Chapter Six

 

Lady Penelope dragged her weary body into the sunlit drawing room and collapsed inelegantly into one of the pair of ugly, overly ornate Sheraton chairs. Facing her, her aunt was perched sideways in the chair's mate, her hands lightly caressing the two grotesque carved wooden griffin's heads that served as decorative accents on the back of her chair.

Having now spent nearly three full days in the household and having made the acquaintance of Pansy, Farnley's scatterbrained wife and Aunt Lucinda's housekeeper (of sorts), Lady Penelope had already been warned that these two chairs represented the entire estate of Aunt Lucinda's dear departed husband, Jerome Benedict, and should not be remarked on in any but the most flattering way.

As waxing poetic over the two monstrosities was a feat beyond Lady Penelope's rapidly depleting stores of energy, she had compromised, taking care to sit in the chairs (the one sporting the less lethal-looking camel's heads) as often as possible, thereby showing her appreciation rather than having to voice it. Indeed, she saw her action in the way of a penance—just another serving of sackcloth and ashes to be heaped atop the long list of humiliations she had been forced to suffer thanks to the insufferable invalid now lying in sybaritic comfort upstairs in her chamber.

How she rued ever having made that reckless vow to mend her ways if only the Almighty would spare the nameless man who had landed unconscious at her feet the day she had arrived at Wormhill. She should have known her impulsive promise hadn't really been needed; should have realized at first sight that any man as blatantly obnoxious as her patient was entirely too obstinate to expire quietly merely because he had conked his miserable head against a hay cart.

It would take a good deal more to do in such a creature—perhaps even a horde of Furies, she mused evilly, a small anticipatory smile stealing across her features before sliding away.

Not that she really wished him underground, because she didn't. But if she had thought nursing the twins through the measles had been rough going, she now realized it had been a leisurely stroll in the park compared to keeping her current patient amused.

Her head moving side to side wearily, she recited aloud, singsong, "'Fetch me another blanket, Lady Penelope.' 'This soup seems to have grown cold. Please take it back to the kitchens and reheat it, Lady Penelope.' 'Plump up my pillows, for my head aches abominably, Lady Penelope.' 'Read to me, Lady Penelope, for time is hanging heavy on my hands.' Bah! I'm surprised he hasn't thought to ask me to chew his mutton for him, for heaven's sake!"

"'Men are but children of a larger growth,' Dryden," Aunt Lucinda remarked comfortingly, giving the griffin heads each a last, loving pat and then moving about in her chair in order to face her niece. She carefully pushed at her dyed-blonde ringlets, smoothed down the front of her ruffled crepe gown, and spread her hands regally, palms up, as if inviting Lady Penelope's confidences.

If nothing else, the past three days had taught Lady Penelope that it was possible to converse with her eccentric aunt, even if her penchant for speaking only in quotes had been difficult to comprehend at first. There was actually a lot of wisdom to be found in the lady—although, Lady Penelope had found there was also a surfeit of nonsense to be heard as well—and now she actually found herself looking forward to their strange linguistic interludes.

"How right you are, Aunt," Lady Penelope responded eagerly, nodding her head. "He reminds me of a spoiled, puling infant, never happy unless I am at his constant beck and call. Do you know what he did this morning? He bellowed for me—I cannot think of another word to adequately describe the way he calls for me—not two minutes after I had left the sickroom. When I arrived in his room, out of breath from having run up the stairs—as he knew full well, seeing that I had gone downstairs on an errand for him—he had the absolute gall to say, 'Lady Penelope, whatever took you so long? Can it be you have tired of playing nursemaid? It's time for my medicine, you know.'

"'It's sitting right beside you on the table. Surely you are sufficiently recovered to pour your own medicine?' I suggested most kindly, while longing to hold his dratted nose for him and pour the entire contents down his gullet—then follow it with the bottle itself. And do you know what he said to me? Oh, you won't believe it, Aunt Lucinda! He lay there all propped against the pillows and whined, 'But it tastes so much better when you hold the spoon.' What do you think of that, Aunt?"

The older woman shook her head in commiseration. "'It beggar'd all description,' Shakespeare."

