A Lady of His Own bc-3 Read online

  She smiled. “Nicholas doesn’t know that.”

  He considered. “Not a bad idea. What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Well, obviously, staying with you, we’ve been chatting over the breakfast cups and, keen to help with your mission, I’ve volunteered a set of detailed maps Papa had in his library. We’ve come to fetch them.”

  “Excellent.” He meant it; he could see just how to make the scene play out to put, not just the wind but a definitely chilly gale, up Nicholas.

  Penny nodded. “Let’s go.” She spun on her heel.

  “Wait.” When she turned back, he simply said, “Cobwebs.”

  She blinked, then her gaze trailed over him. “Oh—I didn’t notice.”

  Stepping nearer, she reached up and plucked cobwebby lace from his shoulder, then, scanning up and down, she circled him. He felt her fingers plucking here and there. He waited patiently until she’d worked her way back to stand before him, close, face-to-face, but not focusing on his eyes.

  She picked cobwebby bits from the hair framing his face, then rapidly scanned his features. “There. You’re done.”

  “Now for you.”

  Her eyes flashed up to his. Widened. “If you find a spider anywhere on me, I’ll never follow you anywhere again.”

  He laughed. Plucked a long tendril of soft gray from above her left ear. Briefly met her eyes. “If I find one, I won’t tell you.” He started to circle her, fingers lightly touching, brushing to free the fine wisps from the velvet of her riding habit. “What is it about spiders and females anyway? They’re only tiny insects much smaller than you.”

  “They have eight legs.”

  An unarguable fact. He debated asking the obvious, but doubted he’d learn anything. Removing the clinging webs from her skirts took time; she stood silent and still while he bent to the task.

  Penny concentrated on breathing, on trying to ignore the way heat seemed to flare wherever he touched. It was nonsense; she couldn’t truly feel his fingers through the layers of velvet and linen, just the fleeting pressure, yet…every time his fingertips brushed, she felt it to her bones.

  Witless, wanton nonsense. Even if he did still desire her, that was one road she definitely wasn’t following him down. The price would be high, far too high for her to contemplate. Her misguided senses would just have to grow inured. Deadened.

  His fingers brushed her shoulder, once, twice. Sensation streaked down her arm, across her chest. Tightened her already tight lungs.

  Clearly her senses weren’t deadened yet.

  She glanced at him, watched him peel a long trailing web down off her shoulder. And farther, off the velvet covering the side of her breast.

  The thought of him touching, brushing there, flashed into her mind. She quivered, felt her flesh react—closed her eyes and prayed he’d put it down to her fear of spiders.

  When she lifted her lids again, he’d circled to face her; she could read nothing beyond concentration in his face as he picked fine wisps from lower on her jacket, then crouched, scanning her skirts.

  At last, he rose. She exhaled in relief—then sucked in a breath as his gaze fixed on her face.

  “Hold still.”

  She did, frozen as he raised one hand to the side of her face, fingers lightly tracing as he teased a thread of cobweb from the fine hair at her temple. Then his eyes tracked across her face. With his other hand, he delicately untangled a last fine strand from beside her ear.

  His eyes locked with hers. Midnight blue, his gaze was sharp, sure. His hands were still raised; if he moved both an inch inward, he’d be cradling her face.

  After a moment, he murmured, “That’s it, for now.”

  Lowering his hands, he stepped back.

  She breathed in, quickly turning away to conceal how desperate she was for air. “If we go around to the garden door, it’ll look like we’ve just arrived.” She started off as she spoke, embarrassed that after all these years, she still couldn’t control her reaction to him, her wayward senses.

  He prowled beside her, blessedly silent.

  Her stage setting proved inspired; as they walked into the front hall from the direction of the stables, Nicholas came down the stairs.

  She looked up. “Good morning, Nicholas.”

  “Penelope.” Gaining the hall, he nodded in greeting, his gaze shifting immediately to Charles.

  Who smiled. “Good morning, Arbry.”

