Chapter Three
A CREEK WOUND THROUGH the woodlands to the east of Miscelgate, leading to a copse of trees sheltering a small patch of meadow concealed from all but those who deliberately sought it. Penelope had discovered it yesterday, and it had quickly become her favourite place on the estate.
Sinking to a seat on the soft grass, she arranged her skirts around her before taking out her sketchpad and pencil. Birdsong filled the air, while dappled sunlight peeked through leaves that were beginning to turn, casting a mottled shadow over the blank page. The day was warm, though, and she’d not needed more than a pelisse and a bonnet upon leaving the house.
Wetting the nub of her pencil with her tongue, she made quick, decisive lines and, slowly, a face formed on the page. It lacked detail, but it was a man’s face she saw in her head, with a strong jaw and nose, a bold slash of brows, and a soft, sulky mouth. The brows were darker than the hair, and he filled the page with his large form, his eyes staring out at her.
She looked down at her sketchbook. One of the few things she’d been able to do when confined to her bedchamber was sketch, and she had book after book of all the places she hadn’t been able to go and all the people she hadn’t been able to see. When she’d finally begun to recover, she’d promised herself she would do and see all the things she’d sketched, and if it started with Veronica’s house party, then that was where it started.
Daphne had left Miscelgate two days ago, hugging Penelope fiercely and demanding she send word should she feel even the slightest bit poorly. Penelope had nodded and promised, and asked her sister not worry so much. Daphne had protested she didn’t worry, but her brow had creased and her eyes had been troubled, and Penelope had resolved to send her sister a letter every few days to reassure her she continued in good health.
A twig cracked. Jerking her head up, her heart began a manic rhythm as she spied the Earl Wainwright ambling toward her. He hadn’t seen her, hidden as she was by the trees and shrubs surrounding the meadow.
She watched his approach in furious debate with herself. Should she remain quiet? His pronouncement the first night she’d arrived had disconcerted her. She didn’t know what to make of him, so she’d simply avoided him. He’d seemed to realise she did so and kept his distance, but whenever she glanced his way—which she did with alarming frequency— he was always looking back at her. He’d never seemed embarrassed to be caught, his gaze intense until he saw she’d noticed. Then he’d grin, a bright sunshiny smile that stole her breath.
Now, however, if he continued in his direction, he would come across a mass of thick broken branches blocking the path and be forced him to double back. It would be churlish not to speak. “Lord Wainwright.”
Coming to a halt, his brow creased. “Hello? Is someone there?”
“Lady Penelope Masterton, my lord.” Standing, she smoothed her gown. “There is a clearing just beyond the brush.”
Pushing through, his expression brightened when he spied her. “Lady Penelope, hello. This is quite the delightful spot. How clever of you to discover it.”
She would not be charmed by him. “My lord, if you continue on this path, you would discover an obstacle: a felled tree it is impossible to pass. It may be you would wish to change your course, now you know such.”
He cast his gaze in the direction of the path and then those blue eyes returned to her, warm with his smile. “May I join you instead?”
She hesitated.
His smile faded. “Allow me to apologise again, Lady Penelope. Upon our meeting, I spoke out of turn and made you uncomfortable. It is unforgiveable, especially as our acquaintance is so brief. I would have spoken sooner, but it became obvious to me I had made my company undesirable to you.”
His level gaze was too heavy. Breaking it, she said, “I would not speak so harshly.”
“But it is true I have made you uncomfortable. I apologise. I should like it if we began our acquaintance again. I should like us to be friends.”
Is that what she wished? Though she had told herself to stop, her gaze found him time and again. He was always kind in his interactions, and it didn’t seem to her he flirted overmuch, or spread his attention indiscriminately. Indeed, he spent most of his time looking at...her. Firming her lips, she made her decision. “I should like that also.”
A triumphant grin lit his face though it quickly dimmed, as if he wanted to keep his reaction to himself. “Shall we sit?”
Nodding, she lowered herself to the ground, fussing over the arrangement of her skirts as he settled himself opposite her, long legs stretched before him.
“So, tell me,” he said. “What were you doing, skulking in the bushes?”
Jaw dropping, she could not form a sound. Then, as shock receded, amusement took its place. “I was not—am not skulking.”
With an exaggerated glance around them, he raised a brow. “Oh?”
Something prompted the devil in her. “I am not skulking. I am seated quite correctly, undertaking pastimes both ladylike and demure.” She held up her notebook. “Observe, the gentle art of portraiture. Taught at every finishing school in the country and abroad.”
“That is what they teach? I have always wondered.”
“Along with curtseying and how to pour a truly excellent cup of tea.”
“Not just an average cup of tea?”
“Oh no, only excellent ones. You cannot truly be finished until you host a tea party for six of your fellow students, and have each and every one of them declare it outstanding.”
His lips twitched.
