Chapter Ten

Penelope received a note that Michael planned to join her for midday Sunday dinner, and she planned an enticing menu with Mrs. Thorpe’s help.

A letter from David had arrived the day before. Her family missed her, and she recalled her promise to be home for Matthew’s birthday. It made her homesick, and when she needed a distraction, she baked or gardened. So she had run out to the market to see what fruit was available and spied hothouse cherries. While not as good as those she’d find next month, she could make do with added sugar as needed for cherry tarts.

After they finished preparing the meal, she dismissed the Thorpes to enjoy their own Sunday afternoon roast. She put the cherry tarts in the oven with the potatoes but waited on the fish, which she would serve with dark peppery greens, and wandered out to the garden.

Michael found her kneeling on a blanket to protect her dress, weeding. He tugged her up for a kiss.

“How have you been, my lord?”

“Busy. Too busy, dash it all. I missed you,” he growled, holding her against him.

“And I missed you as well,” she murmured, placing her lips on his in a fleeting kiss.

Groaning again, he gripped her tighter. “Gah, these girls my mother introduces me to, they prattle about the stupidest things. Who they saw at the ice shop, the latest on-dits, how paltry their pin money from their papa is…”

Bitterness rose in Penelope.

These young gels ain’t even buying their own bloody hair ribbons, much less clothes and shoes and food. Yet they still manage to waste their parents’ money on fripperies. And Michael comes to me to natter about them? How can he care about me and discuss girls he is wooing? ’Tain’t fair.

Gathering her thoughts, she put her melancholy aside. Her lessons had taught her to relax her patron, make him forget his frustration at having to court a prospective wife. “Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like a drink?”

“I can come to the kitchen whilst you finish, even if I was unable to arrive early enough to help this time.” He gestured for her to precede him inside.

He dragged a chair out from the center table and slouched in it.

She slid the pan with the fish onto a grate over the fire, checked the oven, then turned, maintaining a serene expression, as a courtesan should, even as she continued to seethe at the injustice. She hoped her silent swearing would dispel her frustration.

“Hmm, I can’t say I ever had an allowance from my papa.” She referenced his lament with a mock pout. “My only complaint with you is how little I see you.”

His expression changed from even more irritated at “complaint” to happy as he digested her statement. His shoulders relaxed, as she’d intended. Shifting his arm to clutch her closer, he whispered into her hair, “’Tis my biggest gripe as well.”

Penelope reflected on her foray into the world of acting. Had it left a lasting impression? “So, my lord—Michael. How was the theatre?” she asked with an impish smile, trailing a hand down his waistcoat.

“Excellent, as always. They are doing a remarkable job with this production. Scenery, costumes, not only the acting.”

“Costumes, eh? Do you ever dress in costume to escape?” she asked, watching him closely.

“No.” He shook his head, smiling. “Honestly, until recently, I had plenty of flexibility.” His lips twisted as he seemed to consider it further. “One can hardly get more free than an earl’s heir—all the benefits, none of the responsibility as yet.”

While he was oversimplifying, he was right. He’d always have far more freedom than she would, aside from choosing who to marry.

And for that reason, despite her misgivings at spying on him, she decided to continue her little charades in costume. With so fewer choices, she must be prepared for the end of their relationship, and knowledge was power. Not only did she need to protect her heart, she needed to find a new home.

****

Barbara Slade, Countess of Mansfield, smiled at her son over dinner at the Mansfields’ London home. “Michael, I am happy to see you are getting into the spirit of finding a wife.”

He shuffled his hands over the silverware, then caught himself. Fidgeting was one of his tells. When he was prevaricating as a child, his mother had noted his restless hand movements. “Thank you, Mama. Now, can you help? Please?”

“Well, dear, you know you should not send anything more than flowers after only one dance at a ball and one evening at the theatre. ’Tis too soon.”

“I know, Mama. But I wish to think ahead. And gifts beyond flowers take a little more time and effort.”

“Right, then. An appropriate gift for a young lady.” She tilted her head, finger to chin, ruminating.

“Jewelry?”

“Certainly not.” Her tone was tart. “You buy jewelry for a wife. Or, well…” His mother firmed her lips and repeated, “For a wife.”

“What, then?”

“The point is that it depends on the lady. What are her interests? Passions?”

Could he buy Penelope a new bread peel for the bedroom? But a gift was meant to be for the recipient. A paddle for the bedroom was for him as much as her.

Realizing his mother was waiting for a response, he could not say, “baking.” Few if any members of the Ton baked as a pastime.

“What if I do not know?”

“Is there someone close to her that you can ask? A mutual friend? A sibling or parent?”

Ah, Mrs. Thorpe. Perfect.