"Indeed, yes! You cannot imagine how I long to box his ears for him, as I would do with any recalcitrant toddler, but I know that's impossible. Not only is there my vow to nurse him if only he should survive his fall—the most ridiculous promise I have ever made, and the one that seems to have been the most needless—but there is also that stupid wager of my Papa's hanging over my head like a sharp sword suspended from a delicate, already fraying thread. Why, if Papa should ever get wind of this last debacle of mine, I'd be on my way to a London Season before I could so much as catch my breath."

Aunt Lucinda, who had heard all of this before, nodded sympathetically, reaching over to squeeze Lady Penelope's hand. "'When we cannot act as we wish, we must act as we can,' Terence."

"Well, I have been good, haven't I, Aunt Lucinda?" Lady Penelope asked, seeking reassurance. "Though I must tell you, I do not believe I was created to be a martyr. But what else can I do?"

"'We ask advice, but we mean approbation,' Colton," her smiling aunt replied triumphantly, waving one pudgy, beringed finger at her niece.

Lady Penelope's full lower lip jutted forward as she pretended to pout. "And what's wrong with that? I think I deserve a little praise for my absolutely exemplary behavior of the past few days. You cannot know what a sad trial being good is for me. You may not believe this, Aunt Lucinda, having never witnessed it, but I can really be quite awful when I put my mind to it."

Lucinda, who had committed much of the great bard's works to memory before learning that her benefactress, the dearest Dowager Duchess of Avonall, refused to have his words quoted in her presence ("I will not countenance the wanton bantering about of Shakespeare's immortal words whenever you wish to remark on such subjects as cinch bugs on my roses or the proper time to turn sheets."), was delighted to recite one of her memorized lines now for her niece. "'What! Canst thou say all this and never blush?' Shakespeare."

Her niece threw back her head and laughed in appreciation of her aunt's wit, but her laughter was cut off abruptly by the impatient ringing of the small silver dinner bell now in the possession of her patient. Her beautiful face taking on a thundercloud aspect, her finely arched brows pressed low on her forehead as her green eyes narrowed to glittering slits, she raised her head and said something very unlovely to the ceiling above her head.

"'There is, however, a limit at which forbearance ceases to be a virtue,' Burke," Aunt Lucinda prodded softly, winking in her niece's direction.

"You aren't suggesting I ignore his last imperious summons, are you, Aunt?" Lady Penelope bit her lip as she considered Lucinda's—or rather, Edmund Burke's—words. "I have not been out riding on Nemesis since my fall, and it is a lovely afternoon, isn't it? But, no. What if he truly needs me? The poor fellow still can't remember his name, and there was nothing to the point about his identity to be found among his personal possessions. He may be feeling low again, and need me to hold his hand. I really shouldn't be thinking of myself, in any case. After all, I did promise."

"'A woman's vow I write upon the wave,' Sophocles," Aunt Lucinda quoted, whether to support her niece's planned defection or to censure it, Lady Penelope could not be sure. She looked toward the glass doors leading to the gardens, and a few blessed hours of freedom, then toward the stairway in the foyer—the stairway that would lead her back to her demanding patient.

She couldn't decide, feeling torn by her desire to escape her new responsibilities and her equally strong need to make amends for her former lack of responsible action.

The ringing of the bell came again, louder, longer, and even more insistent, and Lady Penelope leaped to her feet before bending down to give her aunt a kiss on the cheek. "I don't know if you and your friend Sophocles were being facetious or not, Aunt Lucinda, but I must say I do not much care for his low opinion of our gender. Much as I should like to run upstairs, rip that infernal bell out of his hands, and do something very unladylike with it to our resident tyrant, I shall restrain myself, if only for the fact that I refuse to allow a mere man to goad me into breaking a vow I have made."

She turned to leave the room, then swiveled back around to wag her finger at her aunt as she added, "But he can raise the hackles on my back more than any one person I have ever met, and he'd be wise to make a miraculous recovery and quit this place soon, for I don't believe I shall be able to endure this much longer without doing something terrible!"

Lucinda Benedict watched as Lady Penelope scampered out of the room, skirts held high above her slim, well-turned ankles as the young woman made her way to the stairway. She then turned once more in her chair to stroke one of the griffin heads reflectively as she looked up at the ceiling and directed what could be either a compliment or a warning to her injured guest, "'That's a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion,' Shakespeare."

