“You paid for it with a bonnet?”
“It was all she would accept. I’m not a thief, you know.”
“And you have no idea who the admirer was?”
He was pulling away from her, letting unfeeling air drift between them. Perhaps if she answered him more specifically he’d go back to touching her again.
“No, if I had any idea I’d tell you,” she said. “And I don’t know why she couldn’t simply return the scarab to him, either. I am rather happy she couldn’t, though.”
“I’m sure you are. Do you have any idea of its true value?”
“Of course. I’ve been studying antiquities for some time now.”
“Then you surely would have been a bit suspicious about your friend suddenly coming into possession of it.”
Wait, did that sound just a bit as if he were accusing Maria of something unpleasant? Or was he questioning her honesty? She was suddenly glad for the momentary air between them. Perhaps it was helping to clear her brain.
“She said it was a gift from an admirer, and I have no reason to doubt her.”
“And it never dawned on you this secret admirer might have come by the scarab through illicit means?”
“No, it never dawned on me. I’ve told you all I know about it. Now if you’d be so kind, please step aside, sir.”
“Oh? Is my presence bothering you, Miss Rastmoor?”
Perhaps she should not have said anything about it. It seemed he rather enjoyed knowing he bothered her. He was looming even closer now, his fingers trailing over the skin at her neck and down toward the fichu she had tucked carefully into the front of her gown. She had a feeling the gauzy material would provide little barrier should the man decide to investigate what lay beyond that flimsy fabric.
Not that he hadn’t done ample exploring last night. The vivid recollection brought a heated flush racing to her cheeks. Yes, the man’s presence was most certainly bothering her, in the most pleasant way possible. Which was very, very bothersome.
“Perhaps I should be going now,” she said.
He did nothing to facilitate this. Instead, he merely leaned in closer.
“Are you certain that is what you want?”
No, she was actually trying desperately to ignore what she wanted.
“I’ve done what I came for,” she said. “I should be off.”
“I agree,” he said, predictably going for the fichu. “This most certainly should be off.”
Drat. She should have pinned it in place. Before she had time to react, he whipped the fichu out and traced his finger over the expanse of skin that was now exposed. She drew in a quick breath and struggled not to let him see just how much she liked what he was doing.
“Please, sir…”
“Please? You’d like more?”
“I believe I’ve already had more.”
“And as I recall, I believe you liked it,” he said.
She was about to protest, but her legs went weak and she was unable to form words. Lord Harry had once again pushed her gown aside and was stooping to pay homage to her breasts. Indeed his memory was impeccable. She did rather like this.
“And you are certain there is nothing more you’d like to tell me regarding how that scarab came to be in your possession?” he was asking.
Apparently now she could not comprehend words, either.
“Er…the what came to be in my what?”
He chuckled, a warm, animal sound. “What indeed, Penelope.”
Now he was giving her full attention. He kissed one breast, then moved on to the other. His tongue flicked over her nipples, sending sparks of electricity through her body. Thank heavens his arms had gone around her to hold her upright, else she’d likely have dissolved into a boneless pile at his feet.
She allowed her arms to circle him, her hands to roam over his muscular back and his broad shoulders. The feel of his lips against her sensitive skin was almost overwhelming, and the pressure of his body against hers was delightful. When he left off luxuriating over her breasts, his mouth came up to capture her own. He was delicious.
His tongue played at her lips, parting them and surprising her by slipping in to do battle with her own tongue. She would have expected such a thing to be somewhat unpleasant, but it was far from that. It was remarkable, a model for other body parts and a reminder of what he would be capable of doing to her, if she would only let him.
Indeed, she would let him. She’d be helpless to refuse, after all. Somehow he had a power over her she could not deny. She had no wish to deny it.
“You’re even more lovely in the daylight,” he said, pushing himself away from her so he could gaze down on her exposed breasts.
She was giddy with his praise. It crossed her mind that he could merely be using empty flattery to manipulate her into a greater willingness, but she hardly cared. He said the right words and she’d understood them. All that mattered was that he was holding her, touching her, and wanting her. It was the same sort of wanting she felt for him. It was virtually impossible for her to be more willing.
“Perhaps we should go up to your room?” she asked, her voice wavering just a bit.
His reply was a deeper kiss along with a rumbling growl. She assumed that was another compliment. She pulled herself closer to him, arching into him and feeling him pressing against her. Oh, but how lovely if her gown were to accidentally fall off of her and his trousers should suddenly come open.
“Penelope,” he murmured as his lips and hands left fiery trails over her body.
“Lord Harry,” she murmured in response.
“We need to stop.”
His words confused her. Stop? What on earth did that mean?
“No,” she argued. “It feels decidedly as if we ought to continue.”
“Which is exactly why we should stop.”
He took his own advice and let go of her, reaching out only to pull her gown back into place. Drat! Apparently this is what stop meant.
“I promised your brother I would not treat you this way,” he said.
“You promised my brother you would not see me again,” she reminded. “Obviously you haven’t adhered to that.”
“All the more reason I should get you home. Now.”
“You don’t want me to stay a bit longer?”
