and without the artificial lilt that had been in his voice a moment earlier. “I can forgive you anything."
As his mouth lingered warmly over her fingers, she felt something of the emotion he had no doubt mistaken for love. It was a kinship and a longing, a recognized connection that she felt with no one else in this world combined with an insatiable need to know more. It was exciting and comforting at the same time.
The intoxicating mingling of emotions could easily be mistaken for love, she was certain.
When the meal was finished and at last the diners stood, Uncle William turned his full and undivided attention to Penelope, and she realized with a sinking heart that she'd likely not gotten away with her little subterfuge after all. She'd only delayed the inevitable.
"Penelope, Victor would like a private word with you, if you can tear yourself away from your ... guest.” Her uncle had always been a blunt man, and this evening was no different. “Mr. Broderick, it's been a pleasure having you in my home,” he said without a grain of sincerity. “Now, if you'll excuse us, we have some family affairs to discuss."
Penelope's smile faded as Maximillian looked down at her. The day had been wonderful, but Uncle William and Victor were about to ruin it. How could she thank this man she barely knew for a day worth remembering—for touching her heart, for looking at her now as if he understood how she felt?
"Nonsense,” Maximillian said grandly, and he gave her a small, private smile before turning to face Victor. “This day has been much too trying for Penelope, and she's certainly not up to delving into any family affairs this evening. Pe
rhaps in the morning,” he suggested with a wave of his hand.
"I have an engagement that will keep me occupied in the morning,” Victor said bluntly.
"I really am quite exhausted,” Penelope said.
"Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps,” Victor suggested testily.
"Mercy, that won't do at all,” Maximillian said with another graceful wave of his hand. “Penelope and I have planned a picnic for tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled down at her once again, a wide false smile unlike the other. “Isn't that right, m'dear?"
Somehow he knew what was going on, and he was doing his best to rescue her. At that moment, she did love him. “I have already promised Maximillian that we'd spend the afternoon together,” she lied.
"Well, it looks as if your family business will have to wait for another day,” Maximillian said as he took Penelope's arm and led her from the dining room. Without pausing, he escorted her to the foot of the staircase that led to the second floor.
"Will you be all right?” he asked without affectation.
"Yes, thanks to you,” she whispered. “How did you know?"
He placed a finger beneath her chin and held it there, firm and soft, demanding and affectionate. “Because you tell everything with your eyes. When I see fear there, I must do whatever I can to take it away."
She thought, for a moment, that he would kiss her. He wanted to, that much she could tell, and against all reasoning she wanted him to. Out of gratitude perhaps, she mused, or curiosity, though she'd never before been curious about the feel of a man's mouth against her own. Before she could decide exactly why she wanted Maximillian to kiss her, she heard her uncle and Victor approaching, and apparently so did he.
"Hurry along,” he whispered, “before they come to their senses and demand that I leave you to your blasted family affairs."
She turned her back on his smile and hurried up the stairs.
"Noon,” he said as she ran toward the sanctuary of the second floor and her bedchamber. “I'll be here tomorrow precisely at noon."
In spite of a late night, Max was up with the sun, berating himself for not participating in the Cypress Crossroads venture and wondering if the endeavor went well. At the same time, he looked forward to another day in Penelope's company.