 

* * * * *

Lucien stopped ringing the silver bell long enough to place a hand on his ear and listen for sounds in the hallway outside his door. "Ah," he breathed after a moment, amused, "methinks I hear the gentle footfalls of my nurse. I do so love a woman who knows her place."

Leighton, sitting comfortably propped up against half a dozen soft feather pillows—and with his injured right ankle resting on three more—was feeling rather full of himself, as he had been for nearly two entire days now, thanks to the rapid healing of his normally disgustingly healthy body and his thorough enjoyment in putting Lady Penelope Rayburn through her paces as his personal lackey.

While he privately acknowledged that what he was doing was not exactly cricket, he was firmly convinced that he deserved at least a small measure of repayment for having been injured in a vain attempt to save the firebrand's beautiful, slim neck. The fact that Lady Penelope was so obvious in showing him that it galled her no end to have found herself in the position of his nurse only added to his enjoyment.

Besides, Lady Penelope Rayburn was quite beautiful—nothing like the woman her brother Philip had erroneously described, for some reason Lucien could not fathom—and he thoroughly enjoyed her company. As long as he was forced to convalesce in a benighted hole like Wormhill, he was entitled to some entertainment.

The door to the room fairly flew open, and Lady Penelope, reminding Lucien of a fresh spring breeze, blew briskly into the room, a set expression on her face. She stopped after having taken only two steps into the chamber, her left hand still holding fast to the doorknob so as to keep the heavy door from slamming against the wall, and took several deep, steadying breaths while she glared at the dark-haired man in the bed.

"Ah, there you are at last," Leighton remarked silkily. "You certainly took your time answering my summons. I do hope I'm not being too much of a bother."

"What is it this—I mean, is there a problem, sir? You've already finished your luncheon, and Pansy did take such care to slice your ham into the thin slivers you desired. Perhaps you want Farnley?" she ended with a patently false show of concern, knowing that she was skirting propriety by referring to his possible need for physical relief.

"Nobody wants Farnley, Lady Penelope," Lucien responded grittily, "unless that body harbors a death wish. The man reminds me of nothing more than a carrion crow, constantly hovering about atop my bedpost, either portending or awaiting disaster."

"He is a bit superstitious," Lady Penelope owned, trying to look concerned. "Poor thing, it has made him rather dour, don't you think?"

"On the contrary, I think the fellow enjoys himself immensely. Did you know he wanted to string a garter of corks 'round my leg to keep me from getting another cramp like the one I had last night? When I refused—heathen unbeliever that I am—he stuck bunches of huge corks between the mattress and the bed frame at each corner, knowing I couldn't stop him, and then ran out. Now I can't sleep, and I'm convinced it's because the mattress is uneven. Can't you do something about that man? I need my rest if I'm ever to remember who I am."

Remembering how she had been rudely roused from a deep sleep the night before by the sound of her patient's passionate curses as his leg had been seized in a painful cramp, and how she had spent nearly half an hour rubbing that same patient's knotted calf just as if he were some prized bit of horseflesh and she were his groom, Lady Penelope tilted her head to one side, actually considering whether or not, in this particular case, Farnley's admittedly farfetched application of superstitious nonsense might just have some merit.

"Perhaps," she said at last, "you ought to allow the corks to remain. Just for one night, you understand, as a sort of test. After all, Farnley seems fairly knowledgeable about these things."

"Oh, really," the Earl said, rolling his dark eyes.

"Yes, really. Why, just this morning, while she was preparing your luncheon tray, Pansy told me how she had accidently dropped a spoon on the kitchen table at breakfast three days ago and Farnley had immediately jumped up to declare that a visitor would arrive before nightfall. And you did, didn't you?"

Lucien shook his head in wry amusement. "I did, didn't I? However, Lady Penelope—and please forgive me for pointing out the obvious—so did you, if I recall what you have told me correctly. Farnley already knew that you had been expected, didn't he?"

Lady Penelope pulled a face. "That charlatan!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "Now why on earth did he do that, do you suppose?"

