Nev missed the city. It was dark now, and in London he would have been out with his friends or spending the evening with Amy. The sounds of bustle and life and other people would have been outside the window. If he’d liked, he could have gone to a concert. He wanted music with a pain like homesickness. Even the songs of the nightingales, which he had loved as a boy, did not comfort him.
The only sounds of real, human life were the rustlings from the next room. Nev was ashamed to see Penelope; ashamed that he had brought her here to face a thousand impossible burdens he was totally unequipped to bear. And he was tired of making polite conversation with a stranger who was somehow also his wife and who had already witnessed some of the least proud moments of his life.
But anything was better than standing alone in his father’s room, looking into his father’s mirror, and wishing there were some of his father’s brandy in the decanter. He knocked at the connecting door, and at her soft invitation, he opened it.
He was unprepared for the wave of longing that went through him at the sight of her. She was sitting cross-legged in bed, a stack of heavy ledgers in front of her and a branch of candles on the night table. She looked up and smiled at him. Her night rail enveloped her almost completely, but she had rolled up the sleeves to reveal slender forearms and hands, and he could see one bare foot peeking out from under her crossed legs. Her hair was not yet braided for the night, but it was out of its daytime knot and tied back with a black satin ribbon. The end of the ribbon was almost, but not quite, disappearing into her night rail’s prim neckline. Nev swallowed. The month since he had last slept with a woman seemed like a very, very long time.
Damnation, she was his wife! Why did it seem so wrong to untie the ribbon, lay her back on the bed, and make love to her?
She looked so young, and he had seen her frowning worriedly in the brief instant before she looked up at him. A worry caused by the sorry state of his affairs.
As his silence stretched, her smile grew uncertain. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” he lied. “How are the books?”
“It’s too early to tell.” She turned back to the books and absentmindedly ran the end of her quill over her mouth in a way that might have been designed to drive Nev crazy, but in reality had nothing to do with him. “Can you look at something for me?”
He wasn’t sure what useful knowledge he could possibly impart, but at the moment he was willing to seize any excuse to cross the room and sit on the edge of her bed. “Yes?”
“There are several different handwritings in these. This one”-she pointed to an illegible scrawl-“is Captain Trelawney’s. There are two before that, though, and they alternate. It’s generally this one, but every so often, this one shows up.”
She pushed the ledger toward him. He looked where she pointed, at the two neat hands-and recognition slammed into him like a runaway horse. “The more frequent one is our late steward, Mr. Garrett’s,” he said slowly. “The other is his son Percy’s.” It was Percy’s bookkeeping hand, fine and precise as an accountant’s. His ordinary hand was larger, more slanting, and much, much harder to read.
Her brow wrinkled. “Percy Garrett. That name sounds familiar.”
He reached out and took the pen from her. She gave it up without a struggle, but when he began to tickle her ear with it, she shrieked and leaped sideways.
“Ticklish, are you?” He had intended to distract her and himself, and he succeeded. A few moments later he could think of nothing but Penelope, wriggling and giggling and showing intriguing flashes of limb as she struggled to escape. Finally she went on the attack, seizing his hand and trying to wrest the quill away. He leaned back, misjudged, and fell sideways onto the bed. Penelope overbalanced and sprawled on top of him.
They both stilled. Nev could plainly feel the soft give of her breasts and the curve of her hip through her night rail. She shifted, letting go of the pen. Nev didn’t dare move for fear she would feel his erection. Her hair had come loose; it brushed his face as she pushed herself upright. He sat up, and she edged away, laughing, holding up her hands as if she thought he would start tickling her again.
He put the pen down. It would be so easy to slide after her and kiss her. He knew she would let him. And then he would take off that oversized night rail, and then-then he would take her virginity. What if he hurt her? There would be no more tickling and giggling then. She would shy away when he touched her.
“Good night, Penelope.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he reached out and ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. It was smooth and warm and silky, and he almost gave in to his desire after all.
“Good night, Nev. ” She smiled shyly at him. He let go of her hair and went back to his own room.
