Chapter Five
IN THEIR MEADOW LORD Wainwright lay stretched out, his hands laced loosely over his belly. Dappled sunlight fell over him, lighting him with patches of dark and light.
Pulling her gaze from him, Penelope looked down at the sketch in her lap. A drowsy Lord Wainwright looked back at her, a half-smile pulling at his soft lips. Over the page, another sketch of Lord Wainwright, this time laughing up at her. And another, his brow creased in thought. And another. And another. Somehow, without her realising, all her sketches had become of Wainwright. He had become all she saw.
On the page, she traced the angle of his jaw with her thumb. It was not conventional, his beauty. He did not have the look of a Corinthian, his musculature too heavy, and he didn’t wear stylish enough clothing to make him a dandy. His blue-hazel eyes held too much warmth to be termed a rake, and his hair was a little too long to be fashionable. His jaw was too strong, his nose too bold, his forehead too broad, and his brows were dark slashes that contrasted the blond of his hair. His handsomeness was his own, and a kind that had grown on her as the days passed, until he’d become the most handsome person of her acquaintance.
“Tell me a story.”
She looked up. He hadn’t moved, his lashes resting on his cheeks. “What sort of story would you like to hear?”
“Tell me the story of you.”
“That would be rather dull, I’m afraid.”
The side of his mouth kicked up. “You could never be dull, Lady Penelope.”
Her own lips quirked. “Would that were true.”
Dark lashes rose and blue-hazel eyes caught hers. “There is always something to tell. Indulge me.”
“All right,” she conceded. “Once, when we were children, Daphne found a Spanish doubloon. Our father’s estate encompassed a stretch of coastline, and Daphne had been poking about in a cave, which she really ought not to have because those caves were at the mercy of the tides and she could have easily been caught—”
“That is not a tale of you. That is a tale of your sister.”
“Oh.” Well, yes, she supposed it was. “Cynthia was presented at court last year, and she was deathly afraid she would say something or do something and horribly embarrass herself, so she—”
“Cynthia?”
“My younger sister. Our mother remarried after the death of my father, and—”
He tutted. “Still not a tale of you, Penelope.”
A little thrill went through her at his voice caressing her name. He did so more and more, as if he forgot propriety and simply wanted to call her what only those close to her did. She wished she had the nerve to call him Alastair. She’d looked up his Christian name in the copy of Debrett’s Peerage in the Stayne’s library, her fingers tracing the letters as she’d read it over and over again.
Now, she said, “I told you I was dull.” She picked at her dress. She was dull. Her life had been nothing but the four walls of her bedchamber. This was her adventure. This house party. Him.
Pushing himself up, he frowned. “Nonsense. You are the cleverest woman of my acquaintance. You have loads of stories, I am certain. Tell me what happened when you were presented to society.”
“That was so long ago, I barely remember.”
“All right, what happened last year, then?”
“Nothing.” The dress she wore was one of her favourites, but now it was too big and three years out of fashion. She stared at the faint crosshatch pattern, light lines against pale yellow.
“How can nothing happen?”
The pattern on her dress blurred. “I was sick.”
The rush of water filled the meadow, and in the distance the bark of dogs. She studied her dress, feeling his gaze heavy upon her.
“You were sick?” he finally asked.
Tracing the crosshatch, she nodded.
“How sick?”
She kept her eyes on her finger tracing the pattern. “I was confined to my bed for a time.”
“For a year?”
“Longer.”
“You were sick. You were—” His voice cracked.
Her gaze flew up. Stormy blue eyes met hers, his features taut. “I am better now,” she rushed to say. “I have been better these last six months at least. It is why I am here. I wish society again, now I am well.”
“How sick?” he asked intensely.
She didn’t want to tell him of the days she struggled to breathe, of the days lost to delirium. She didn’t want to tell him of lying in her bedchamber and unable to do nothing more than stare at the canopy of her bed. She didn’t want to tell him of the boredom, the tedium, the overwhelming sameness…and the terrifying moments when it wasn’t the same. Of the times she’d been angry at her body for failing her so wholly and the moments—the brief, infrequent moments—she’d wished for it all to be over. For an end. She didn’t want to tell him of her sisters’ tears or worse, when they’d pretended all was well, and she didn’t want to tell him of the months she’d spent recovering from the ravages of her illness.
Averting her gaze, she said softly, “Sick.”
His jaw worked. “You are well now?”
Still with lowered gaze, she nodded.
He rubbed his knuckles into the muscle of his thighs. “You are well now.”
Hesitantly, she asked, “Are you well?”
“No, I’m bloody well not well,” he burst out. “You were sick, and you just sit there and tell me it calmly as if you couldn’t have—as if it weren’t a possibility—Bloody hell, Penelope, I could have never known you. You could have— And I would never have known you.” Exhaling shakily, he rubbed a hand over his face. “And now I’m making it about me. Christ, what a tosser.”
An unwilling smile tugged at her. “I wouldn’t call you a tosser.”
“I would,” he said with disgust.
“No.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “It’s lovely you care.”
“Of course I bloody care, you’re my—” He grimaced. “And I promised I wouldn’t speak of that, either. I—” His gaze shifted to her hand.
Her breath caught. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers and stormy blue eyes held her in thrall. Reflexively, she dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his arm, his warmth burning her through the cloth of his jacket.
“Penelope,” he said, his voice full of gravel.
Swaying toward him, her gaze drifted to his mouth, the soft mouth she wanted to touch and taste. Chest tight, she stared as his lips parted, as his eyes darkened, and as he moved closer—
Snatching her hand from his forearm, she cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should talk of something else. I’m sure if I think hard enough I can come up with an amusing story. Perhaps the time Daphne and I stole blueberry pies from our cook?” Smiling brightly, she pretended herself unaffected.
He exhaled, and the moment passed. “Yes. Tell me of the blueberry pies.”
Grateful to have the tension broken, she brightened her smile even more. “Daphne has an unholy love of all things berry and one time she pestered me to come up with a plan to steal a pie...”
She babbled on, half-making it up, half from memory. He watched her all the while, his eyes dark and intense, and she tried to forget how much she wanted to know the taste of his mouth on hers.