Chapter Six
LIP CAUGHT BETWEEN HER teeth, Penelope pulled the thread through cloth stretched taut by the embroidery hoop. Slowly a floral pattern came to shape on the shawl that was to be a Christmas gift for Cynthia. Her sister always requested an embroidered gift, and she had an array of clothing Penelope had embellished over the years.
This year, they would spend Christmas at Darborne Manor and then travel to their aunt’s home on Boxing Day. Other years they had been unable to do so due to Penelope’s illness, but this year they could join in their extended family’s festivities.
How would Wainwright spend his Christmas? Would he host a revel at his home, or would he instead invite himself to his friend Roxwaithe’s celebration? If Penelope were to wager, she would think the latter, based upon him saying it was what he’d done these last three years at least. Roxwaithe, in turn, always celebrated with the Marquis of Demartine and his family, and Wainwright had amused her greatly with tales of the rambunctious family celebrations—
Pausing in her needlework, she closed her eyes. Again she thought of him. More and more she did so, and so she would have only herself to blame for the inevitable broken heart.
The house party would end in a few days and he would go his way while she went hers. He had not spoken again of his desire for marriage, or if he even wished to see her once they went their separate ways. Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps he was inconstant, a terrible flirt who enjoyed flitting from woman to woman, and it meant nothing he had not done so at this party. It meant nothing he sought her out each day, as she sought him out. It meant nothing they spent hours in their meadow, and it meant nothing when he looked at her with all the warmth of the world in his eyes.
It meant nothing.
Biting hard on her lip, she forced thoughts of him aside, focussing instead on her embroidery. This was another occupation she’d perfected during her illness. Concentrating on the stitches always brought her some measure of calm, and she had need of calm after this morning. She’d awoken struggling for breath and panic had gripped her, her breathing becoming even more laboured before she remembered other mornings she’d woken like this, other mornings where her lungs had cleared and her chest had recovered, and it was nothing more than the lingering effects of sleep. Counting to one hundred had calmed her, and when she’d begun to breathe normally, panic had dissipated entirely. The incident, however, had her taking note of how tired and achy her muscles were, and how the muzziness in her head lingered a little longer than it should. It wasn’t a relapse but instead her body telling her she had done too much. So, she’d resolved to do little with the day, and she’d found a quiet room to sit, enjoy her embroidery, convince herself she wouldn’t again succumb to her illness, and maybe spend five minutes together where she did not think of the Earl Wainwright.
“Here you are.” Lord Wainwright entered the room, his brows drawn in displeasure.
Just when she’d resolved to not think of him, he appeared. Even wearing a scowl he took her breath away. Honestly, how could he be so beautiful? “Here I am, as I’ve been all morning,” she said mildly.
“Well, I didn’t know that.” He flopped into the chaise opposite. “I’ve been looking for you all over. You weren’t part of the excursion to the folly, you weren’t in our meadow. You weren’t even with Lord Stayne and his cohort. I had to talk with him, Penelope. Do you know how traumatic that was?”
She concealed a smile. He looked so aggrieved, disgust dripping from him. “A thousand apologies, sir.”
“And so you should apologise. I am exhausted. Exhausted, I tell you.” Exhaling expansively, he let his head fall back against the chaise.
“I did not think I would be much missed.”
“Well, you were missed. By me.”
She should ignore the shiver of pleasure his words gave her. Heartbreak, Penelope. “Surely there are others who are more amusing. I have heard Miss Haverford’s rejoinders. They are always filled with wit.”
He grunted, dismissing her half-hearted words. “What have you been doing?”
“Embroidering. Staring out the window. Contemplating life’s grand adventure. You know, the usual.”
“Ah, yes. The usual. May I join you in contemplation?”
“Are you certain you do not wish to do something more exciting?”
Laying his arm over the chaise back, he placed his ankle on his opposite knee. “I would rather be with you.”
Heart. Break.
“Why are you in the drawing room anyway?” he asked. “Did you not wish to view the folly in all its glory? I mean, I know why I didn’t attend, but I would have thought this would have piqued your interest.”
Pushing such useless emotions aside, she said, “Well, you know I do love observation of a false Roman temple, but I was feeling unwell this morning and thought it best to remain indoors.”
Foot dropping to the floor, he straightened. Concern cut deep lines into his face, his brows snapped together and his muscles tensed. “You feel unwell? Do you require a doctor? Your sister? I can fetch her and the doctor both—”
“No,” she said hastily, shaking her head for emphasis. She hated she’d made him worry. “I am fine. I am merely a little tired.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes. A day of rest will do me a world of good.”
He sank back into the chaise. “I will keep you company while you rest, then.”
“But it is a lovely day—”
“And I wish to spend it with you.”
Again he took her breath with his words. How was she to react when he said such things? How was she not to believe him, when both actions and words screamed of sincerity? Everyone, though, thought him a flirt. How could she doubt what everyone knew?
Oblivious to her conflicted thoughts, he peered at her hoop and cloth. “What are you doing?”
“Embroidery.”
“Can I help?”
She blinked. She had never heard a gentleman offer to help with embroidery before. Her sister’s husband usually left them to it, and on those rare occasions Darborne did sit with them, he found myriad other activities to occupy himself.
She was, however, ever a messy embroiderer, and several of her skeins were horribly tangled. “If you wish, you can attempt to untangle the yarn. It can be annoying, though.”
“I live for annoyance.” He held out his hand.
She passed over the satchel containing the yarn and immediately he rooted through it, pulling out a woefully tangled skein of bright blue. He grinned at her. “Aha, a challenge!”
Her heart squeezed. How was she to believe everyone?
“Have you had word from your sister? Is her visit going well?” Brows drawing, he pulled at the yarn.
