The Perfect Gentleman (The Love and Temptation Series Book 7)

by M C Beaton

  “No,” screamed Penelope, snatching the reticule from him. Ill and faint as she felt, she still did not want him to see those glasses.

  She took out a tortoiseshell comb, drew the strings of her reticule tight, and then tried to comb her hair, but the comb kept getting caught in the tangles.

  “Here, let me,” said Lord Andrew. He tilted up her face and gently eased the comb through the tangled mess of her drying hair.

  “Why did you say we were man and wife?” asked Penelope. “Are you trying to compromise me?”

  “I am trying to stop us from both getting the ague,” he said impatiently. “We could not possibly have gone further in our soaking state. We will set out for London as soon as possible.”

  A buffet of wind hurled rain against the windows. “I am so tired,” said Penelope wretchedly.

  “You will feel better when you have dined,” he said. He looked at the pathetic little figure in front of him with a sharp stab of concern. Anger at the way he had been so easily tricked combined with the rigors of running through the storm to shelter had made him treat Penelope very badly indeed. He had always believed women to be delicate and frail creatures. What if she fell ill? He would never forgive himself. Why hadn’t he left her in the shelter of that tower room and gone for help himself? She must be exhausted after sawing those bars. But he could not have done it himself. There had been nothing to stand on, and it had been difficult enough for him to clamber up the wall and out of that window.

  The landlord appeared to announce dinner—“though it be more of a supper,” he explained, “dinner being at four.”

  Penelope and Lord Andrew went through to the private parlor. Dinner consisted of salt fish, leg of mutton boiled with capers, roasted loin of beef, and plum and plain puddings. The landlord explained a wedding was to be held at the inn the next day, and the food was part of the preparations for it. Any other time, and my lord would have had to be content with a cold collation.

  After they had finished eating in silence and the cover had been withdrawn and the port and fruit and nuts set on the plain wood, the couple found themselves alone.

  “Now, what am I to do with that fellow Jepps?” said Lord Andrew, half to himself. “If I challenge him to a duel, then ten to one he will accept but then alert the authorities. I think I will content myself with smashing his face in.”

  “He wants Miss Worthy,” said Penelope sleepily. “He is very much in love.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Why nonsense? He has gone to great lengths to prevent your marriage. He must know you could kill him, although you do not look very ferocious in that funny dressing gown and with that red nightcap on your head.”

  “You look pretty silly yourself,” said Lord Andrew, although he privately thought she looked very endearing in the enormous dressing gown and with her silvery-fair hair drying in a cloud about her head.

  “The thing is this,” went on Lord Andrew, pouring a glass of port for Penelope and then one for himself. “We will now see if our clothes are dry enough and borrow a greatcoat for you to wear and then see if we can hire a gig. We shall set out for London. We shall say we escaped from the tower, hired a gig, and journeyed through the night. The fact that we were masquerading at this inn as man and wife, if only for dinner, must never come out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” yawned Penelope.

  “You had better wear my ring until we are clear of this inn.” He drew a heavy gold and sapphire ring from his finger and handed it over. Penelope slid it over her fourth finger. “It’s too big,” she said. “It wobbles.”

  “Then crook your finger round it. Now, go and lie down for half an hour while I make the arrangements.”

  When Penelope had left, he summoned the landlord and ordered him to find some sort of carriage and horses.

  The landlord scratched his head in perplexity. “I don’t know if I can do that at this time of night,” he said. “My own gig’s broke. Mayhap squire would have something, but he’s an old man, and it won’t do to rouse him this time of the night. Then there’s Mr. Baxter over at Five Elms—”

  “Do your best,” said Lord Andrew. “But we must leave for London this night.”

  Mrs. Carter brought their clothes up from the kitchen. The mud had been sponged from them, but they were still damp. Lord Andrew spread them over two chairs in front of the bedroom fire to dry.

  Then he walked over to the bed and looked down at Penelope. She was fast asleep, one small red hand bunched into a fist to hold his ring safe.

  What a brute I am, he thought with remorse. If only I could allow this child to sleep. Mercy, but I am exhausted myself. Perhaps just half an hour…

  He stretched out beside her. She moved in her sleep and, with an incoherent little murmur, snuggled against him.

  He was filled with a great wave of tenderness. He put his arms about her and held her close and rested his chin on the top of her head. The bedroom was warm and comfortable. The sensations coursing through his body were languorous and sweet.

  He kissed her hair and his heavy eyelids began to droop. It would do no harm to kiss her goodnight. He moved his lips to her sleeping mouth and kissed her gently.

  His head slid down to rest on her bosom, and with his arms still tightly about her, he fell asleep.

  “Morning, my lord!”