Lying in bed, he listened to the scritch-scritch-scritch of Penelope’s quill. There was something comforting about it.
The following day Nev rode over to pay a call on Sir Jasper. He would have liked to bring Penelope, but he couldn’t think of an excuse, and it would have looked odd anyway. Sir Jasper had not bothered inviting a female relative to be his hostess since his wife’s death. If Nev had dragged Penelope along, Sir Jasper would have known at once that it was because Nev didn’t know what he was doing on his own.
As an adult Nev had seen Sir Jasper only rarely, in town; he had never been impressed by him. But here in Greygloss’s beautiful, well-kept entrance hall, after a ride through Greygloss’s prosperous home farm and rich, sweeping lawns, it was different. The baronet even looked different, the very picture of a country landowner in well-cut riding clothes, his dark hair graying at the temples. He wrung Nev ’s hand in a very friendly way, though, and Nev tried to feel heartened.
“I’m glad to see you,” Sir Jasper said. “There are a number of things I’ve been meaning to speak to you about. But it would be a shame to waste such a fine day indoors, and I daresay Lady Bedlow would like a fine quail for dinner.”
Nev had never done much shooting. Percy wasn’t legally eligible to hunt game, and leaving him behind, or worse yet asking him to beat the bushes like a servant, had been unthinkable. Wandering about with Sir Jasper killing birds and talking about the estate sounded unutterably dreary, but he plastered on a smile and agreed.
It turned out that Sir Jasper did, in fact, have a number of things he’d been meaning to speak to Nev about: the insidiousness of poachers, the importance of a firm hand, various people in the district who were not to be trusted, and details of crop rotations and planting potatoes and drainage that Nev knew he would have forgotten by the afternoon. It didn’t help Nev ’s mood that, unpracticed with the long fowling pieces, he failed to shoot a single bird.
“Have you thought about becoming a justice of the peace?” The baronet seemed to be slowing down after an hour of solid advice. “There are a number of offenses that cannot be tried by one magistrate sitting alone, and it would be invaluable to have two in the district. Your father was considering it, but alas he never found the time before his death…”
Nev doubted that his father had seriously been considering anything which sounded like so very much work. He didn’t relish the idea himself. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he said honestly. “But I will think about it now.”
Sir Jasper looked at his face and laughed. “But enough of business! Is your family returning to the neighborhood soon?”
“Any day now.”
Sir Jasper smiled. “Wonderful. It will be a pleasure to see your charming mother again-and of course Lady Louisa.” He paused meaningfully.
Nev ’s refusal of Sir Jasper’s suit hung awkwardly in the air between them. Trying to think what to say, Nev tramped ahead, searching the underbrush for signs of movement.
“Stop! For the love of God, stop at once!”
Nev froze, and saw the tripwire two inches from his thigh.
Sir Jasper pounded up. “Oh, thank God. I thought I warned you about the spring guns in this area.”
He had, and Nev felt the worst sort of fool. If he hadn’t stopped in time-if he had been shot-what would have become of his family? Of Loweston? Of Penelope?
Penelope would probably be better off as a widow. A hundred thousand pounds, no one to answer to, no Loweston to worry about. He shoved that thought aside.
If he had accepted Sir Jasper’s offer to buy, the baronet might have put up spring guns at Loweston. The idea repulsed Nev more than he had expected.
At the end of the day, he still hadn’t managed to shoot anything. Sir Jasper gave him two quails anyway. Nev had to struggle to accept the birds gracefully.
Nev and Penelope were eating breakfast. At least, it had started out that way. Somewhere along the line, it had shifted into Nev watching Penelope eat breakfast. She ate a good deal, but very neatly. She cut everything up into ladylike bites, chewed slowly, and washed it all down with ladylike sips of tea. It was refined, sensible, and a little too careful, like everything about her. Just now she was spreading a thin layer of jam on her toast, with an adorable frown of concentration.
“Are you going to cut your toast into tiny pieces too?” he teased.
She flushed. “Of course not. Whoever heard of cutting up toast?”
“I just wondered.”