He drew a deep breath and took another step away from her.
“I want you to stay a great deal longer,” he said, to her relief. “But you would only regret it and hate me for it.”
Hate him? Even after he’d lied to her, spent an evening with Lady Burlington, cowarded his way out of a duel, seduced her in a very public place, and stolen from her, here she was back in his arms and begging for more. No, if she did not hate him by now—and she had tried desperately to convince herself that she did—it hardly seemed likely that she ever would.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t care what could happen, about the consequences should I not usher you out the door right this very second.”
“Well, I don’t care. I’ll be leaving for Egypt soon.”
Now it appeared he was angry. He grabbed up her fichu and haphazardly stuffed it where it had been. Well! That was certainly taking liberties. Besides, the man had no skill for such things as arranging fichus. She did her best to right it. It was not a very successful effort, given that the man seemed far from done manhandling her.
Taking her by the arm, he practically dragged her toward the door. How insulting, to say the least. Here she had practically thrown herself at him and now he was rejecting her. Dramatically. Oh, but it was embarrassing.
“Very well,” she said, sounding just as angry as he looked. “You don’t need to be so gruff about it. If you don’t want me, just say so.”
He paused and turned back to her.
“If you think I don’t want you, then you’re an ever bigger fool than you appear. Of course I want you. Lately it seems that’s the only t
hing I do want. Damn it, Penelope, I can’t think straight when I’m with you. And right now, that’s a very dangerous thing. For all of us.”
She had no idea what he could possibly mean by “all of us,” but she completely understood his actions. He was, once again, tugging her arm. He led her to the front door of the building and flung it open.
A desperate sort of panic settled on her. Lord Harry was getting rid of her, and she had every reason to believe it was the last time she might ever see him. Surely if someone didn’t shoot him on a field of honor, he would leave Town. Obviously his desire for her, was not nearly as strong as he claimed. If he felt half the way she felt, how could he possibly walk away without much more than a few kisses? Indeed, he’d soon be rid of her and out of her life.
She was searching for just the right argument that might change his mind as they stepped out into the late morning sunlight. Her feet froze in their tracks when she spotted Anthony jumping from his carriage and stalking their way. She was simply not having a good day so far.
“Rastmoor,” Lord Harry said as a curt greeting.
“Damn you, Chesterton!” was her brother’s curt greeting. “I got home only to find my sister was gone. On a hunch I came back here.”
“Yes, I found her at my door so now I am returning her to you.”
She could not at all like the way he spoke of her as something like a lost puppy. It got worse. When Anthony approached, Lord Harry lifted up her hand and ceremoniously passed her off to her brother.
“I suggest you keep better track of her,” Lord Harry warned.
“I’m not the one who lured the silly chit away,” Anthony replied, holding her arm tightly and glaring daggers at Lord Harry.
Now Lord Harry was glaring daggers. “Good God, man. No one has to lure Penelope to do anything. You would seriously let her go off to Egypt on her own? Considering what she’s capable of, empty head and all? Damn it, Rastmoor, if you were any decent sort of brother you’d keep her under lock and key!”
“Excuse me, but I can hear you both,” she inserted.
“Hush,” they said in unison.
Brutes.
“I will not lock up my sister,” Anthony said.
He would, however, bruise her arm, he was holding it so tightly. She squirmed, but he ignored her.
“Perhaps you’ve not noticed,” Lord Harry said, “but she cannot be at all trusted.”
“Neither can you, Chesterton.”
“That’s exactly my point, Rastmoor.”
Anthony seemed about to reply, then frowned and glanced her way.
“Why did you come here?” he asked her.
She bit her lip. This was not a very comfortable question to answer.
“I was afraid you’d come to challenge Lord Harry to a duel. I had to warn him.”
“Warn him?”
“That you are an excellent shot, Anthony.”
“I’ve no doubt Chesterton could hold his own,” Anthony said. “Provided he’d bother to show up.”
“I told you, I am not much inclined to kill you, sir,” Lord Harry said.
Penelope gave him a frown. “So you’d just stand there and let my brother murder you?”
What a horrifying thought.
“You’d rather I shoot him?” Lord Harry asked.
“No, of course not, but…”
“Fortunately it seems neither of us will come to that,” Anthony interrupted. “Thank you for returning my sister, Chesterton.”
“My pleasure.”
Really, did he have to sound so sincerely glad to be rid of her?
“Good day to you,” Anthony said, nodding toward the other man.
Penelope wished she could think of something witty to say, but the thought of letting her brother drag her home without hope of seeing Lord Harry again was enough to wipe all wit away. She could merely glance up at him and mutter a weak good-bye.
“Take care of yourself, Miss Rastmoor,” he said simply.
There was not any emotion or hint that their parting might be the least bit distressful for him. Indeed, they were both right about her. She was silly and empty-headed, wasn’t she? What a fool to let herself care, and to hope that perhaps Lord Harry might care just a bit in return.
Anthony led her to his carriage and helped her in. She managed to refrain from looking over her shoulder at Lord Harry as they pulled away, leaving his drab little apartment behind. No doubt he did not linger on the street watching after her.