  “Lostwithiel.”

  A pregnant pause.

  “I’ve offered Charles the use of Papa’s maps,” she cheerily announced—anything to bring their masculine eyeing contest to an end. “We’ve just come to fetch them. They’re in the library—we won’t disturb you.”

  Charles hid a grin at her phrasing; she’d already disturbed Nicholas greatly, no matter he concealed it well.

  “Maps?” Nicholas hesitated, then asked, “What sort of maps?”

  “Of the area.” Turning, Penny led the way to the library.

  As Charles had hoped, Nicholas followed.

  Flinging the double doors of the library wide, Penny sailed through. “Papa had a wonderfully detailed set showing every little stream and inlet all along this stretch of coast. Invaluable if one wishes to scout the area thoroughly.”

  She made for a bookcase at the end of the long room. “They were somewhere around here, I believe.”

  Nicholas watched as she crouched, studying the large folios housed on the bottommost shelf. Hanging back, Charles studied his face; Nicholas was reasonably skilled in hiding his thoughts, but rather less adept at hiding his reactions. His pale features, clean-cut and patrician, remained studiously expressionless, yet his eyes, and his hands, were more revealing.

  His fingers plucked restlessly at his watch chain as, a frown in his eyes, he tried to decide what to do.

  In the end, he glanced at Charles. “I take it there’s evidence the smugglers in this area were involved in passing secrets?”

  Charles smiled one of his predatory smiles. “Finding the evidence is what I’ve been sent here to do, so we can follow it back to the traitor involved.”

  Was it his imagination, or did Nicholas’s pale face grow a touch paler?

  Looking down, Nicholas frowned. “If there’s no real evidence…well, isn’t it likely you’re simply chasing hares?”

  His grin grew intent. “Whitehall expects its minions to be thorough.” He glanced at one of the two six-foot-long display cases flanking the library’s central carpet. “If after I’ve shaken every tree and turned every stone, no substantiating evidence is forthcoming, then doubtless it’ll be concluded that there was no truth in the information received.”

  “Here they are.” Penny pulled a thick folio from the shelf; cradling it in her arms, she rose and went to the desk.

  Laying the heavy tome down, she opened it. Nicholas went to look; Charles followed.

  “See?” With one finger, Penny traced the fine lines of the highly detailed hand-drawn maps. “These show every little inlet along the estuary and the nearby coast.” She looked up at him, transparently delighted at having found such a valuable tool to aid him. “With these, you can be certain you’re not missing any of the landing places.”

  “Excellent.” Reaching out, he turned the book his way, then shut it and picked it up. “Thank you—these will indeed help enormously.”

  Nicholas’s lips had set in a thin line; Charles could easily imagine his chagrin. For a nonlocal seeking to learn about the local smugglers, the maps would be a godsend. Nicholas had had access to them, but hadn’t known. He now had to watch as Charles, of all people, tucked the tome under his arm.

  Looking at Penny, with his head he indicated the display case he’d glanced at earlier. “Your father’s collection seems just the same as I remember it as a child. I’m surprised he never added to it.”

  Penny met his eyes briefly, played to his lead. “I’m not sure why he stopped collecting.” Rounding the desk, she glanced at both cases. “But you
’re right—it’s been, well, decades since he last bought a new one.”

  Sweeping up to one case, she trailed her fingers across the glass, studying the pillboxes laid neatly on white satin with small cards engraved in her father’s precise hand describing each one.

  Charles came up beside her. “Perhaps he grew bored with pillboxes.”

  Nicholas was watching, listening to every word, every inflection, his intensely focused attention the equivalent of a red flag waving in Charles’s face. Any notion Nicholas wasn’t deeply involved in whatever scheme had been operating was untenable. He had been involved, and was now intent on ensuring Charles did not find the evidence he was seeking.

  “Perhaps.” Penny shrugged, then turned to Nicholas. “Now we’ve found the maps, we won’t disturb you further, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas blinked, then seemed to shake himself. “Why—ah, surely you’ll stay for tea. Take some refreshment?”

