A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 6

THEY NEXT MET OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE. HE WAS already there, waiting. Penny walked in, nodded his way, smiled at Filchett, sat in the chair he held for her, then poured herself a cup of tea and helped herself to toast.

Charles watched her. He’d got precious little sleep last night. Consequently, he’d had plenty of time to think, enough for the inconsistency in her response to him to rise out of his memories and stare him in the face.

Thirteen years ago he’d thought she’d had enough of him, that after their first and only bout of lovemaking she’d finished with him, never wanted to see him, speak with him, or do anything else with him ever again. That message had reached him loud and clear, but from a distance. A distance she’d insisted on preserving and that, with their families all about, she’d had no difficulty arranging.

Because of that distance, he hadn’t realized the truth. She hadn’t stopped wanting him; she still did. She hadn’t so much been giving him his marching orders as holding him at bay until his real marching orders had taken him away.

Thirteen years ago, she’d been running. Something about their lovemaking had frightened her, but he still didn’t know what. He’d originally, reluctantly, put her adverse reaction down to the physical pain, but he’d never been sure; it hadn’t seemed much like the Penny he knew, but how could he tell when she’d refused to talk about it?

Considering the question now, there were other aspects-her independence, her pride, some unexpected sensibility-that might have contributed to make her take against him, but he knew better than to think he could follow the tortuous processes of her mind. That was the mistake he’d made thirteen years ago; he wasn’t about to make it again.

If she had any difficulty, he’d make her tell him in words incapable of misconstruction. He wouldn’t allow her to deflect him; he had no intention of taking a pert No for an answer, or accepting a dismissal, no matter how distant and haughty. This time the situation favored him; their families, the gaggle of females who, with the best of intentions, perennially managed to get in his way, weren’t there for her to use as a screen. This time, there was just him and her and what lay between them. He wasn’t going to let her-the one and only lady for him-slip through his fingers again.

With that resolution firmly made, he’d spent the small hours deciding how to proceed. How to seduce her. The first step was obvious, an absolute requirement; he couldn’t seduce her under his own roof.

Courtesy of his investigation, which investigation she was determined to immerse herself in, that requirement wouldn’t be difficult to meet.

He waited, patient, unperturbed, his gaze on her. Filchett, reading the undercurrents accurately, left in search of more coffee.

Penny buttered her toast, then reached for the jam. After last night, she’d made a firm resolution to restrict her interaction with Charles to the field of his investigation. And to keep at least a yard between them if at all humanly possible.

He’d accepted her refusal last night, but she had no wish to repeat the exercise, even less to tempt him or herself. She might not have the strength to utter the word next time; the likely consequences didn’t bear contemplating. She had absolutely no ambition to be his sometime lover, warming his bed for however long he was there, only to be alone again when he returned to London. To be forever alone once he found his bride.

Eventually, unable to continue to pretend to be unaware of his gaze, she looked up and met it. “How are we going to learn how Granville communicated with the French?”

Down the length of the table, his dark eyes held hers. “Other than by continuing to ask, perhaps being rather more specific in our questions, I’m not sure we have that many avenues to follow.”

He looked down, long fingers idly stroking his coffee cup.

Suddenly realizing she was staring at those mesmerizing fingers, she looked up as he did.

“One thing-I think we need to pay more attention to Nicholas.”

She swallowed. “In case he knows how Granville arranged things?”

“I doubt he knows-if he did, he wouldn’t be asking so many questions, and so widely. But it’s possible, even likely, that he knows a piece of the puzzle-he at least knows enough to realize that there has to be someone else, or something else, involved.”

“Hmm…so how can we learn more from him?”

Charles resisted the temptation to jump in with his solution. Not yet-let her ponder, weigh up the options, think things through. If she came up with the answer he wanted by herself, so much the better. “There’s still the other gangs to speak to. The more we learn of Granville’s activities, the better chance we stand of stumbling onto some clue. But Nicholas is the one person we’re sure was involved-keeping apprised of his movements would be wise.”

