She did not want him near her. Did not want to be reminded that she, too, had been fooled. “We may be feigning a romance for them, but I am not them. Don’t touch me again. Not if it’s not for their benefit.”
I don’t think I can bear it.
He lifted both hands high, proof that he heard the request. Heeded it.
She turned away before she said anything else. Before she betrayed her feelings.
“Penelope.” He called to her as she stepped into the dim hallway. She stopped, a flicker of hope deep in her, hope that he might apologize. That he might tell her that she was wrong. That he actually did care for her. That he did want her. “This is the most difficult part—with the ladies—you understand?”
False hope.
He meant that she would have to keep up their pretense. That the women would question her far more carefully in private than they had in public.
It would be a challenge.
But that he would call it the most difficult portion of the evening was almost laughable, for surely she had just experienced the most difficult portion of the evening.
“I shall manage the ladies, my lord, as we agreed. By the end of the evening, they shall be certain that you and I are very much in love, and my sisters will be on their way to having a sound season.” She steeled her voice. “But you would do well to remember that you promised me a tour of your club, which I now see was not generosity but payment for my part in your ruse.”
He stiffened. “So I did.”
She nodded once, firmly. “When?”
“We’ll see.”
Her gaze narrowed at the words, the universal synonym for no. “Yes, I suppose we shall.”
She turned her back and returned to the ladies’ salon, head high, shoulders straight as she turned the handle and pushed the door open, rejoining the women.
Temper fraying, vowing to remain unmoved.
Chapter Twelve
Dear M—
Tommy was home for Michaelmas and we celebrated in grand style, even though we were sorely lacking our own Michael. Nevertheless, we soldiered on, picked the lingering blackberries and ate them until we were ill, as per tradition. Our teeth turned thoroughly troublingly greyish blue in the process—you would have been proud.
Perhaps we’ll see you for Christmas this year? The St. Stephen’s feast in Coldharbour is becoming a fine fête indeed.
We are all thinking of you, and miss you very much.
Always—P
Needham Manor, September 1818
No reply
She’d asked him not to touch her, and he granted the request.
Taken it a step further.
He’d left her completely alone.
He’d left her alone that night, when he’d returned her to Hell House and promptly left, without a word, headed to wherever it was that husbands went without their wives.
And again the next night as she ate her supper in the enormous, empty dining room under the watchful eyes of several mismatched, too-young footmen. She was getting used to them, at least, and was quite proud of herself for not blushing through the entire meal.
And again the night after, while she stood at the window of her bedchamber like a ninny, pulled in the direction of his carriage as though attached with a string as she watched it trundle away. As though, if she watched long enough, he would return.
And he would give her the marriage she wanted.
“No more windows,” she vowed, turning away from the cold dark street and heading across the room to submerge her hands in the washbasin, watching the cool water pale and distort her hands beneath the surface. “No more windows,” she repeated, quietly, when she heard a carriage pull to a stop outside the town house, ignoring the increased beat of her heart and the pull of the glass.
Instead, she dried her hands with impressive calm and moved to the door that adjoined her husband’s bedchamber to her own, pressing her ear to the cool wood and listening for his arrival.
After long minutes that provided her with nothing but a rather irritating crick in her neck, Penelope’s curiosity got the best of her, and she headed for the door to her bedchamber to sneak into the hallway and see if her husband had indeed, returned home.
She cracked the door—less than an inch—to look into the hallway.
And came face to face with Mrs. Worth.
She gave a little start and slammed the door shut, heart pounding, before she realized that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of her husband’s unsettling housekeeper.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door with a wide smile. “Mrs. Worth, you startled me.”
The housekeeper dipped her head. “You have a visitor.”
Penelope’s brows snapped together. “A visitor?” It was past eleven o’clock.
The housekeeper extended a card. “He says it’s very important.”
He.
Penelope took the card.
Tommy.
Happiness thrummed through her. He was the first person to visit her here in this large, empty house—not even her mother had come, instead sending word that she would visit once the newly wedded bloom was off the rose.
Little did her mother know that such bloom had never even hinted at the rose.
But Tommy was her friend. And friends visited. She was unable to keep the smile from Mrs. Worth. “I shall be right down. Give him tea. Or . . . wine. Or . . . scotch.” She shook her head. “Whatever it is that people drink at this hour.”
She closed the door and righted her appearance before throwing herself down the stairs and into the front receiving room, where he stood at a large marble fireplace, dwarfed by the extravagant room. “Tommy!” she called, moving directly to him, thrilled to see him. “What are you doing here?”