“He’s a far nobler man than I esteemed him,” Anthony said after a minute of silence.
“He was eager to be rid of me.”
Her brother gave her a sad smile. “Indeed, that’s how it appeared.”
“Well, no matter. I’m well rid of him. Thank you for taking me home, Anthony. It seems I have a good many things to do to be ready for my trip.”
“Apparently so do I.”
HARRIS WATCHED THE CARRIAGE UNTIL IT WAS OUT OF sight. Damn, but refusing that woman was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. The most honorable, too. So why didn’t he feel better about it?
Because he was a selfish bastard, that was why. He wanted her in his bed and that’s all there was to it. He wanted to take advantage of her, ruin her, and make her forget every other man on the planet. He doubted he’d even feel remorseful afterward. Hell no. He’d simply want to do it all over again.
But for once he’d taken the high road. He’d put her needs ahead of his wants. Now she was gone and he doubted Rastmoor would be foolish enough to let her out of his sight for a good long while. Harris was free to put his focus into what he should have been doing all along. He needed to find Oldham and locate those artifacts. Perhaps it was still not too late to salvage the man’s lifework.
But where to start? Lady Burlington claimed they’d brought Oldham to London. But why? Uncle Nedley hated him. Would he go to the trouble of destroying his career, then actually bring him home? Still, by paying that ransom he’d convinced the Egyptians that Oldham had betrayed them. This was an even worse fate than to have waited for Harris to reattain the artifacts and return them with proof of Oldham’s innocence. Indeed, it did sound the sort of convoluted cruelty his uncle was capable of.
But London was a big city. If Oldham were here, how was Harris to discover where they had stashed him? He had so little to go on.
The scarab. That was the clue. Where had it come from? If Penelope’s story was to be believed—and there was no way of knowing when the girl was honest or when she was not—some mysterious gentleman had given it to Miss Bradley. On the off chance this was, indeed, the case, who was that man? And where did he get it?
The logical summation was that he must have been involved in the theft. If Harris could find that man, he would likely find all the answers he needed. Lady Burlington had insinuated that one of Penelope’s own admirers was involved. That seemed to lead him back to Markland. Very well, he would investigate the man.
Indeed, there was also a second man he could not discount. Mr. P. Anthonys. Harris had simply assumed this person was just another scholar, but since Lady Burlington indicated suspicion, perhaps Harris had been too quick to abandon his search for this nonexistent person. Whoever he was.
He’d seen the letters; he’d actually brought them from Egypt with him in hopes of finding the author. Unfortunately, he’d not paid attention to the direction when Oldham had been writing to the fellow. All he had were the letters with their Egypt address; there was no record of P. Anthonys’ location. Apparently Oldham knew the address by heart and had not needed to record it somewhere. All Harris had been able to deduct was that this Anthonys person lived in London.
Which put him right back where he had been, which was, basically, doubting that he even existed. P. Anthonys must have written those letters anonymously. But then who was the man in truth? Did this send him back to Lady Burlington’s clue, Markland? Perhaps. That, unfortunately, sent him back to recalling Penelope’s gushing praise over the man last nig
ht. Unsurprisingly, this reminded him of how lovely she’d looked and how sweet she had tasted when he’d maneuvered her into that back room. And that, even more unfortunately, reminded him of what he had just refused. Damn.
He had to find some way to forget her. Well, no better way than to immerse himself in his investigation. Since he had no real new information, and since he was not up to a visit to Markland this early in the day, he’d have to go backward. He’d go over Professor Oldham’s letters one more time. Perhaps there would be something he’d overlooked.
An hour later he was willing to admit he’d not overlooked a thing. All his latest perusal of the stack of letters managed to turn up was a reference to the British Museum and a splitting headache. He assumed the headache was from all the rereading he had to do since his rebellious brain kept losing track and he’d have to go back to the top of a page. It seemed his mind would far rather dwell on Penelope’s soft skin and her tempting curves than to focus on someone else’s letters he’d already read several times.
But what of Mr. Anthonys’ reference to his time at the museum? Could it possibly be relevant? Did the man work there? At the very least it appeared he frequented the place. Perhaps someone there might know the name. He supposed he ought to at least investigate. Besides, being busy would keep his mind off Penelope. He hoped.
SURPRISINGLY, THE REST OF PENELOPE’S MORNING HAD not been as disagreeable as expected. Anthony had been oddly kind toward her. He’d brought her home without lecture, and he’d even managed to distract Mamma from delivering any unwanted sermons. He sent Penelope off to her room and advised her to rest and do what she could to take her mind off Lord Harry. Unfamiliar with how to handle such a situation, she thanked him, then took his advice.
He and Mamma politely left her alone. It was quite nice, actually. It did allow her time to sort through some of her feelings where Lord Harry was concerned, in fact. Unfortunately, that led to some rather troubling introspection. It was distressing to realize her heart might just possibly have been a bit more invested than she’d ever wish to admit. The more she thought on it, in fact, the more she decided she did not much enjoy introspection. That could certainly explain why she’d done frightfully little of it over the years.
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