"I imagine he was just showing off for his impressionable wife, but if you, too, care to fall in with such nonsense, you certainly have my permission, for I know how you ladies love your little myths. I, however, harbor no such faith in Farnley's ability to foretell anything more weighty than whether or not, in his opinion, next spring's grass will be green. No, ma'am, I repeat, the corks must go. Now." Lucien's words, though softly spoken, were a definite demand for service.

Lady Penelope took another step into the room and turned around, grabbing the edge of the door in her right hand in preparation of slamming it shut with all her might. She then thought better of the action and merely closed the door with a carefully controlled whisper of sound that should have alerted Leighton to the existence of the dangerous cauldron full of repressed anger that bubbled just behind her forced facade of concern (a pot already loaded with the indignation that had been simmering ever since she had first been told she must spend the winter at Wormhill, and added to daily since his advent into her life), ready to boil over if he added just one more drop of provocation.

But the Earl, unheeding, opened his mouth yet again—pettishly warning her to be careful not to jostle his poor, aching body as she executed his command—thereby presenting Lady Penelope with the final ingredient that was all that was needed to send her cascading over the edge and into direct action.

Turning again to face him, she nodded as if in answer to some silent question she had asked herself, and then approached the bed, a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Looking him square in the eyes, she bent down slightly and lifted the corner of the mattress that lay just below his injured ankle. Up, up, she hoisted the mattress, straining against its weight as he smiled at her benignly, before she succeeded in extracting one of the large brown corks Farnley had slipped onto the frame.

Raising the cork in one hand, she displayed it for Lucien's benefit and gave him a thin smile as he praised her in much the way one would reward a faithful hound who had just fetched his master's slippers.

"Whoops, I think I'm going to be clumsy," she said after a moment, deadpan, her smile disappearing as the light of battle flashed in her narrowed green eyes. A moment later, just as the helpless Lucien belatedly realized what she was about to do, she abruptly let go of the mattress, causing it to drop sharply back down onto the frame.

"Ouch! Damn it, woman, you did that on purpose!" Lucien shouted, quickly reaching down with both hands to hold onto his injured leg.

Lady Penelope was instantly contrite. She had tried so hard to be good, but she seemed to be fighting a losing battle. She was just as willful and dangerously playful as her father said she was. Would she never learn? Rushing to stand beside the head of the bed, she leaned over her latest victim, all womanly concern. "Does it hurt badly?" she asked hurriedly. "I'm so very sorry! I don't know what got into me, really I don't. I'm not usually purposely cruel. It's just that—"

She never got to finish her apology, as Lucien let go of his two-fisted grip on his knee and reached up to haul Lady Penelope unceremoniously across his stomach, her startled face now only inches from his own. Her long red-gold hair, which was hanging loose past her shoulders behind a simple headband, splayed out over the coverlet, a few of the fiery curls tangling across Lucien's features like spun, carmelized sugar. Her arms, pinned to her sides, lent her no support, and her feet dangled awkwardly a full three feet above the floor.

She was startled into silence, oddly breathless and totally helpless.

She was just where Lucien Kenrick wanted her—had wanted her ever since he first caught sight of her riding that great grey gelding three days earlier.

The throbbing ache in his ankle was as less than nothing to him, the soreness of his ribs a mere irritation easily to be borne. He had a lapful of warm, soft female, and he was not about to let a trifling thing like physical pain deter him from the path he had chosen.

He raised his head slowly, not knowing how rakishly handsome he looked, his dark hair curling on the wide white bandage, and examined the small, wide-eyed face that was so close to his.

The clean, perfumed scent of her just-washed hair teasing his nostrils, he marveled at the exquisite fineness of her pale skin, the way the soft flush on her cheeks so accented her darkly lashed, emerald green eyes.

And her mouth—those full, pouting, pink lips that had been set in such a thin, tightly controlled line as she had tried to hold back her less than gentle temper while he had goaded her mercilessly for two days—drew his eager gaze even while his tongue moved provocatively against the back of his teeth, already contemplating what it would be like to taste her honeyed sweetness.

His inventory of her charms, which did not overlook the heady sensations brought on by the weight of her soft body as it nestled so intimately against his chest and thighs, convinced him that he was holding a woman who had been born to be a man's possession, a creature who had been perfectly fashioned to be a man's delight.