He set down his cup, pushed back his chair. “I’ve estate matters to attend to. If you can think of any way to improve our intelligence of Nicholas’s activities, I’ll be in the study.”

Rising, he walked out of the room, knowing he’d surprised her. Finding Filchett hovering in the hall with a fresh pot of coffee, he directed him to the study, and followed.

Penny remained at the breakfast table, sipping her tea, nibbling her toast, and trying to fathom Charles’s direction. Eventually reflecting it was never wise to question the benevolence of the gods, she rose and headed for the parlor. A sun-warmed, feminine sitting room his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law used when relaxing en famille, the parlor was empty.

She sat on a window seat, looked out over the manicured lawns, and considered what to do. What she could do.

For years she’d been accustomed to keeping a close eye on all estate matters, yet once Amberly and his stewards had taken over at Wallingham, she’d been restricted to distantly overseeing hers, Elaine’s, and her half sisters’ inheritances; she’d filled in her time helping Elaine run the house. Now…she had nothing to do, and idleness fretted her. She felt restless and worse, useless. Good for nothing because she had nothing to do. Some part of her mind was examining and studying the problem of how to keep a more comprehensive watch on Nicholas, but she thought better while doing.

Ten minutes passed before the quietness about her finally fully registered. There were no ladies in this house, only her.

In lieu of managing her home, there was no reason she couldn’t manage Charles’s. In the absence of his mother-her godmother-there was no reason she couldn’t keep herself occupied by performing the myriad overseeing tasks involved in ensuring the smooth running of the Abbey.

Mrs. Slattery certainly wouldn’t mind.

Rising, she headed for the housekeeper’s quarters.

In the study, Charles noted their findings from the previous night and his consequent direction for inclusion in his next report to Dalziel. That done, he sat back and reviewed his plans for Penny. Despite his personal goal, if it had been possible to isolate her from the investigation he would already have done so, his preferred option being to send her to his mother in London with strict instructions she be kept under lock and key until he came to fetch her.

A lovely conceit, but not an achievable one. And given his personal goal, not a wise one, either.

He would have to work with the options fate had dealt him.

At least he now knew what his personal goal was; he just had to ensure she didn’t get too tangled in the web of his investigation while he was steering her to it.

The thought of steering, of influencing her female mind, left him considering the piece of the puzzle she’d given him that he was finding difficult to ease into the picture; to his mind, it didn’t fit.

She seemed to have accepted it, but his instincts were prodding him, experience insisting that pieces that didn’t fit meant he was seeing some part of the solution wrongly.

He couldn’t question Granville. There was, however, one thing he could check, and despite her apparent acceptance, it might go some way to easing Penny’s mind. After fifteen minutes of mulling over his contacts and how best to approach them, he drew out fresh sheets of paper and settled to write two letters. One to his mother, who suitably adjured would deliver the other to her old friend Helena, Duchess of St. Ives.

If anyone had a hope of establishing the details of how Granville Selborne had died, Devil Cynster, now Duke of St. Ives, was that man. He’d led a cavalry troop in the relief of Hougoumont; he would know, or know how to learn of, the survivors, and how to elicit the pertinent facts.

Charles hadn’t known Granville well; for all he knew, Penny might be right. Yet the contradiction between running military and government secrets to the French, and then enlisting to fight them at Waterloo, was too big for him to swallow easily.

If they could discover exactly how Granville had died, it might shed some light, and perhaps relieve him of the premonition that in all he’d learned of the Selbornes’ scheme, he was misreading something. His memories of Penny’s father, too, didn’t fit well with coldly calculated long-term treason.

The heat of battle burned away all falsity; if Granville had gone to his end unswervingly pitted against the French, then no matter Penny’s stance, he would find it very hard to believe Granville, at least, had knowingly assisted the enemy.

He’d just set his seal to the packet of letters when Filchett tapped and entered.

“Lady Trescowthick’s carriage is coming up the drive, my lord. Are you at home?”

Charles raised his brows. “I suspect I better be.”