  Penelope and Lord Andrew slowly came awake. Sunlight was pouring into the room. Mrs. Carter was standing smiling down at them indulgently. Lord Andrew realized his arms were still about Penelope, and his legs appeared to have become tangled up with hers during the night. They were both still lying on top of the bedclothes.

  “Why did you not call me when the carriage was ready?” he said, sitting up.

  “To be sure, there was nothing we could do about getting you anything in the middle of such a storm,” said Mrs. Carter. “Mr. Carter, he came up after supper to tell you so, but you was sleeping like babies, and so he left you. ’Tis six in the morning. Mr. Carter says I was to wake you as soon as we got a gig, which we did, and it’s the smartest little turnout you ever did see. Mr. Baxter himself brought it over and is waiting to see your lordship.”

  “Thank you,” said Lord Andrew, while his mind raced. Provided Penelope held her tongue, they could still be in London before anyone was awake—the fashionable world not stirring until two in the afternoon. He dismissed Mrs. Carter and stripped off his dressing gown and nightgown and began to wash himself. The angry jerk of the bed curtains as the startled Penelope shut off the interesting view of his naked body sounded behind him. He felt himself blush as he had not blushed since he was an adolescent. How could he, who had been so perfect until so recently, have forgotten the simple proprieties?

  After a rushed breakfast, they were both at last seated in a small gig pulled by a glossy little pony. Mr. Baxter had supplied them with greatcoats, for although the sun was shining once more, the morning was chilly.

  Lord Andrew wondered whether to take this country gentlemen into his confidence and then decided against it. The explanations would prove too embarrassing. He thanked Mr. Baxter again, grimly introduced Penelope as his wife, and promised to send his servant back with the gig and pony the following day.

  Penelope was glad of the greatcoat. Her gown had shrunk and was stretched indecently over her body. Lord Andrew, too, was glad of his covering. His clothes, although they had not shrunk, were wrinkled and shabby-looking. After various efforts with the mangled remains of his cravat, he had decided to wear his cambric shirt open at the neck.

  He thought gloomily that he and Penelope looked like a couple of gypsies and could only hope some parish constable would not stop them and accuse them of stealing the gig.

  Chapter Seven

  A thin mist was rising from the fields as they journeyed along. Drifts of may blossom scented the sunny air. Busy birds hopped along the thickets, and smoke from cottage chimneys rose lazily into the air. Soon, apart from a few broken branches and twigs lying on the ro
ad, there was no sign of the terrible storm of the night before.

  “I have never made so many mistakes in my life before,” said Lord Andrew, breaking a silence that had lasted over an hour.

  “Well, it was a bit silly, if you don’t want to be compromised, to lie in bed hugging me,” said Penelope practically.

  “I was cold.”

  “Then next time put the blankets over you!”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Oh, yes there will,” said Penelope nastily. “Someone as easily gulled as you will no doubt end up in a brothel convinced he is staying at the most respectable posting house.”

  “I was wondering why I treated you with so little consideration yesterday,” said Lord Andrew evenly, “but now I realize why. It is because you have no delicacy, no shame, no—”

  “Shut up, do, you pompous ass!”

  “How dare you speak to me thus, Miss Mortimer! How dare you!”

  “That is exactly how you speak to me. It is amazing how people who are expert at dishing out the nastiest medicine do not know how to take it themselves.”

  Penelope, in her way, was as stubborn and arrogant as Lord Andrew. If one of them had said at that point, “I love you,” then the row would have been at an end. But both were suffering badly from frustrated physical desire, neither would admit it to themselves, and so they traveled on, sniping at each other, each searching their tired brains for the most wounding things to say.

  When the sun had risen high in the sky, Penelope had told Lord Andrew in a conversational tone of voice that he was, in fact, not at all handsome and lacked breeding and elegance, and Lord Andrew had told Miss Penelope Mortimer that there was something blowsy and peasantlike about her blond looks which must set up revulsion in the fastidious breast.

  By the time the pair, made stiff and haughty by bad temper, sailed into a richly appointed posting house demanding refreshment, it came like a douche of cold water to both to find themselves turned off the premises with insults.

  “Well!” said Penelope furiously as they climbed back into the gig. “What a dreadful man. He said you were a highwayman and I was your moll! He refused to serve us. He said we were dirty gallows birds! Why did you not thrash him for his insolence?”

  “I took one look at you, my sweet, and saw the force of his argument.”

  “It was you he was addressing. And you do look remarkably slovenly.”

  The pony plodded on. Lord Andrew stared at its ears and wondered what it would be like to strangle Penelope Mortimer.

  “I am very hungry,” she said at last. “Are you going to find us some food or are you going to sulk all day?”

  “I never sulk.”

  “Fiddle. You are in an arch sulk. Here is a village and there is a shop. Now, if we bought some bread and cheese and some wine, we could find a comfortable field and have a picnic.”