What a waste, the world would say, that she had vowed never to wed. But, his self-serving inner voice whispered silently, as he, too, had vowed to remain unwed, it seemed a bleeding pity that both of them should forego the single pleasure the married state could sometimes bring, in order to avoid all the pain of legal bondage.

Physical pleasure.

This soothing of his conscience took but a few seconds, for he had no intention of allowing such an opportune moment to slip by without taking advantage of it, and he raised his gaze to Lady Penelope's eyes, staring at her meaningfully as slowly, inexorably, he drew her closer.

He could see the indecision in her eyes, and delighted in the way her gaze flitted nervously away from his, moving down to his slightly open mouth before returning once more to frown at him in mingled interest and confusion.

For she was feeling it, too—this sudden intense physical attraction to each other, this crackling field of pure energy that held them both in thrall.

It's a healthy young kitten the dear Lady Penelope is, Leighton told himself reassuringly—brave and willing to risk danger to satisfy its natural curiosity.

"Come here, little puss," he breathed softly, his mouth now hovering a scant inch above hers. "Let me hear you purr."

Lady Penelope had once seen her brother Philippos lying in the soft grass behind the dairy with Dorcas, the Weybridge upstairs maid, doing something much like she was about to do with her handsome patient. At the time, the intense expression on Philippos's face had seemed comic, almost laughable. Yet that same expression had an extremely different effect on her now, as she saw it mirrored in Lucien's dark features.

Maybe it was because she was now the cause of that strange, disquieting look; she, and not the silly, ample-hipped Dorcas, who had giggled at poor Philippos behind the dairy. Lady Penelope knew she could never be as heartless as the maid had been. Perhaps it was because she had the niggling suspicion that her own face was also wearing much the same, odd expression.

She certainly felt intense. Intense and strangely fluttery, and—oddly enough—almost hungry.

Then his lips were on hers, and the time for thinking was over. Now there was time only for sensation.

Her world became one of colors. Blue, her body whispered to her softly, our whole being feels blue. Feel it. Midnight blue—like the deep, dark waters of some bottomless ocean. And now the red. Feel the curving waves of intense, velvety red, stroking hidden shores deep inside us; and the small, hot circles of brightest yellow, like a hundred miniature suns exploding one by one above it all in their glory, each brilliant burst growing larger and more intense than the last.

Her body was confused, not knowing if it was thirsty or made up entirely of liquid. Her skin was at once a heaven and a prison, tingling with pleasure yet not allowing her the closeness she suddenly craved more than the air she gulped deep into her lungs. His mouth had left hers to plant a row of tiny kisses down the side of her throat, sowing seeds of desire that grew quickly into softly petaled flowers that he seemed to be plucking even as they burst into bloom.

The kiss had answered many of the questions she had longed to ask Philippos, but left her with another new set of vaguely embarrassing questions that rudely shook her back to reality.

And that reality told her she was lying on top of an injured stranger, a man who was at that very moment indulging himself in a way that no well-bred young lady should allow—for even motherless Lady Penelope was not so uneducated as to think what had just occurred between her and the heavily-breathing man beneath her was within the realm of social acceptability. Her only thought now was of escape—an escape that would leave her few remaining shreds of pride intact.

If he had meant to humiliate her, he had certainly accomplished his aim. She would rather he had treated her like the child she had acted and spanked her. This punishment, she knew instinctively, would remain in her mind longer than any spanking ever could.

Feeling Lady Penelope's body growing stiff and still beneath his hands, Lucien opened his eyes to stare sightlessly over her narrow shoulder at the ugly oak armoire across the room, wondering just when his little exercise in educating her had turned into an unlooked-for lesson in humility for him. It wasn't that he had expected their kiss to leave him unmoved; Lady Penelope was far too intriguing, too beautiful, to either bore or repulse him. He had known she would please him.

But he hadn't expected to be shaken down to his toes with his own sanity-stripping response to her innocently passionate reaction. After all, he'd held many a warm, willing woman in his arms.

You just didn't think this thing through before you acted, Leighton, that's all. All right, he concluded, better late than never. Start thinking.

