by Cheryl Holt
Although he tried to convince himself that it was only a gentle embrace meant to reassure, he couldn't get beyond the impression that he was surrounding her with his protection and offering her refuge. He felt as though she'd always found sanctuary from her worries by snuggling up against him, and their intimate position was nothing new because she'd rested in just such a fashion a hundred times before.
Penny pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the strong and steady pounding of his heart. His proximity was soothing
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and exciting. She could have lain there, unmoving, for the remainder of her days and died a completely happy woman.
"I won't let the duke do this to you," he assured her, the sound of his baritone rumbling from deep within and tickling against her face. "We'll find a way to make sure you're sheltered from harm."
The promise was so heartfelt that she pulled back, needing to witness the look in his eyes when he made such a pledge. Though she hardly knew him and couldn't have put into words why she felt as she did, his steady gaze made her decide that she could put her life in his hands and it would be safe in his keeping.
"I know you will," she agreed.
There were many more words that could have been exchanged, more subjects discussed, more information traded, but from the first, theirs had been a different type of relationship. Because of how Lucas had thrust himself into her problems, and because of the pressures facing her, they had skipped the introductory steps that normally occurred when two people were just getting to know each other.
A strange hurdle had been jumped, a sort of speeding-up of the present, that put them far past the preliminaries. Their friendship was established, their bond unbreakable, and it was as though they had been acquainted for years instead of hours, For the first time in a long time she faced the future and saw a faint glimmer of hope on the horizon that events might work out after all.
His eyes were glittering, and he was smiling down at her with an easy, confident expression, and she couldn't help thinking he was the most phenomenal, exotic person she had ever met, With a fierce conviction she vowed that he would never regret! his decision to offer her assistance. If it took the rest of heri life, she would gladly spend it showing him how grateful she was. She would do whatever he asked, go wherever he requested, complete any task he required, be whoever and what-
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ever he needed her to be, and she would do everything in her power to make him very, very happy.
Lucas paused. As though there had been a subtle shift in the temperature or the wind, he could tell that something had changed between them. In the soft glow of the moonlight she was gazing at him with an unwavering regard mat made his pulse increase. From any other woman he would have recognized the look for what it was, one of love or, at least, deep affection. Coming from Lady Penelope, it had arrived too early on to be love, but what else could it be?
Realistically he should be secretly celebrating how well things were progressing. Fondness on Lady Penelope's part was precisely the type of emotion he hoped to cultivate. Events were unfolding just as he'd hoped, giving him the chance to play on her innocence and inexperience in order to gain her trust.
However, despite his best intentions regarding his dubious motives, he couldn't prevent the leap of joy he received from the simple idea that she might be developing a fancy for him. Where it came from he couldn't say, but it was as real and as definite as it was terrifying.
She was the one who was supposed to develop tender sentiments—not him. From his perspective, toying with her was part of his strategy, a business matter, a means to an end. He wasn't to sustain any feelings for her at all other than relief that meeting her had helped to resolve his situation.
Still, there was something perfectly lovely about the manner in which she was looking up at him, as though he were the bravest, truest man she'd ever encountered, the world revolved around him, and the sun might not rise if he didn't give the appropriate command.
His overt interest was going to create serious problems. The tangles they would eventually end up unraveling because of the ways she stirred his untoward, uncontrollable desires didn't bear contemplation. Yet, he hardly cared. All he knew was that
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he suddenly felt ten feet tall, a hero and savior, and he liked the perception very much—and wanted it to continue.
Some sort of demon appeared to be leading him to his doom, and he couldn't prevent himself from moving to the next level, to where kissing her was the only possible option. As he leaned forward, he couldn't dull the observation that he was someone else, watching another unknown, idiotic man commit this grievous, critical error in judgment. Then his lips brushed lightly against hers, and none of his misgivings mattered one whit.
There was only Penelope.
He closed his eyes and let himself be filled by her. Her lips were warm and soft, her breath honeyed as scrumptious candy. She was wearing a light, flowery perfume that was unnoticeable until he was so near that nothing separated them.
He made no attempt to deepen the kiss. He didn't press himself against her or run his fingers through her hair or massage his hands along her back. He simply enjoyed the experience of having her lips melded to his own.
They sat unmoving, as though they were two statues posed just so. He couldn't have said how long he kissed her, but by the time he finished, his ears were ringing, his heart was pounding, his fingers tingling, and, most shocking of all, his knees were weak and he was terribly glad he was sitting down so she wouldn't know how deeply he'd been affected. The kiss had been chaste, probably the most harmless he'd ever shared with a woman, yet he felt he'd encountered the most erotic embrace of his life.
The eeriest impression swept over him, that he had stumbled upon something rare and wondrous. Until that moment he hadn't realized he'd been missing her, but in fact he had been searching for her all his life.