“Yes, Mama. I shall do that. But only when I have settled more on a particular young lady. I shall be ‘drab’ at all times, I promise.” Ignoring his mother’s grimace at his term for her guidance, he rose, kissed her cheek, and excused himself to head to White’s to meet Bags and Robert.

****

Penelope stared at another note from Michael indicating another theatre outing that evening. He would visit the following night, barring any major mishaps. She shrugged. At least she had friends and work to keep her busy.

She headed to the theatre at midday to brush out costumes and check the props and curtains for needed repairs. The backstage crew worked as a team, and she had already made friends, so she chatted with people throughout the building. The day flew by.

Stepping out the side door for a breath of fresh air, a cup of tea in hand, she mulled her choices as she watched the sky darken. She could either snack from the cold buffet for the cast and crew as her dinner or head home.

Trying to ignore the fact that Michael would be arriving in less than two hours, she planned to depart. She had not asked the Thorpes to prepare anything for her dinner, but there were plenty of cold tidbits to snack on there.

She gulped the last of her tea and resolved to return the cup to the common room backstage and be on her way. After placing the cup in the bucket for used dishes, she wandered toward the front lobby to see if anyone had arrived yet. Mayhap she would even leave that way. Nonchalantly, she meandered toward the lobby door, nodding to the figures in black hovering to open the doors and start accepting tickets. She cracked the door to peek out. There were a few theatre-goers already milling about, the return guests chatting to Pru, the neophytes exclaiming over the artwork on the walls.

Michael had not yet arrived. She could dawdle for a short time without a confrontation. Strolling through the seating area and backstage again, she ended up in front of the costume closet. She ducked in before her conscience could censure her.

Her hands skimmed over the hanging costumes. There was the cerulean dress she had borrowed the other night and a few black dresses for the parts of widows that ticket takers and ushers also used as needed. Green, red, so many bold colors. A queen’s costume, a fairy… Then she came to the rack of menswear.

She ran her gaze over the selection and could not resist when her gaze landed on a young gentleman’s silver and gold brocade waistcoat.

Two hours later, after grazing at the buffet and biding her time, Penelope borrowed one of the actors’ dressing rooms and makeup. She darkened her face, neck, and hands with a foundation, then used a makeup brush to dot ashes on her cheeks and around her mouth to create a five o’clock shadow. After she’d pinned up her hair, she donned a dark wig of Brummel-style curls, checked for wisps of her own hair, and skipped back to the costume closet.

Refusing to dwell on the ramifications if she was caught by Pru or Leah, or, worse, Michael, she dressed. She’d found a semi-clean white lawn shirt, gold breeches, platform shoes with gold buckles and heels designed to add height, and a rose velvet topcoat to go over the silver and gold brocade vest. She withdrew a ginger hard candy from a pocket of her discarded gown and tucked it in one side of her mouth before leaving the room.

Venturing out at intermission when the theatre had half-emptied into the lobby, she made her way up the aisle toward the back of the seat rows, surreptitiously eyeing the owner’s box to see if it had been vacated.

Seeing only an older couple there, she hurried her pace, trying to take longer strides like a man. Swinging her arms higher, she got into character and marched into the lobby toward the bar. The crowd was almost a wall, but that never seemed to deter men, especially gentlemen of the Ton. She waded in, aiming for the same spot where she had run into Michael last time.

She shook her head as the crowd made way for her. So annoyingly unfair. She hoped her scowl aided her ruse. At the bar, she did a quick check of the patrons nearby, then leaned her forearm flat on the bar, poking her head forward to catch the barkeep’s eye.

Snatching up the lemonade he set in front of her, she turned in place. She swept her gaze quickly down her front to ensure her bound breasts did not show. With the layers of brocade and velvet and frothy cravat, she was fine, albeit fancy for a man. But that was the idea.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Michael’s tall form approaching, resplendent in a navy topcoat, a teal waistcoat peeking out. Shifting a few inches to her right, she ensured she was in his path as she pretended she was with the family group in the corner. He brushed past her, causing a shiver of awareness. As he waited for his lemonade, she turned toward him, unable to resist interacting with him.

Keeping her face at an angle to him and deepening her voice as much as possible, she said, “Bit of a crush, eh? Glad I nabbed mine early.”

Michael glanced at her and sniffed as she raised her glass.

“Good job, that. But—” He gestured as two lemonades were placed in front of him. “—thankfully, I know the owner.” Lifting one, he smiled, sniffing again.

“Hmm, lucky you.” Penelope leaned closer, dropping her free hand to skim his hip, jostling her shoulders as though she had been pushed by someone in the crowd shifting.

Michael tried to jump back, but the bartop was right behind him.

