Chapter Four
OVER THE RIM OF his wine glass, Wainwright watched Penelope. A small smile danced about her luscious mouth as she listened to the conversation between the man seated beside her and the woman across the table. Slim fingers held a fork loosely as she pushed a pea around her plate, her forefinger rubbing the silver, and he had never been so jealous of flatware in his life.
Friends. Christ. Shoot him now. What had possessed him to claim friendship was all he wanted? Oh, he was attempting to put her at ease, to correct the horrendous blunder he’d made upon their introduction, but he’d boxed himself right into a corner with that one.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want her friendship. Of course he wanted her friendship. It was just he also wanted to kiss her until they were both stupid from it, wanted to know the sounds she made while she squirmed in his lap, wanted to know how soft her skin would feel beneath his touch. He wanted to fall asleep each night with her in his arms, and when he woke, he wanted her to be the first thing he saw, but no. He had to say they should be friends.
He shouldn’t complain too much, he supposed. They met every morning in the secret meadow she’d found and spent hours at a time together. She told him stories of her life, and he told of his, and they discussed everything and anything, from the state of affairs in parliament to whether the trim on Miss Payton’s gown was hideous or merely disconcerting. Every now and then, he could swear she looked at him with heat in her eyes, but it always disappeared before he could look twice. So he was stuck in this limbo, desperately wanting more but unable to do so. Because he had insisted they be friends.
Marvelling at his own stupidity, he took a sip of wine.
“Do you intend to dance tonight, my lord?” Seated beside him, Miss Beckett had been trying to engage his attention the entire meal, but he had been wholly consumed by Penelope. It really was quite rude of him.
Determining to make an effort, he affixed a smile on his face. “Perhaps. I have not decided.”
“Oh, but you must dance! Lady Stayne has brought in the most delicious players all the way from London, and we will all be obliged to be merry.”
Penelope still listened to the conversation happening around her, but she had not joined it. He frowned. Why not?
“Lord Wainwright?”
“What?”
Miss Beckett’s eyes widened.
Cursing himself, he adopted his most charming smile. “I beg your pardon, Miss Beckett. That was unaccountably rude. You were saying?”
Miss Beckett looked at him through her lashes. “The dancing. I do enjoy it so. I should love to take the floor this evening,” she said suggestively, pink lips parting.
Bloody hell, he knew the next step in this play. He was supposed to compliment her outrageously and then beg to be graced with a dance. She would demure and pretend reluctance while a flirtatious glance would convey she was anything but. Then, after they’d danced, they might find a secluded spot to indulge in a pleasant and chaste kiss, perhaps even a light caress. It was something he’d undertaken with numerous ladies, but he found he could not force himself to take the next step.
Her smile dimmed.
Again, he cursed himself. He was more skilful than this. He could refuse her without hurting her feelings. “There is dancing planned? How delightful. I thought it a musicale only.”
“I am quite sure it is dancing and a musicale both.”
“Ah, I stand corrected. Thank you, Miss Beckett. Wit and beauty, a fine combination.”
Her cheeks reddened.
“I am devastated I will not be able to attend you, as I am already promised,” he continued as smoothly as he could. “Though I reserve the right to claim a dance at a later time.”
“How delightful an offer. I accept.” She fluttered her lashes.
Smiling broadly, his gaze drifted again to Penelope. At the same moment, she looked up. Blue eyes met his, and they were wide and warm, and he wanted to drown in them.
The table fell silent. Blinking, he dragged himself from Penelope to find Veronica had stood, a dazzling smile on her face. “Dear ones, we are forgoing cigars and tea this evening, as we have the most delightful surprise. Please, won’t everyone make their way to the music room as we will be entertained by—” She paused dramatically. “Thomas Ghosh on the violin and the divine Catherine Billings!”
Those in attendance gasped in delight. Wainwright lifted his brows. The opera singer was much in demand, and she had rather famously declared she would not even contemplate leaving London for less than five thousand pounds. Thomas Ghosh was no one to sniff at, either. The Indian man had been dazzling London for a season and a half, and it seemed there was no end to his popularity. Veronica must have tied herself into knots to secure the services of both La Billings and the violinist.
“Capital, Lady Stayne, absolutely smashing.” Lord Stayne stood, gesturing at his guests to do the same. “Let’s away to the music room in order to enjoy this grand amusement Lady Stayne has arranged.”
Wainwright stood with the other guests and followed them out the dining room. As he passed her, Veronica took his arm. “Wainwright, you are the very devil. Do not tell me you have cajoled yet another girl to tumble into love with you.”
“I have done nothing of the sort,” he protested.
“Then tell me why Miss Cavendish is bemoaning to all she will fade away to nothing in want of you? And I saw Miss Beckett make eyes at you at dinner.”