A severe discernment of dread began at the tips of his toes and worked its way up his legs, spreading through his body until it made him shiver with the realization that he was in way over his head, probably about to drown, and there was no one available to toss him a rope. He needed to get back to solid
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ground. Fast! To where he could cogitate and gather himself together, or else he'd remain exactly where he was and commit many other disturbing blunders.
Penelope's eyes fluttered open. All her life she'd imagined receiving a kiss like the one they'd shared. It had been just as romantic as she'd always assumed it could be. Her pulse was racing, her breathing labored, and her lips were warm and prickling, as though a spark of energy had passed from him to her, and she wanted to do it again, for as long as possible.
Nothing else mattered. Not Edward, not her father. She wouldn't have cared if they had been discovered in the midst of their torrid embrace. The kiss had left her strangely elated, and she would have risked any hazard to have it continue. However, as she looked at Mr. Pendleton, she suffered an instant of panic.
Where before he had appeared affectionate, now there was an unreadable expression in his eye, and she couldn't move beyond the impression that he hadn't enjoyed the occasion at all. She blushed, happy for the shadows so that he couldn't notice her embarrassment. Obviously he was a man who'd had extensive interaction with women, and while she'd sat there, imagining the moment was the most fabulous of developments, he'd probably been dreading every second.
She felt like a fool!
"What it is?" she asked softly.
Lucas was surprised that she seemed to know him well enough to realize that something was amiss. It was disconcerting that she could peer so deeply into his lagging conscience. "Nothing," he lied. "We've tarried for quite some time. I need to be off."
"So soon?" she asked, mentally kicking herself because the query came out sounding so desperate.
"Yes," he insisted. "It's late, and the longer we linger, the greater the likelih
ood that you might be missed."
She wasn't concerned about discovery; she only wanted him to remain, but he stood quickly, as though intending to disappear
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that very second, so she rose too, trying to find the means by which she could convince him to dawdle. "Are you sure you must go? I hardly know anything about you, and I have so many questions. I haven't had the chance to ask any of them."
"I have many questions as well," he said. "We can give each other our answers tomorrow night, if you would like to meet again?''
She felt like a dying woman who'd just been given hope of a cure. "I would like that," she said forthrightly, knowing there wasn't time to play the coquette as she'd been taught to do with men. "At midnight, then?"
"Yes," he agreed. "At midnight."
Lucas bent to kiss her good-bye, but at the last second he realized his folly. If his lips touched hers, the pleasure would be indescribable, and he might end up in a situation he didn't want the two of them to experience, so he hastily moved away, grazing her forehead with a quick, light peck.
"Until tomorrow," he said in a voice full of promise.
Years of practice had schooled Penny's emotions, so she carefully hid her disappointment that he had not kissed her on the mouth. She started to make her farewells, looked around, and realized he was already gone, vanished a second time.
"Until tomorrow," she said to the cool night air, then turned and headed to her father's dark, lonely house.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harold Westmoreland, Duke of Roswell, sat behind the massive desk in his library, trying to find the comfort he usually enjoyed in that room. Regretfully the tranquillity of the place eluded him, and he wasn't certain how to regain it. His private domain had been thoroughly invaded by that brash American, Lucas Pendleton.
Though it was a mad supposition, he no longer felt safe in his own home. In his own library! The peace and serenity of his sanctuary had been destroyed. Whenever he entered, he experienced a small twinge of fear that someone might be lurking in the shadows. His eyes would cast about furtively, looking for movement or change. He had always sought refuge behind the heavy oak door, but not any more. Now he had to force himself across the threshold and the floor, and he caught himself timidly reaching for his brandy and chair.
How he hated feeling so displaced!
Over the years he'd always chosen to hold his private conferences in this room as opposed to any other because it had the best ambiance in which to work out important deals or to whisper over momentous confidences. The potent atmosphere brought others to heel, made them hesitate, give in, or give up.
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When haggling over an extremely delicate matter, he gave his opponents just the right look at just the right moment, letting the effective milieu wear them down as gradually and as surely as the weight and authority of his presence.
But, somehow, Pendleton's brief appearance had sucked out the power.
Harold would never admit as much in a thousand years, but he couldn't get over the sensation that the space had been altered by the man's unexpected arrival and climactic exit. There had been a definite shift, leaving him with the feeling that he was no longer in control and no longer in charge, which he hated. It remained a mystery as to how Harold was going to exorcise the scoundrel so that he could once again enjoy the beneficial attributes of his special haven.
He hoped conditions would improve once the wall over the fireplace was repaired. Pendleton's pistol shot had passed through the portrait of the duchess and lodged in the plaster behind it. The large painting had been removed, leaving faded wallpaper, a hole, and black powder marks, so it was impossible to glance around and not be immediately reminded of what had happened.
Every time he looked in that direction, he could see and smell the smoke that had erupted from the gun. Every time he sat down, there was a coating of barely perceptible powder on his belongings. Despite how thoroughly the staff cleaned, flakes of white from the damaged wall continued drifting down onto the rug and furniture like fine bits of beach sand, a constant reminder of Pendleton and his brazenness.