Rising, he went out to meet her ladyship, one of his mother’s bosom-bows, also his sister-in-law Annabelle’s mother-no surprise Lady T knew he was in residence. If she didn’t catch him now, she was perfectly capable of laying seige to his house, and with Penny about…

He paused in the front hall, then turned to issue an order to the footman who’d come hurrying from the kitchen. The footman bowed and retreated. Overhearing the exchange, Filchett cast him a surprised look. Ignoring it, Charles donned an easy smile and went forth to greet her ladyship.

A small, rotund, matronly lady, Amarantha Trescowthick was delighted to have him hand her down from her carriage and escort her up the steps.

“But I really can’t stay, my boy-oh!” She lifted a hand to her bosom. “It’s so hard to think of you as the earl. Such a tragedy-first Frederick, then poor dear James. I’ve no idea how your mother kept her sanity-so brave, she was. But at least you survived and are here to take up the reins. I never did think to be ‘my lording’ you, bent on every dangerous venture as you were.”

“Such are the vagaries of fate,” Charles murmured, well aware that as part of those vagaries, her ladyship’s daughter, while still styled countess, would not be the mother of the next earl.

“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked as he guided Lady T into the hall.

“I’m holding a small party tomorrow night-just the usual crowd, those of us who haven’t gone up to town-and I expressly wished to invite you. It’ll be an excellent opportunity for you to get to know us better. Why”-she fixed him with a stern look-“what with one thing and another, we’ve hardly set eyes on you since you returned from Waterloo.”

His most charming smile to the fore, he bowed. “Tomorrow night will suit admirably.”

Her ladyship blinked, then beamed, having, it seemed, been girded for battle. “Excellent! Well, then-”

She broke off, following the direction of his gaze as he glanced to the rear of the hall.

The baize-covered door swung open, and Penny came through. She saw him-he’d positioned Lady T so the stairs blocked Penny’s view of her.

Penny smiled. “There you are.” She came forward.

Lady T leaned across and peered around the stairs. “Penelope?”

For one fraught instant, the two ladies stared at each other, speculation clearly rife in both their minds. Then Penny’s smile, which hadn’t faltered in the least, widened; she continued smoothly toward them.

“Lady Trescowthick! How lovely to see you. I hope you haven’t looked for me at Wallingham-I’ve been here all morning consulting with Mrs. Slattery over a recipe for quince jelly Tante Marissa gave me-it just won’t come right.”

Charles inwardly grinned; she was really very good at necessary lies.

Lady T offered her cheek to be kissed; Penny had known her since childhood. “I know just how difficult that recipe is-my chef Anton swore it was impossible, and he’s French, after all! But indeed, it’s fortuitous I caught you here, my dear-I’d intended to call at Wallingham on my way home. I’m giving a party tomorrow evening, and I’ve just inveigled Charles here into attending, and you must come, too, of course.”

Penny kept her smile in place. “I’ll be delighted. It’s been rather quiet since Elaine and the girls went up to town.”

“Indeed! I’m sure I don’t know why-” Lady Trescowthick broke off, raising a hand in surrender. “But we won’t retread that argument. For whatever reasons you dislike the ballrooms, you’re here, and must come tomorrow night.” She turned to the door. “Now I must be on my way. Oh-and George bumped into your relative, Arbry, yesterday, and invited him, but of course George forgot to mention you, assuming goodness knows what.”

With Charles on her ladyship’s other side, Penny saw her out of the house and into her carriage.

Lady Trescowthick leaned out of the window. “Eight sharp-none of your London ways here, Charles-Lostwithiel!” She sighed. “Will I ever get used to calling you that?”

The question was clearly rhetorical; the carriage lurched into motion. Her ladyship waved and sat back. Charles stood beside Penny on the steps, hands raised in farewell.

“Quince jelly?” he murmured.

“Your mama’s recipe is justifiably famous. Why the devil did you send for me?”

“I sent the message before Lady T arrived.” Just before.

The carriage was gone; turning, he waved Penny into the house. “I wanted to discuss how best to achieve an adequate watch on Nicholas.”

She was mollified. “Have you thought of something?”

“Several somethings.” He walked beside her to his study door and held it open. “Indeed, Lady T confirmed some of my thoughts.”