  “No, no!” Penny waved aside the invitation. “Thank you, but no. By the time we ride back to the Abbey it’ll be time for luncheon.”

  She glanced at Charles, a question in her eyes. He smiled approvingly, adding just a hint of wicked anticipation—enough, he hoped, to prick Nicholas.

  From the way Nicholas’s jaw set, he succeeded.

  Nicholas rather stiffly took his leave of them. Together, they left the house.

  It was indeed time for luncheon when they clattered back into the Abbey stable yard. Charles’s grooms came running. Penny slid from her saddle without waiting to be lifted down; handing the reins to a groom, she joined Charles, and they started across the gently rising lawn toward the house.

  “That went well!” Head up, she savored the exhilaration still singing through her veins. They hadn’t talked on their journey home, just exchanged triumphant smiles, and ridden, laughing, before the wind.

  “We’ve certainly given Nicholas a few things to think about.” The book of maps under his arm, Charles paced beside her.

  “He was put out about the maps—and your questions about the pillboxes were inspired. He was hanging on every word.”

  “With luck, he’ll accept that you—and thus I—have no knowledge of the pillboxes hidden in the priest hole.”

  She frowned. “Why didn’t you want him knowing we knew?”

  “Because they’re the proof—the irrefutable evidence—that some presently inexplicable but clandestine relationship has existed between the French and your family’s menfolk for decades. I’d rather they remained where they are, accessible should we need them.”

  She glanced at him. “Decades?”

  He met her eyes, baldly reiterated, “Decades. You counted the boxes—how many were there?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “If we assume every piece of information was paid for with a pillbox, and I checked—most are the work of French jewelers—then given the rate at which sufficiently valuable information would crop up to be passed, it would take something like thirty years to amass sixty-four boxes.”

  “Oh.” The knowledge cast a pall on the day, leaving her feeling as if clouds had covered the sun.

  “Do you still want to help me?”

  She looked up to see Charles regarding her, understanding very clear in his midnight eyes. She stared into them for a moment, then looked ahead. “Yes. I have to.”

  She didn’t need to explain. He nodded, and they walked on, passing beneath the spreading branches of the huge oaks bordering the south lawn, the side door their goal.

  Despite the confirmation that it wasn’t only Granville but her father, too, who’d been involved in the traitorous scheme, she still felt curiously buoyed by their success, minor though it had been.

  That morning, for the first time in she couldn’t remember when, she’d shared fears and concerns with someone she trusted, someone who understood. Just being able to air such thoughts had been a catharsis in itself.

  As for her specific concern, while the problem hadn’t gone away, its weight had lessened, lifted in part from her shoulders—truly shared. She now felt immeasurably more confident that whatever the truth was, Elaine, her half sisters, and she would be safe. Shielded as far as it was possible to be.

  Whatever was going on would be properly and appropriately dealt with; actively contributing to that end would help soothe her lacerated family pride.

  Forty hours before, she’d been lost and uncertain; now she felt confident, all because she’d joined forces with Charles.

  She glanced at him.

  He caught her gaze. Arched a brow. “What?”

  She was tempted to look away; instead, she held his gaze as she said, “It seems I made the right choice in confiding in you.”

  Three heartbeats passed; he didn’t release her gaze.

  Then he caught her hand, halted, waited until she did the same, then smoothly drew her to him.

  All the way to him. He bent his head and kissed her.

  She hadn’t been expecting it—her lungs locked, her senses froze, her very heart seemed to stop…but he’d kissed her before. Even starved of breath and with her senses reeling, she recognized the feel of his lips against hers.

  Clung to the sensation. Found memories pouring in. Found reassurance in the familiar, no matter that it had been years.

  She found herself drifting on a familiar tide, one of subtle warmth, simple pleasure, gentle waves of delight.

  Then…something changed.