She bowed, reaching down to pick up a handkerchief she had furtively dropped as she turned. As she bent straight-legged, she again fumbled as though bumped. Her hand with the handkerchief grabbed his boot before trailing up the inside of his leg. Straightening one vertebra at a time, she kept her gaze lowered, tugging on her rose velvet coat.

Michael sucked in a sharp breath.

“My pardon, my lord. I seem to have lost my balance.” She leaned in with an arched brow and a small smile. “You’re a very handsome man, my lord. I’ll be in the alley there.” She nodded toward a side door. “If you care to join me for a bit of…fresh air.”

Shocked, Michael declined, his voice harsh. “You— I say, you are very much mistaken. Now please excuse me.”

Rushing off to his party, he did not see Penelope’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

****

Michael alternated between outrage at the flamboyant youth’s boldness, questioning if he’d imagined the whiff of ginger he’d smelled, and doubting the whole thing had actually happened. He missed the entire last act and simply hummed in agreement when his party exclaimed over the performance in the carriage.

He shook his head once to clear it. What sort of clientele are theatre performances attracting these days? First, it was the older lady, now a young man. Are my patrons experiencing similar advances? I am not that attractive!

He snorted at the conceited thought, earning a questioning look from his mother. Staring out the window, he sighed in relief to see they were almost to his guests’ home.

After handing the ladies out and seeing them to their door, then doing the same for his mother at the family home, he paused on the carriage running board, calling up to the coachman. “Change of plans. Take me to Miss Wood’s house, please.”

After the strange man’s touch, intermingled with the scent of ginger, he needed to bury himself in all that was Penelope. Her lovely ebony hair, her delicate smooth skin, and voluptuous breasts, her delicious scent that often had a slight overlay of flour with the spice, the warmth of her mouth and of her. He shifted on the seat, adjusting his cock as it hardened in anticipation.

The streets were dark in the residential neighborhoods as he traveled from Mayfair to Bloomsbury where Penelope’s little house sat. Her house, too, was dark as they drew up. He told his coachman to return at dawn and strode to the door, key in hand.

While he planned to wake her, he’d rather it was not to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which could alarm her. So after toeing off his evening shoes, he held them as he ran up the stairs and eased her bedroom door open.

Standing over her, he was content to watch her sleep for a moment. In a sheer nightrail that was twisted around her hips, she lay on her stomach tilted away from him, left hand tucked under her pillow, left leg bent.

Delicious. And she’s been amenable enough to provide easy access.

Tossing the bedclothes aside, he smoothed his hand up her right leg closest to him, bunching her nightrail in front of his hand as he went. When his hand slid over her bottom and hip, she shifted her head, moaned, then settled again as he held still.

Adding his left hand, he tugged the nightrail higher, reaching under for the side of her breast. He pressed kisses along her spine, ending at the dimples a little above her cheeks. As he spread more kisses over her bottom, he yanked off his cravat, undid his shirt, and unlaced his breeches. Seeing her eyelids flutter, he stood to hurriedly shuck his remaining clothes.

Edging onto the bed, he lay against her, his shaft nestled between her round cheeks. Leaning on his right side, his left hand slid in front of him and between her thighs to stroke lightly.

Penelope twitched, inching her left leg higher.

Ah, even in sleep, she trusts that she knows my touch. A rush of moisture slicked his fingers, allowing them to easily circle her hardened nub. His teeth grazed her shoulder as he leaned over her, pressing against every part of her he could reach.

As her hips pushed back, he glided his hand again to her breast peeking from under her arm and raised to his elbows, hips settling on hers. Nudging his cock against her, he couldn’t wait. She was wet enough for entry, even if she was not quite awake.

Slipping in, he paused halfway inside, flexed his hips back an inch, then slid home in one smooth arch.

“Mmm, Michael?” Her voice was slurred with sleep.

“Ah, no. Were you expecting him?” he teased as he allowed her a moment to wake further.

Her eyes flashed to him with a grin before she relaxed back onto the pillow and sighed. “You’ll do.”

He rose up and slapped her once on the side of her thigh.

She yelped and blinked. More awake now, she moaned and levered against him. “Please, my lord, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Pray continue.” She shifted her hips from side to side, eliciting a gasp from him.

Shoving into her, he spread her legs with his thighs as he drew himself, then her, up on hands and knees. Leaning over her, he grabbed a breast and pinched her nipple as she favored, using his other hand on the bed to keep his weight off her.

Thrusting, thrusting, he wanted to touch her sensitive bundle of nerves but wasn’t willing to release her delectable breast.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered, lust filling his voice with gravel.

Her hand lifted off the bed to rub against his cock and gather moisture, causing his hips to flex in a sudden sharp arch. She shivered as her finger found the right spot to circle.