  He was about to tell her he now had no intention of stopping until they reached London, but he was very hungry and the pony needed a rest.

  He reined in and, without a word, went off to buy various things, eventually coming back with them all packed up in a new wicker basket.

  “Walk on,” he said to the pony, and not looking at Penelope, he stared straight ahead.

  “Truce,” said Penelope in a small voice.

  “What?”

  “You heard. We can either decide to have a pleasurable picnic and make what we can of our journey or we can continue to be nasty to each other and get indigestion.”

  He began to laugh. For some reason, his bad temper evaporated like the morning mist. “Truce, Miss Mortimer,” he cried, “and there is the place for our picnic.” He pointed with his whip to a little stream which tumbled down through a wood of young oak and birch.

  Soon the pony was unhitched and they were seated on a flat rock by the stream, drinking wine out of thick tumblers and eating ham and bread and cheese.

  The sun glittered on the sapphire on Penelope’s finger. She drew the ring off and handed it to him. “I unmarry you, Lord Andrew Childe,” she said, “and with this ring I thee divorce.”

  He took it and tossed it up and down in his hand. Then he handed it back to her. “I want you to have it,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I think our adventures need a memento. When you are old and staid, you can look at it and say to your grandchildren, ‘I remember the day I got locked in a castle dungeon with the terrible Lord Andrew.’”

  “Then I shall keep it, but I shall remain a spinster, I assure you.”

  She had taken off her coat. Her gown was stretched across her figure. He lay on his back in the sun and half closed his eyes. Through his lashes he could see a strand of torn muslin on the front of her gown fluttering in the light breeze. It was as well the underdress had remained intact, he thought, although what she was wearing left little to the imagination.

  “We must go soon,” he said, but he did not move. “Duty waits.”

  “Duty?”

  “Duty to my parents, duty to Miss Worthy, duty to my name. I cannot marry you, Miss Mortimer.”

  “I do not expect you to. I look for the impossible anyway. I look for a man who would marry me for love.”

  He opened his eyes and rolled over on his side, propping his head on his hand to look up at her as she sat next to him.

  “You will find such a one, Miss Mortimer,” he said. “You are very lovable.”

  Penelope forced a laugh. “What! I? A blowsy peasant?”

  “I did not mean a word of it. You are beautiful and courageous, and your hair is like the sun and your eyes like the blue sky.”

  “I liked you better when you cursed me,” said Penelope. “You have no right to speak to me so. Let us leave.”

  He stood up and held down his hand and drew her to her feet. The river chuckled and bubbled, the pony lazily cropped the green grass, and the lightest of breezes rustled the leaves of the trees above and lifted the silken curls of her hair.

  “Put on your coat,” he said quietly.

  “It is too hot.”

  “You are revealing too much.”

  “Oh!” Penelope blushed and stooped down to pick up her coat. He took it from her and held it out. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, her back to him. He drew her against him and they stood silent, listening to the river.

  “Back to London,” he said softly in her ear.

  “Back to London,” echoed Penelope on a sigh.

  They collected the remains of their picnic and packed them in the basket, not looking at each other. They harnessed up the horse and climbed into the gig. The little pony gallantly plodded along the roads, which were now white with dust.

  They did not speak again the whole journey home. As they trotted along Piccadilly to Park Street, Penelope could feel a dark weight pressing on her heart. There were explanations to be given, and then the life of the Season would go on. Lord Andrew would squire Miss Worthy to balls and parties, and she, Penelope Mortimer, would put up with a few more weeks of the Season before returning home. Penelope knew if she refused one more suitor, then the duchess would tire of her.

  Lord Andrew and Penelope were told that the duchess was in the red saloon on the ground floor. The butler held open the door and announced them.

  Penelope ducked just in time. A vase sailed over her head and smashed against the door jamb.

  “Stop it immediately,” said Lord Andrew, seizing his mother’s arm as the duchess was about to follow the vase with a bowl of flowers.

  “Scheming harlot!” raged the duchess. “Oh, God! Strike this poor wounded mother dead! What have I done that I should be cursed with a fool for a son?” She ducked under Lord Andrew’s arm and flew at Penelope. Penelope darted off with the duchess after her, finally shaking her off by running over the sofa. The duchess tripped and fell on her face on the floor, where she lay sobbing and screaming and drumming her fists. Lord Andrew jerked his mother upright and forced her down into the depths of an armchair while sh
e continued to scream, not out of fury but because the pressure was forcing the bones of her stays to dig into her back.

  At his wits’ end, Lord Andrew seized the bowl of flowers his mother had been trying to throw at Penelope and upended the contents on the duchess’s head.

  There was a deathly silence. The duchess stared at her son while hothouse roses and dahlias hung dripping from her muslin cap.