“It is truly an achievement,” she continued. “I am surprised I have not been contacted by the king himself.”
He choked on a laugh. She grinned in return. She had not thought he would be so amusing. The way Daphne and Veronica described him, she’d thought he’d be all charm and no substance.
Leaning back on his elbows, he glanced about them. “My children would enjoy this.”
Children? Daphne had not spoken of children. “Your children?” she asked carefully.
“They would love to romp in this grass, and would no doubt cavort unashamedly in that water.”
Daphne had never said—Penelope was certain he had never been wed. Daphne would have mentioned it, and surely he would not have announced he intended to marry her if he already had a wife. Perhaps he was a widower? But again, he had never been wed.
Oh. Her cheeks heated. He did not mean... No. He would not speak so indelicately before her. Would he?
He peered at her. “Are you well, Lady Penelope? You look a little flushed.”
“I am fine.” She cleared her throat. “Children?”
“Yes, a whole litter of them. I am quite besotted.”
“Oh.” She fell silent a moment. “And their mother?”
“What of her?”
“Would she enjoy this as well?”
“She would be the first one in the water.”
Penelope frowned. “Pardon?”
“Although she is then quite perturbed her coat becomes wet, although she will always wait until she is by my side before shaking herself off.”
She was so confused. “I’m sorry. We are speaking of your children?”
“Yes. My dogs.”
“Dogs.” Her brain hurt. “Your children are dogs.”
“Yes, of course. I thought...did you not know I breed dogs?”
“No.”
His brow creased. “What did you think I was speaking of?”
“Actual human children?”
He glanced at the river. Then at the tree. Then back at her. “I can see how you would think that.”
An unwilling smile tugged at her. “You are infuriating. You realise this, yes?”
“I have been told so before,” he said gravely. “I have not been wed, though. Where do you believe I acquired human children?”
Her cheeks heated furiously. “Nowhere.”
Slowly, his brow cleared and a grin danced across his soft mouth. “Why, Lady Penelope,” he said mildly. “How very salacious of you.”
Her blush intensified. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did you think I spoke of by-blows? In front of a lady?”
“Well, to be fair, you just did,” she pointed out.
“After you insinuated.”
“I did no such thing.”
“I do believe you have a wicked turn of mind. How shocking.”
“Yes, you appear desperately shocked,” she said drily.
“I am. I am all covered in blushes. I cannot believe you have sullied my ears with your wild suppositions. Tell me, where did you develop such a degenerate mind?”
“Finishing school,” she said primly.
He shouted with laughter. She joined him, delighting in the ridiculousness of their conversation. As she sobered, a silly grin persisted, mirth still bubbling inside her.
“You look well like this,” he said softly. “Wreathed in sunlight and smiles.”
Cheeks burning, she ducked her head and discomfort made her shift her seat. He could not mean such things. He may be amusing but he was also a rogue. A tease. Her own sister had contemplated a flirtation with him before her marriage. He was not serious, and she would be a fool to think he was.
“And again I make you uncomfortable.” He made a sound of frustration. “I am not usually so awkward. Roxwaithe would laugh his head off.”
She seized on the opportunity to change the subject. “Roxwaithe?”
“Yes. Earl of. Known him since we were in leading strings. Old friend and such.”
“And a good one, I think.”
“Yes. He’s hied off to London, though, abandoning me here to my fate.”
“Oh?”
“He was supposed to be here, you see, save me from interminable boredom. Bugger decided instead to make his way from his estate to London.” He winced. “Pardon my language.”
“Oh no, don’t censor yourself. We said much worse things at finishing school. Why did your friend stay in London?”
“He said it was business, but I am certain it is because Lydia Torrence had some need of him.”
“Lydia Torrence?” Vaguely she recalled her, a girl around her sister Cynthia’s age all arms and legs and a mass of red-gold hair. “The Marquis of Demartine’s daughter?”
He nodded. “Have you noticed those two are practically joined at the hip?”
“No, but then I’ve been out of society for a time.” She frowned. “She is not yet out, though.”
“No. Some scandal, I suppose, that she is younger. Roxwaithe bloody thinks so. Man has some fool notion she is too young for him, and so all he feels for her is a brotherly sort of affection. I’d hate to see the brother who holds his sister in the regard Roxwaithe does Lydia.”
A smile tugged at her. “Are you gossiping with me, Lord Wainwright?”
“Maybe,” he hedged. “Why, are you perturbed I would speak of my friend in such a manner?”
“Not at all.” She paused. “Do you want to hear how Daphne decided Darborne was the one for her and set about convincing him of the same?”
“Please. Do tell.”
“It is a cyclical tale, full of much strife and hardship and some truly horrendous description,” she warned.
His lips twitched. “I believe I shall be able to bear it,” he said gravely.
“Well then, settle in, sir. It begins on a sunny day ten years past, much like this one...”