She looked away. “When my parents sent me to finishing school, the girls made fun of me for how I ate. I suppose I overcompensated.”
Nev felt guilty suddenly, and angry. “Wretched cats. You ought to have eaten with your elbows on the table and your fingers in the food. That would have shown them.”
“Perhaps, but it wouldn’t have been very attractive.”
“Who cares?”
“I rather think you would. You’ll have to sit across the breakfast table from me for the rest of your life.”
A life sentence. Penelope only, always, forever. Nev thought of all the times he had eaten breakfast with Amy. They would rise late and make their way to the breakfast room, and Amy’s cook would make them buttered eggs and crumpets. Amy hadn’t had good table manners-she ate quickly and used her fingers sometimes. But Nev had never minded; it just meant he could eat as messily as he wanted too. They would always laugh and talk and read each other things from the morning paper, and sometimes he would feed her strawberries. Of course, he and Amy would have just risen from a night of lovemaking. He and Penelope hadn’t even kissed since his proposal.
Penelope began to take a bite of her toast, then pushed it away, with a blush and a little laugh. “I can’t eat it now, you’ve made me embarrassed!”
Nev wondered if he would ever know the right thing to say again.
“I suppose I’ll have more tea.” She poured herself a cup and reached for the jar of honey. But as she opened it, she glanced up at Nev. She fumbled with the spoon, and honey flew all over her fingers.
Nev stared at the sticky molten gold sliding down his wife’s ink-stained fingers.
Penelope saw his fixed look and misinterpreted it. “Don’t look at me like that! I know I’m hopeless!”
“That’s not it,” Nev said with utmost sincerity. “That…looks like it tastes good.”
“Well, it’s wasted now. Unless you want to lick it off?” She spoke sarcastically, as if she were proposing an obviously implausible alternative.
“Of course I want to lick it off. But I said I wouldn’t touch you till we knew each other better, and-”
Penelope looked at him in perplexity, then laughed. “A few weeks of celibacy, and this is what men descend to!”
“It’s not that,” Nev told her with sudden conviction. “It’s you. You’re driving me mad. Just watching you eat breakfast is enough to make me want to-”
“Really?” A mischievous light came into Penelope’s eyes, and she raised her honey-spattered fingers to her mouth. She sucked lightly on her index finger, then withdrew it, letting her mouth drag open. Then she licked a drop of honey off her lip.
She was teasing him, he realized-to her, this was no different than the tickling or the fighting over that absurd list. It was only a game. She felt nothing.
Nev ’s eyes narrowed. He was fairly sure he could do something about that.
He rose from his seat and bent over her, one hand flat on the table. Grasping her wrist, he pulled her honeyed hand toward him; she only resisted for a moment. He took the same finger into his mouth and sucked it gently. Penelope’s eyes widened. He slowly pulled the finger in and out of his mouth and watched her eyes glaze over. He moved on to the next finger, and the next. Then he kissed her.
She gave a startled gasp and let him. He began gently, coaxingly, and she melted like honey, her mouth soft and pliant beneath his. He nipped at her lower lip, and when he teased with his tongue her mouth opened under his. She did not know what to do, that was clear, but she followed his lead willingly enough, sending her tongue forth to touch his lightly.
Nev was disarmed by the utter honesty of her response. She had never done this before; she wasn’t letting him kiss her because she wanted anything from him. She was his, his to teach. She had never known passion, he was sure of it. Nev could scarcely wait to show it to her.
His hand still around her wrist, he drew her out of her seat and set her on the edge of the table, the teapot and the rolls forgotten beside her. When he stepped between her legs, she murmured a little in satisfaction, and he felt it everywhere.
He pulled her closer, pressing his erection against her heat. There were too damn many layers of black fabric in the way, but he ran his hands up along the bones of her corset and closed one hand over her breast. She sighed and relaxed as though she had been waiting for it-but only for a moment. When he brushed a thumb over her nipple, she tensed like a bowstring. He drew back to watch her. She kept her eyes closed, but her whole body was waiting-it was as if she were listening very carefully for the opening strains of an overture. Her face was flushed, and her hair was coming down, and she seemed aware of nothing but his hands. He drew a finger across her nipple again, watching, mesmerized, as her breath came faster. She made no sound-it was as if she did not know how to react to pleasure. He squeezed her breast, and she shifted restlessly. Nev groaned in pleasure and frustration at the friction against his cock.