“Oh?”

He followed her into the room, leaving her to settle in the chair before his desk while he rounded it and sank into the chair behind. Leaning back, he met her gaze. “You need to return to Wallingham.”

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 still 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.

Eventually, she said, “I didn’t accept any of the offers for my hand because none of the gentlemen who made them could give me what I wanted.”

She’d known what she wanted from marriage from an early age. When it came to the point, she hadn’t been prepared to accept second best.

He didn’t pressure her for more. The riddle of what she’d wanted had stumped all her suitors; she doubted he’d understand any more than they had. Not that it mattered.

They reached the far end of the ramparts; they both stopped to look back one last time at the view.

Her senses flared a second before she felt his hand touch her waist, felt it slide around, strong and assured, turning her, effortlessly drawing her to him.

She placed her hands on his chest, but they weren’t any use with no strength behind them. But she remembered a few tricks; she kept her head down so he couldn’t kiss her-he was tall enough that that would work.

His arms closed around her, not trapping but simply holding her; she heard, and felt, his low laugh.

He bent his head to the side; his breath wafted over her ear. “Penny…”

She tensed against the temptation to glance his way, to give him the opening, the opportunity he was angling for. Her fingers locked in his coat as his lips, then the tip of his tongue languidly caressed her ear.

Then he did the one thing she’d prayed he wouldn’t. He switched to French, the language of his heritage, the language of love, the language he’d used in such interludes years ago-God help her, it was a language she understood very well.

He’d taught her.

“Mon ange… ”

He’d called her that once, his angel. She hadn’t heard the words that followed for thirteen years, yet they still had the same effect; uttered in his deep, purring voice, they slid over her like a tangible caress, then sank deeper, warming her to her bones. Unraveling her resistance.

His hands moved on her back, easing her closer, settling her against him. She caught her breath, sharp and shallow, realizing just how close they were, how truly he’d spoken when he’d warned her how little stood between them physically; when it came to him, she had no defenses to speak of.

Lifting her head only a little, she glanced sideways and met his eyes. A clear dark blue in the daylight, they held no hint of wicked triumph, but an intentness she didn’t understand.

The altered angle was enough; he leaned closer, slowly. When she didn’t duck away, he touched his lips to hers. Brushed them gently, temptingly, persuasively.

Oh, he was good, so very good at this; she gave up the battle, pushed her arms up around his neck, and lifted her lips to his.

The invitation was all he’d been waiting for; he accepted, took charge. For several long minutes, she simply let go, let herself flow on his tide, let him steer the kiss where he would, and greedily gathered to her lonely heart all the pleasures he willingly shared.

There was danger here, yes, but it was a danger she would dare. They were standing on the ramparts in full view of any who might chance to look that way; no matter how wild and reckless he was, no matter he had not a sexual inhibition to his name, in this setting, a kiss was as far as he would go.

She stood in no danger of him taking things too far; the danger did not lie there.

Just where it lay, and in what form, she wasn’t entirely sure. When he finally lifted his head and, looking down at her from under his long lashes, drew in a deep breath, and she felt his hands at her sides, thumbs artfully cruising the sensitive sides of her breasts, and felt her inevitable reaction, felt how swollen and tight her breasts were, she suddenly wasn’t sure of anything.

He was studying her far too intently. He’d warned her and was packing her off home so he wouldn’t seduce her, yet…

She drew a tight breath, captured his eyes. “Charles, listen to me-we are not, ever, traveling that road again.”

Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed back. He let her go, but the intensity of purpose behind his dark eyes didn’t fade.

He held her gaze, caught her hand, raised it to his lips. Kissed. “Yes, we are. Just not as we did last time.”

His tone screamed arrogant self-assurance; she would have argued, but he turned and whistled for the dogs. They came bounding up. Her hand locked in his, he gestured to the house. “Come-we should go in.”

Lips setting, she consented, leaving her hand in his as they walked back to the house through the slanting rays of the slowly setting sun. No matter what he thought, what he believed, he and she together as they once had been was never going to happen again; he’d learn his error soon enough.