Christ, who on earth was she? He had no recollection of meeting a Miss Cavend— “Is she the small girl with the brown hair?”
“You do not even know who she is?”
“It is not my fault,” he said defensively. “I can assure you; I have not cajoled anyone. If this Miss Cavendish is who I think she is, I merely danced with her and delivered her back to her mother.”
She shook her head. “You don’t even know your charm.”
“If my charm is so potent, it is indeed a mystery to me.”
“Well, try not to ensorcell any more of my guests, Wainwright.”
“I will do my best.”
“I mean it, Wainwright. You do not need every woman in love with you.”
“No. Just one,” he said before he thought.
Veronica glanced at him sharply. “Oh?” she asked carefully.
Why had he said anything? Veronica was like a bloodhound, and he had just handed her the scent. He had no wish to speak of his heart with her, especially when he had yet to persuade Penelope his intentions were true.
“Wainwright?”
“So, how did you secure both Ghosh and La Billings?” he asked, hoping like hell she would leave well enough alone.
Veronica regarded him a moment. “You aren’t fooling me, you know,” she finally said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said stubbornly.
Sighing, she shook her head. “Well, if you must know, it took quite a deal of persuading and an awful chunk of my pin money to lure them both. Even then, La Billings was reluctant…” She launched into a further explanation as they made their way to the music room. Veronica left him upon their arrival, her duties as a hostess demanding her attention, and he, of course, sought out Penelope.
She sat in the back row, her expression amused as she watched him approach. “Lord Wainwright,” she greeted, and her smile turned luminous.
His heart stopped. Swallowing, he—words. He should speak words. “Lady Penelope,” he managed. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” She patted the seat beside her.
It was, as always, difficult to fold himself into the dainty chair. Why Veronica insisted on such tiny furniture when her husband was roughly the same size as Wainwright was a mystery. Surely she knew men of their size required something sturdier?
“Are you comfortable?” He looked up to find Penelope regarding him with amusement. “Perhaps two of the chairs would be appropriate?”
“Be quiet,” he said mildly.
She chuckled. “Even I struggled with these chairs. I cannot imagine the difficulties you must endure.”
“It is a burden, it is true.”
“And yet you bear it so well.”
He nodded. “I am a saint.”
Fan covering her mouth, she laughed silently.
Concealing his own grin, he stretched his legs as much as he could. The seats around them were full, and Veronica made her way to the front to introduce Ghosh. The Indian man took his place, raising his violin to his shoulder, and the first haunting strains of the aria from The Orangery filled the room. A voice wreathed with glory rose to meet the violin, and riotous applause accompanied La Billings’s arrival as she glided to stand with the violinist, her majestic voice trilling the aria.
Wainwright, though, could barely hear the opera singer. Instead, he was overwhelmingly aware if he shifted but slightly, his arm would brush Penelope’s shoulder. His thigh was half an inch from her thigh, and with the smallest of movements, he could lay his hand over hers laced in her lap. With most everyone’s attention on violinist and opera singer, he could link their fingers and feel the warmth of her through his glove and hers.
Penelope kept her gaze forward, but the pulse in her neck fluttered wildly. Lips parting, her tongue darted out to wet the flesh of her bottom lip.
He suppressed a groan. Friends. He had promised friendship. Lust pooled in his groin, and he cursed the close fit of his breeches. Bloody hell, he needed to better disguise what she did to him. “Do you play?” he asked to distract himself, his voice rough.
“Pardon?” Hazy blue eyes whipped to his, darkened and heavy lidded. She licked her lips. “N-not for some time and I’m sure now very ill.”
He stared at her. Maybe she was not unaffected.
Clearing her throat, she continued, “Due to a lack of practice, you understand. Because of course it was one of the requirements of finishing school. Along with revolution,” she finished conversationally.
Thank Christ, his breeches were no longer quite so tight. “Revolution.”
She nodded gravely. “We practiced raiding with muskets at dawn, and how best to charge with our skirts tucked into our waistbands. I was most competent at code-work, but for some reason could never interpret which whistle command meant what.”
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “And what, pray tell, were you revolting against?”
“Why, tyranny, sirrah. Is that not what all revolt against?” Glancing him askance, she grinned.
Wainwright stared at her helplessly. Christ. Christ. He’d known she was his person, and that had been enough of a blow, but this— He loved her. Wholly. Completely. With everything he had.
Grinning still, she turned back to the opera singer and the violinist, but he could only stare at her. He had to convince her to want more than friendship. He couldn’t not have her in his life. He needed her smile, her wit. He needed his children—his future human children— to know of revolution in petticoats. He needed...her.
He had to convince her. There was no other option.