She shivered at the sound, pressing up against him. Nev pushed back, and she opened her thighs wider and took a shuddering breath-
“I’m just up from town, Nate. I told Hathick there was no need to announce me, I-oh!”
He turned around, sure this was all a horrid dream, but it wasn’t. His mother was standing there, immaculate, her golden hair piled on her head.
He stepped frantically in front of Penelope. “God damn it, Mother, do you never knock?”
“Nate! Such language! You ought to know better how to behave to a lady! I saw no need to knock. I am sure it never occurred to me that you would be mauling your wife at breakfast as if she were a common trollop.” His mother sniffed, and for one furious, unfilial moment Nev would have liked to break her neck.
Penelope was tugging her skirts into place, bright red all over. Her eyes were open and full of horror.
“Go and wait in the parlor, Mother. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“You’re going to make your mother wait in the parlor?” Lady Bedlow asked. “I’ve had nothing to eat, and-”
“Go,” Nev said, with a firmness that surprised him. It surprised him even more when his mother actually left the room in a huff.
He turned. Penelope had mostly righted her clothes, and her hair was back in place, but she looked utterly wretched. His mother was right; he had no notion of how to behave to a lady. He had let his desire overcome what little sense he had, and he had exposed Penelope to ridicule. Of course one could not treat one’s wife as one might treat one’s mistress. No matter how enticing she was or how much honey she spilled on her fingers.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been more careful.”
She shook her head. “I ought not to have allowed it, I know that very well. I suppose she is right. I am common at heart. I must be.”
“You are uncommon generous. She shouldn’t have said that. I really am sorry-this hasn’t been a good time for her.” Lady Bedlow had never stood up well to strain. When seven-year-old Nev had broken his nose falling out of a tree and, frightened by the amount of blood, had gone crying to his mother, she’d fainted dead away. You couldn’t blame her; she couldn’t help it. It had been Lord Bedlow who had stanched the bleeding and called the doctor, he remembered; and who had told him, not unkindly, that a gentleman didn’t cry, no matter how bad the pain. For a moment he missed his father.
Penelope’s eyes filled with sympathy. Thinking of someone else seemed to ease her discomfort. She smoothed her skirts, straightened, looked competent and reassuring again. Penelope, Nev thought, was naturally responsible. “Of course it hasn’t, poor lady. I promise you, I shan’t regard it in the least. Go on.” She smiled. “And please, tell her anything she wishes to take to the Dower House is hers.”
“You’re too good to me,” Nev said, and meant it.
She looked down and blushed. She was so easy to please. Nev wished his mother at Jericho.
“You can’t talk to Penelope that way, Mama,” he said.
“Oh, I see how it is. Just because she is willing to allow you liberties that any self-respecting young lady would scorn, you’ll take her side against your own mother!”
“If being kissed by her husband is a liberty any self-respecting young lady would scorn, I am glad Penelope is a Cit!”
“At the breakfast table, Nate? Where do you get it from? Your father would never have dreamed of doing such a thing!”
He would never have dreamed of doing such a thing with you, Nev thought. “Penelope has done us all a very great favor, Mama. I wish you could be civil to her.”
“Oh, civil I shall certainly be-I would not dream of stooping to her level with vulgar scenes and catty remarks,” Lady Bedlow said, with a sort of unhealthy agitation. “But you cannot expect me to be grateful that she is lording it over me, in my home, turning my son against me, using my breakfast parlor as if it were a brothel-” Her face was white. Nev looked closer and saw the dark circles under her eyes.
“Come here, Mama,” he said gently, and held out an arm.
She flew to him, with a muffled, “Oh, Nate! It’s been so dreadful-”
He stroked her hair. “I know, Mama. I know you didn’t mean it.” And for the moment he believed it.