Watching his wrestle with amusement, she nodded. “She is enjoying spending time with her friend, but she will return here tomorrow.”
He paused, his hands full of yarn.
An ache began in her chest. “She said she will stay until the party ends in two days and then we will return to Darborne Manor together.”
“Two days,” he repeated softly.
The ache worsened. Clearing her throat, she asked, “What are your plans?”
For a long time, he stared at the yarn. “I, too, will see out the house party,” he finally said. “I was going to continue to Viscount Richenson’s estate to discuss breeding programmes, but I believe I shall change my plans. I hear the Cotswolds are delightful this time of year.” Lifting his gaze, eyes of intense blue captured hers.
Her breath caught. He meant to call on her. She’d told him Darborne Manor was in the Cotswolds and he meant to follow her. “Really?”
“Yes. I find I am interested in breeding of a different type.” A wicked glint lit his eyes. “The nursery at Wainwright Hall is decidedly empty.”
Her jaw dropped. It was beyond the pale to say such things to a gently reared lady yet unmarried, however…she adored he said such things. “You cannot say such things.”
He smirked, no doubt delighted he had scandalised her so. “How can I not make such remarks, when you clearly love I make such remarks.”
“Be that as it may, I should not love such remarks.”
“What is should? You love them, I’ll continue saying them.”
She cocked her head. “Have you, then, put detailed thought into this breeding regime? To fill a nursery will surely take a whole host of females. Do you plan a roster? Perhaps a rotating one?”
He choked.
Smug, she raised her brows in false query. He was not the only person who could be inappropriate.
Recovering, a smile pulled at his soft mouth. “A roster system is an intriguing idea, but I have—through extensive research—determined that, while not the most efficient, the course of action I prefer necessitates a single subject. Nay, subject is not the correct nomenclature. A partner. A woman. A particular woman.” Eyes locked on her, his voice deepened. “I have searched for her, you understand, and I did not believe I should ever find her.”
She returned his look uncertainly. “You are known to have sampled far and wide, and with some inconstancy,” she said quietly. “How can the woman you choose be assured you will be satisfied with her and her alone?”
Breaking their gaze, he looked to the side. “It is true in the past I have…entertained many and never with depth. However, this very experience has made it so I know, with absolute certainty, that she is what I want, and I cannot see ever turning from her.”
Hands a tangle of colourful yarn, he sat opposite her speaking of choice and constancy, and suddenly she knew. “This is not a flirtation.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“You meant it, didn’t you?”
“Meant what?”
“When you said you wanted to marry me.”
He stilled. The air between them thickened, filled with all that had yet to be said. With all she wanted to do. Breath quickening, her heart thundered in her ears as she wet her lips. He tracked the move, his eyes darkening.
Moments ticked by, each more tense than the last.
“Yes,” he said.
In a great rush, she said, “You have not changed your mind? Everyone says you are callow and fickle and a tremendous flirt, but I cannot agree with them. I cannot. You are kind and true and—however you may change your mind, of course you can. I know we jest about it, but I do not hold any expectations and I would not presume—”
“Penelope.” Large hands free of yarn enveloped hers. He wore no gloves and neither did she. His skin was warm, his palms calloused. What did he do to have such worn hands? Was it because of his work?
“Penelope?”
She stared down at his hands cradling hers. “I think you might be my person,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “You said I was your person, that you looked at me, and you knew. I— You are important to me and—” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. Frustration stole her words. “Daphne told me you were fickle, Veronica the same. They said though many had caught your eye, none had tempted you to stay.”
He scowled. “I am not this great flirt they make me out to be.”
“That’s just it. I know that. You…you untangle my embroidery yarn for me.” She lifted a shoulder helplessly.
Brow clearing, the corner of his mouth ticked up. “And this makes me your person?”
She nodded.
“I am your person.” Quiet joy filled his words. “And you are my person.”
A thrum started inside her, low and insistent.
His gaze heated. “May I kiss you?” he asked in a dark voice.
Wetting her lips, she nodded. Suddenly, she was desperate to know what he tasted like.
Never breaking their gaze, he moved closer, and closer, and then soft lips brushed hers.
She’d been kissed before, a time or two, but that had been flirtation and unserious. She’d never before been kissed by someone she wanted forever. Eyes fluttering closed, she leant into him.
His thumb traced her jaw, exerting the slightest of pressure as his lips coaxed hers open. Tongue sweeping inside, he kissed her deeply and she kissed him back, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him to her. Hand cradling her jaw, he deepened the kiss, his arm snaking around her to haul her closer to him. Heat stormed through her, and she wanted more. She wanted his weight on her, the taste of his bare flesh on her tongue. Cloves and the clean scent of his soap wound around her, and she moaned as he trailed kisses along the cord of her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin.
Shuddering, he pulled himself from her, touching his forehead to hers. “Christ,” he whispered, the curse more like a prayer.
She knew how he felt. That was…indescribable.
Eyes closed, he said, “Tell me I have convinced you.”
She ran fascinated fingers over his brow. “Of what?”
“That I am yours.”
She had known she would love him. She had known, one day soon, she would look at him and know he was everything to her. She did not know it would be now, in this moment. “You have convinced me.”
Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her temple. Her brow. The corner of her mouth. Then, he gave her a cheeky grin. “I knew I would. It was inevitable, from the moment I saw you. I said to myself, ‘self, you will convince this woman she is the love of your life’.”
Happiness bubbled inside her like champagne. “And you did.”
“And I did. May I call upon you at Darborne Manor?”
“Yes.”
“And may I, one day soon, ask you to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“And what will be your answer?”
His eyes were soft, and in their depths, she saw love. She saw constancy. She saw the future. Their future. “Yes.”