A Lady of His Own

Halting, he arched a brow at her.

Smiling at her own fantasy, she went forward. He was perfectly turned out in an evening coat the same color as his eyes, a dark, intense blue one shade removed from black. His shirt and cravat were pristine white, his waistcoat a subdued affair of dark blue and black swirls, his long legs draped in black trousers that emphasized rather than concealed their muscled strength.

The cut of coat, waistcoat, the style of his trousers, was austere. On any other man, the effect would be too severe, yet he exuded an impression of high drama, of larger-than-life abilities-a strong hint of the piratical remained.

She raised her gaze to his face, only to discover his had reached her toes, clad in gilded Grecian sandals and fleetingly, flirtingly visible beneath her skirt’s hem. She halted before him.

He looked up-slowly-his gaze tracing the lines of her gray-blue silk gown. The hue was several shades darker than her eyes, chosen to complement them and her fair hair. She’d had her maid dress her hair in a stylish knot, leaving tendrils trailing to bob about her ears and caress her bare shoulders.

Just as his gaze did before lifting to her throat, her chin, her lips, finally meeting her eyes. He looked into them and smiled. As if he was some fantastical beast and his only thought was to devour her.

Ruthlessly, she suppressed a shiver. Casting him what she hoped was a worldly, cynical, and warning look, she gave him her hand.

His smile only deepened; his eyes flashed as he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “Come. Let’s go.” He turned her to the front door as the sound of wheels on the gravel reached them. “Did Nicholas go ahead?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “He was rather unsure what to make of our arrangements. He left in his curricle about ten minutes ago.”

“Good.”

The footman was holding the carriage door; Charles handed her in, then followed, sitting beside her on the mercifully wide seat.

As the footman shut the door, she asked, “Why good?”

“So that by the time we arrive, he’ll be involved with other guests. I want to watch him, but from a distance, not as one of the same circle.”

Relaxing against the seat as the carriage rolled down the drive, she digested that, then remembered. “What did you learn from the grooms?”

He was looking out of the window. She waited, confident he would reply, yet she would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking.

Eventually he said, “Nicholas has been riding out during the day and at night. Sometimes to Fowey, sometimes to Lostwithiel and beyond. Not as constantly as he did in February, but often enough. As far as I can make out, he could have killed Gimby, but there’s no evidence he actually did.”

After a moment, she asked, “Do you think he did?”

Another long pause ensued, then he looked at her. “Gimby wasn’t simply killed-he was interrogated, then executed. I’m having a difficult time seeing Nicholas as interrogator-cum-executioner. I can imagine him ordering it done, but not getting his hands soiled with the actual doing. He may well be guilty of Gimby’s death, but might never have set foot in that cottage.

“And no, before you ask, I haven’t any idea who he might have got to do the deed. I doubt they’re local, which means they shouldn’t be that difficult to trace. I’ve put the word around that I’m looking for news of any passing stranger-we’ll see what turns up.”

The gates of Branscombe Hall loomed ahead. In short order, the carriage rocked to a halt; Charles descended and handed her down.

Lady Trescowthick, waiting to greet them inside her front hall, all but cooed at the sight of them-not, Penny reminded herself, because her ladyship thought there was anything between them, but purely because she’d succeeded in getting them both, as individuals, to her event.

Parting from her ladyship, they walked to the archway leading into the ballroom; Penny glanced sidelong at Charles.

He saw, raised a brow.

Lips twitching, she looked ahead. “Just as well most of the unmarried young ladies are in London, or you’d be in serious trouble.”

“Ah, but I’m entering the arena well armed.”

“Oh?”

His hand covered hers on his sleeve. “With you.”

She nearly choked on a laugh. “That’s a dreadful pun.”

“But apt.” Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the room, then glanced down at her. “It would be helpful if you could resist temptation and remain by my side. If I have to guard my own back against feminine attack, I won’t be able to concentrate on Nicholas.”

She threw him a look designed to depress pretension, not that she expected it to succeed, then swept forward to greet Lady Carmody. Yet as she and he commenced a slow circle of the room, she bore his words in mind; he hadn’t been joking. In this situation, staying by his side undoubtedly qualified as doing all she could to further his investigation.

Ladies had always chased him; at twenty, he’d been a magnet for feminine attention, far more than his brothers had ever been. And he hadn’t been the earl then, not even next in line for the title.

She’d been one of the few who had never pursued him-there’d never been any need. She’d simply let him chase her.

And look where that had landed them.

Ruthlessly, she quashed the thought. Thinking of such things while he was anywhere near wasn’t wise. Let alone when he was standing beside her.

True to form, he glanced sharply at her.

She pretended not to notice and gave her attention to Lady Harbottle. “I had no idea Melissa was feeling so low.”

“Oh, it’s just a passing thing. I daresay now she’s been a week in Bath she’ll be right as rain again and back any day.” Lady Harbottle smiled delightedly at Charles. “I know she’ll want to hold a party as soon as she gets back-to renew old acquaintances, if nothing else.”

Charles smiled, and pretended he couldn’t see the speculation running through her ladyship’s head. The instant an opening offered, he steered Penny away. “Refresh my memory-didn’t Melissa Harbottle marry?”

“Yes. She’s now Melissa Barrett. She married a mill owner much older than she. He died over a year ago.”

“Ah.” After a moment, he asked, “Am I to infer that her trip to Bath wasn’t to try the waters?”

“Melissa?” Penny’s incredulous tone was answer enough.

“So she might now be described as a widow with aspirations?”

“Quite definite aspirations. She’s now wealthy enough to look rather higher than a mill owner.”

“If by any chance she asks you, do be sure to tell her to look somewhere other than the Abbey.”

She chuckled. “I will if she asks, but I doubt she will. Ask me, that is.”

He swore beneath his breath and steered her to the next group of guests.

It was a relaxed affair. Most of the local gentry who’d resisted the lure of the capital were present; it was indeed a useful venue to renew acquaintances and realign his memory. Whenever any lady with a daughter yet unwed eyed him too intently, he glibly steered the conversation in Penny’s direction-most took the hint. Some, indeed, suspected rather more.

Their speculation didn’t bother him, but he took care to avoid jogging Penny’s awareness to life. Juggling her while dealing with a serious investigation was difficult enough without fashioning rods for his own back.

A waltz, however, was too much of a temptation to resist.

“Come and dance.” He caught her hand and drew her through the still-chattering guests.

“What…? Charles-”

Reaching the dance floor, he swung her into his arms, and into the swirling, twirling throng.

Penny frowned at him. “I was going to say I don’t want to waltz.”

“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”