Crazy as it seemed, Harold felt the falling particles were a sort of magic dust cast about by Pendleton as a memento of his dastardly deed, one that made it impossible for Harold to forget or to forge ahead. While he was used to retiring to his library for a good part of each day so that he could ruminate and make plans, since his encounter with his unwanted visitor he couldn't accomplish a single task.
All he could think about was Pendleton, his pretty sister,
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Caroline, and her bastard son, little Harry. How was a man supposed to concentrate when his home had been invaded by such a crew?
For years his memory had not strayed to Caroline. She'd been just another in an unending string of women. Prettier, certainly, and more charming than most. But one of many. Now, as irritating as a bad toothache, her brother had completely insinuated himself into Harold's life, and he couldn't put any of the Pendletons aside. Especially the child. A male child! What man worth his salt wouldn't be intrigued by the idea of having another son? Bastard though he may be, how was a man supposed to move ahead with images of such a boy lingering on the fringes?
Harold already had a son, his legitimate get and heir. By any standard, William was a handsome, strong lad possessed of all Harold's best and worst attributes, which combined to make him a worthy friend or foe. He was smart and tough and, in the exalted tradition of the Westmoreland family, he would one day be an excellent eighth Duke of Roswell.
But still, another boy!
A second son had been his greatest wish in life. After years of visiting his wife's bed, trying to create another, the duchess had never conceived again, and he'd long ago abandoned the idea of increasing his number of children. So ... to learn of this son, this child, and in such a shocking fashion!
He had no intention of doing as Pendleton had asked—wild horses couldn't drag a paternity agreement from his lips— but he couldn't prevent his musings from wandering to this newfound son. Unable to tamp down his curiosity, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the miniature that Pendleton had left behind. His eyes searched the lad's face while his finger traced over the fine features, committing them to memory.
What a good-looking child he was!
Footsteps sounded in the hall, and to his dismay he jumped even though he instantly realized they belonged to Penny. The
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awareness of how fainthearted he'd become set his temper to flaring anew, and he braced for the coming encounter that he knew would be entirely unpleasant.
Lest someone see the treasure he cradled so carefully in his hand, he prudently pushed it to the back of the drawer, then locked it just as Penny entered. As always, she was perfectly turned out, her face tranquil and composed, her blond hair swept up and neatly coiffed. Her light blue gown was expertly tailored, fitting immaculately on her trim figure.
However, as he looked at her standing mere with her head held high and her emotions carefully guarded, he experienced the strangest perturbation that she had recently undergone a profound transformation. She appeared older, wiser, as though she were someone entirely different from whom she'd been the week before.
It was eerie, but he couldn't get past the impression that she was someone he didn't know at all, which was madness. This was Penny, his demanding, self-centered daughter who had never had to do anything more strenuous man decide what to wear each morning. She wasn't the most interesting of creatures, and because she was a girl, and a difficult one at that, he'd never felt the necessity of spending much time with her. He'd certainly never given her much thought other than to contemplate how he could use her to further his interests.
After two decades of manipulating her, ordering her about, and directing her actions, he knew how to handle her. At least, he always had in the past, until Pendleton had burst into his life. The blasted
man had him questioning everything, including his ability to interact with his daughter.
Another crime to lay at the rogue's feet!
Over the years he and Penny had had many meetings such as the coming appointment. In fact, it suddenly occurred to him that they'd hardly ever spoken anywhere else. As a girl, she had been allowed to visit him once a day, and he would ask her about her lessons. As a young lady, she'd still visit once a day, but the topic had become her marriage prospects.
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Who, how, and when had occupied their thinking for so long that he couldn't remember when they'd talked of any other subject.
As she moved toward her marriage to that disgusting boor, Edward Simpson, a man whom Harold couldn't abide, they all had to grit their teeth. Harold felt badly about this third engagement. At the time he'd initiated the agreement, he'd absolutely believed he was making the correct decision. While the age difference had initially given him pause, he'd encouraged the man's attentions because he'd felt that an older husband would be good for Penny.
She'd always needed a firmer hand than the one he'd provided in raising her, and he'd anticipated mat Edward would afford her guidance and management. However, he'd truly had no idea how obnoxious the lout was, how offensive, how drunken! The choice had turned out to be horrendous, but he'd never let her know. The damage was done, the contracts signed, and there was nothing for any of them to do but move forward with the inevitable. The sooner she came to terms with it, the better.
"Yes, Father," she said tensely. "You wanted to see me?"
The manner in which she said the word Father brought his head swinging up. There was a challenging tone in her voice that he wouldn't tolerate. It caused him to wonder if, perhaps, the balance of authority in their relationship was shifting. Shaking off the absurd notion, he decided it was simply more of the unease created by that arrogant American intruder.