His hips pumped harder, smacking sounds loud in the stillness of the late night, faster. He ground out, “Come with me, Pen, please.”

She arched, crying out, and swiveled her hips in a quick counter rhythm to his, pounding back into him equally hard and fast before she tightened and quivered and rippled around him. Unable to stand it any longer, he erupted in her with a growl that sounded suspiciously like, “Mine!”

She collapsed forward, bringing him with her.

He skimmed his hand down her side, then levered over her to the open side of the bed and gathered her close. “Thank you, sweeting. I apologize for the late hour.”

“’Twas my pleasure,” she purred, even as sleep took her back under.

****

Penelope yawned and rolled over. Looking around at the empty room, she vaguely recalled Michael rising in the dark to go to his family’s Town residence. She hated the secrecy, but she could not regret his late-night visit, and she understood subterfuge was sometimes part of a courtesan’s situation.

She would see him this evening anyway. Yawning, she made her way downstairs for a cup of tea and to start menu planning.

By midday, she had conferred with Mrs. Thorpe and was making lemon crème tarts for dessert when a knock sounded. As she wiped her hands, Mr. Thorpe entered the kitchen with a package.

“Delivery for you, Miss Penelope,” he said, placing it carefully on the table. “They said it was fragile.”

“Did they say who it was from?” she asked as she examined the gift, contemplating how to open it without breaking whatever was inside. It was wrapped tight in a pretty basket inside the satchel.

“No, Miss.”

“Oh, there’s a card.” She drew it out from where it was folded along the side of the oval basket.

Dear Pen,

I didn’t know which size was most useful, so I bought the set. I hope you like them. Mayhap you will make me something wickedly delicious with them.

Yours, Michael

“Well, that is mysterious.” She selected the longest, thickest of the items. All were cylindrical, with the biggest over a foot long and thick, stepping down in size to about six inches long and narrower. They were each wrapped in layers of soft cloth.

Laying the first item on the table, she untucked the ends of the cloth and slowly rolled the baton shape out. As it cleared the cloth, she gasped. “Oh my gosh! He—but—all eight? Oh my, the cost! Oh, ’tis lovely, but—eight? I…”

She wrung her hands in a horrified mix of excitement at the items and agony at the cost. A Nailsea glass rolling pin from Bath was beyond expensive. She had mentioned them to Mrs. Thorpe when she returned from her shopping excursion, complaining the one she admired was too dear. And he had bought the set?

Mrs. Thorpe sidled over, her hand hovering over the rolling pin approximately the same size as the wooden one Penelope used most. “May I, Miss?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“This is beautiful. Hand blown, with the different colored decorative bits in it. Is this the one you saw the other day in the shop? And ’tis a whole set here, you say?”

“Yes, well, for individual tarts, ’tis so much easier with the smaller pin. And then depending on the thickness of the pastry…” Penelope wrung her hands again.

“Miss, if you don’t mind me saying…” Mrs. Thorpe hesitated as she handed the kitchen utensil back.

Penelope nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the gorgeous glass rod she held.

“A piece of jewelry would likely cost more than this set, would it not?” the housekeeper asked, tilting her head.

“Er, I do not actually know. Either way, ’tis a ridiculous sum of money.”

“You let his lordship worry about that, Miss. He obviously thought you would like this better than jewelry.” The housekeeper cocked her head at Penelope, her brows raised. “Do you?”

“Gor, yes.” Her working-class vernacular slipped out in her excitement. “I read about these a year or so back when I was working at the theatre. I scoured London on my mornings off to merely look at one or touch one in a shop. When I did, I almost could not put it down, but ’twas more of a dream than something I expected to own.” She shook her head.

“Well, if you like the pins better than jewelry,” Mrs. Thorpe retorted, ignoring the last of her response, “and he wished to buy you something nice and chose such a suitable gift, you should accept it gracefully and say thank you.”

Reward good behavior, so it happens again. Was the gift to reward her for her companionship when she’d been torturing him at the theatre intermissions? She might need to rethink how she amused herself in her spare time.

With shock, she counted the days. She’d only known Michael for a few sennights. Yet despite his schedule and their limited time together, he was rapidly becoming the center of her world. Her days were spent waiting to see him, no matter what she did to pass the time. And the nights he visited were spent learning what she could about him and reveling in his attention. It seemed he had also listened to her to find such a thoughtful gift.

How am I supposed to keep my distance when he is so bloody perfect? He is kind and caring and downright masterful in bed—and in the kitchen and— She snickered before sobering. He is not perfect. He spends many evenings searching for another woman to be his wife.

Whatever the reason for his gift, she, too, needed to reward good behavior.