Perhaps it was just that she was a warm, willing virgin who had all but knocked him into horsetails? Heaven knew it was a new experience for him. It had obviously been a new experience for her, too, and much more of a lesson than he had intended when first the idea had crept into his head.

So now what was he supposed to do?

If Philip Rayburn ever gets wind of this little episode, friend or not, he'll have my liver and lights for certain—right after the wedding ceremony, that is. For one fleeting moment Lucien felt his body tense, just as if he were about to fling Lady Penelope away from him so that he could run off to the wilds of Scotland to hide until the Marquess of Weybridge had his hoydenish daughter safely bracketed to some nice safe Viscount or something.

Just as quickly, he relaxed, realizing that the Marquess, just like Lady Penelope, had no idea who he was and would think he himself had no idea of his own identity.

You're thinking all right, Leighton—conniving like some out and out cad, he told himself, halting that particular train of thought. You wanted to kiss the lady, you saw your opportunity, and you gave in to the impulse—that's the beginning, the middle, and the end of it. It was a one time thing, a temporary aberration, and if you don't do anything stupid in the next few minutes, the entire episode will be quickly forgotten.

Unless you've suddenly taken some insane notion to stick your neck back inside the parson's mousetrap, an inner voice suggested facetiously. Oh no, not me, he protested quickly, already pushing Lady Penelope away from her resting place against his shoulder. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying goes. I'll never marry again.

Lucien's lack of further assault on her senses finally allowing her to recover her powers of concentration, Lady Penelope abruptly found herself struggling to cover the awkwardness of finding herself seated bolt upright on Lucien's lap while the two of them studiously ignored each other. Why is he feeling uncomfortable? Was kissing me that repugnant to him?

The silence grew until the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour of four, startling Lady Penelope into action.

"No wonder Dorcas is always smiling," she blurted, in aid of nothing, then gave out an awkward giggle while inwardly deciding she could actually see the solid wall of mutual apprehension that had sprung up between them.

"What?" Lucien questioned blankly, knowing that, of all the many things she could have said, Lady Penelope was remaining an Original to the end. "Who's Dorcas?"

Lady Penelope slapped a hand to her mouth, unable to believe she had said anything quite so silly. "I, er, it was nothing. Just something I—never mind," she said, moving her head about almost frantically, trying in vain to figure out a way to get herself down from her perch without having her hands come into any further contact with his body. "Please excuse me now," she mumbled as she began slowly easing her toes toward the floor.

She attributed Lucien's expression of pain to the continued pressure of her body against his still-tender ribs, and he did not bother to correct her misconception, wishing as fervently as she to have their more intimate contact broken as quickly as possible. Raising his tortured gaze to the ceiling, he concentrated on forming some reasonable explanation for his disgraceful behavior and tried with all his might not to notice the awkward, intimate placement of her hands as she struggled to stand up.

"I—I have to go now. I believe Farnley will be stopping by soon to help you, um, prepare for your dinner," Lady Penelope stammered once she was safely back on the floor, self-consciously straightening her twisted gown. "I promise you there will be no repeat of my childish pranks. You have punished me enough."

Lucien thought about this for a moment. Is that how you wish to think about our recent activity? As a sort of punishment? Very well, minx. I may not be the perfect gentleman, but I will bow to your wishes.

Aloud, however, he only said, "I should certainly hope so, Lady Penelope. Since my memory has failed me, I can only say that I cannot recall the last time I resorted to taking physical action against a female, but I can't believe that I am usually so brutish a creature. It must be my injuries—and my inability to remember who I am. I tell you, Lady Penelope, you can have no idea how adrift I feel; just as if I had been cast overboard, into a wide, dark blue ocean."

Blue.

Midnight blue.

"Oh!" It was a low, involuntary cry, thin, like a small creature in pain, and Lucien quickly turned his head to look at Lady Penelope, concern evident in his dark eyes.

Unable to stay in the room any longer without bursting into embarrassed tears, Lady Penelope, her small face suddenly colorless inside her tangled curtain of red-gold curls, whirled on her toes and sped out of the room.

She left a thoroughly shaken Lucien Kenrick behind to stare after her, wondering why he wished Farnley would appear so that he could ask the man to drop something very heavy on his injured ankle.