  He shifted closer, angled his head, and what had started as a simple exchange became more—much more. More complex, more complicated, infinitely more absorbing. His lips moved on hers, compelling, hungry but not ravenous, not frightening in any way. He supped, sipped, as if needing to explore her lips again, needing to taste them. He’d always excelled at kissing, but now…it seemed as if he felt the leaping of her heart, felt and understood the sudden upwelling of yearning that, entirely unbidden, totally against her will, filled her soul.

  She kissed him back—raised her free hand to his shoulder and pressed her lips to his. She hadn’t meant to, yet was incapable of denying not him but herself. It had been a long time since she’d kissed any man, but it wasn’t only that that impelled her to want and take what he offered.

  Just a kiss, or so it seemed. No reason not to part her lips and invite him in, as she had so long ago…

  He accepted, not as if he took her offer for granted, yet not as if he’d forgotten their past either. The languid surge of his tongue against hers made her bones melt. What followed demonstrated beyond all doubt that he’d learned volumes in the years since they’d last indulged, acquired skills and talents far beyond those he’d had.

  Lips, tongues, and hot, wet pleasure; her starved senses whirled, giddily luxuriating as she savored the long-forgotten delight. Let him and the moment be reason enough.

  When he lifted his head with a reluctance she knew wasn’t feigned—a reluctance echoed in her veins—she was breathless, her heart thudding in her throat, one hand still locked in his, the other fisted in his lapel as she leaned close to boneless against him.

  Just a kiss, and he could still reduce her to that nearly swooning state where nothing in the world seemed to matter—just them, and what they made each other feel.

  She drew a shaky breath, blinked up at him. “Why did you do that?”

  His midnight gaze roamed her face, then settled on her eyes. He studied them before replying, “Because I wanted to. Because I’ve been wanting to since the first moment I saw you again.”

  She searched his eyes; he wasn’t lying, prevaricating, or evading. His simple words were the simple truth.

  Clearing her throat, she eased back. Conscious of the whirlpool of potent sensuality that lurked beneath his surface, and hers, too. That had always been her problem with him; the desire that burned so readily between them had never been his alone. She drew in another breath, felt her wits steady. “That wasn’t very wise.”

  His shoulders lifted in a Gallic shrug. He let her step away,
but retained his hold on her hand; he caught her gaze. “When were we ever wise?”

  A valid point, one she wasn’t about to attempt to answer.

  When she said nothing more, he turned her, and they walked on to the house, her father’s book of maps under his arm, her hand still locked in his.

  CHAPTER 5

  IMMEDIATELY AFTER LUNCH WAS OVER, CHARLES INVOKED the specter of estate business and took refuge in his study. He was the one who now needed time to think.

  His steward, Matthews, had left various documents prominently displayed on his desk; he forced himself to attend to the most urgent, but left all the rest. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the volume of maps he’d carried in. Abruptly, he swiveled the chair so its back was to the desk, and he was facing the window and the undemanding view.

  He had to find his mental footing, determine where he was and where he wanted to be—and then work out how to get there. Not, as he’d supposed, solely in terms of his investigation, but, it now seemed, with his personal quest, too.

  He’d arrived at the Abbey three days ago with two goals before him, both needing to be urgently addressed—one professional goal, his investigation, and his personal goal, his search for a wife. It had been unsettling to discover that his way forward with both involved Penny.

  Of all the potential ladies in the ton, he hadn’t considered her, because he hadn’t believed she would consider him. He’d always known that she could be his wife, that she could fill all aspects of the position without effort—if she would. He hadn’t imagined after the way they’d parted thirteen years ago that she might, but after kissing her an hour ago, he now knew beyond question that the possibility was there, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance of turning that possibility into reality.

  Possibility. He wouldn’t, yet, rate it as more. From the moment he’d stepped close to her in the upstairs corridor at midnight, he’d been aware of her response to him, that it was as it had been all those years ago—intense, immediate, always there. Over the past days, he’d known every time her senses had flared; he wasn’t sure she knew how acutely his senses spiked at her reaction, how sensually attuned to her he was.