“I spent four Seasons in London-of course, I can waltz.”
“So can I.”
“I’d noticed.” She could hardly help it; she felt as if her senses were whirling, twirling, around him.
He smiled, and drew her a fraction closer as they went through the turn, predictably didn’t ease his hold as they came out of it. “We’ve danced before.”
“But never a waltz-if you recall, before, it was considered too fast.” For good reason, it seemed. She’d never felt anything but elegantly graceful when waltzing with other men. Now she felt breathless, close to witless.
The waltz might have been designed as a display for Charles’s brand of masculine strength. With effortless grace, he whirled her down the room. Heads turned as they passed; others looked on in patent envy.
She had to relax in his arms, let her feet follow his lead without conscious thought, or she’d stumble-and he’d catch her, laugh, and set her right again. She was determined she wouldn’t let that happen, that for once, she’d match him on a physical plane.
And she did. Calmly, serenely.
Not, however, without paying a price.
It was impossible not to note how well they suited, he so tall, so large, she a slender reed in his arms, but tall enough, with legs long enough to match him. Impossible not to be aware of how easily he held her, how much in his physical control she was, albeit he wasn’t truly exercising that control; this time, in this exchange, she was a willing partner.
That exchange itself tightened her nerves, left her senses in a state of abraded alert. In the cocoon the revolutions of the waltz wove about them, it was impossible not to know, to feel, just how powerful was the attraction that, contrary to her expectations, still existed between them.
Impossible not to know that she still evoked the same sexual interest and intentness in him. Impossible not to acknowledge that she reacted to that, responded far more deeply, in a more fundamental way than was wise.
His hand spread low on her back, burning through her thin gown, his other hand engulfing hers, were not simple contacts but statements, his hard thigh pressing between hers as they whirled through the tight turns both a memory and a declaration.
Her senses quivered; the moment shook her, yet focused on him, on staying with him and not letting him sweep her wits away, she realized that however much she felt and knew and experienced, he did, too.
That last was apparent when the music ended, and he reluctantly slowed, halted, and released her. She heard the breath he drew in-as tight, as constricted, as her own. The knowledge buoyed her; if there was weakness here, it wasn’t hers alone.
“Nicholas,” Charles murmured. Nicholas was standing a short distance away, talking with Lord Trescowthick; he looked rather pale, his stance was stiff, and he shifted frequently. “He seems rather tense. Is he always like that?”
Penny studied him, eventually replied, “He wasn’t when he first came down last year, but over the past few months, yes. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping all that well.”
“Indeed.” Charles took her arm. “There are at least five gentlemen present I can’t place.” She’d already filled him in on the marriages he’d missed over the years, and the deaths, and the changes they’d wrought in the local community. “Five is more than I would have expected at this time of year. Let’s see what we can learn about them.”
The guests had spread out, making it easy to drift from group to group. They approached Lady Essington, Millie and Julia’s formidable mother-in-law; a large, heavyset gentleman had remained by her side throughout.
He proved to be a Mr. Yarrow, a relative of Lady Essington, come to the milder Cornish coast to convalesce after a bout of pneumonia. A taciturn man in his late thirties, he had hard hazel eyes and seemed hale enough.
Lady Essington, an old gorgon, was not of a mind to let Penny leave on Charles’s arm; indeed, Charles wondered if she had designs on Penny with a view to Mr. Yarrow. The impasse was resolved without him having to resort to earlish arrogance by Mr. Robinson, a local gentleman who requested Penny’s hand for a country dance.
Charles let her go. Extracting himself from Lady Essington’s clutches, he retreated to the side of the room to wait, not patiently, for Penny to return.
Propping against the wall, he swiftly reviewed his dispositions. With respect to Penny’s safety, his pickets were in place, all the elements of his plan to protect her now she’d returned to the Hall successfully deployed. As for his investigation, that was proceeding as fast as was wise; there was nothing he could do beyond what he already had in train until he heard back from Dalziel.
In his personal pursuit of Penny, he was still reconnoitering the terrain. He was too wise to ride blithely in and end in a quagmire, as he somehow had all those years ago; this time, he was going in extrawarily. He’d learned her reason for
That was one point he needed to pursue. Another was why she didn’t agree that she was the perfect wife for him. She’d been bothered by his recitation of the obvious; that didn’t bode well. He was going to have to learn what her reservation was and work to address it.
And, knowing her, work it would be; influencing Penelope Jane Marissa Selborne had never been easy.
He straightened from the wall as she returned to his side-of her own volition, so he didn’t have to go and openly reclaim her hand, for which he gave due thanks; he needed to avoid being obvious, but there was a limit to his forbearance.
Retaking the arm he offered, she dismissed Robinson with an easy smile, then glanced up at him. “Who next?”
It was the investigation that had brought her back. Nevertheless, he was grateful for small mercies.
He looked across the room. A well-set up gentleman in his late twenties stood talking to Mr. Kilpatrick. “Any idea who he is?”
“None. Shall we find out?”
Together, they crossed the room.
Mr. Julian Fothergill was an ardent bird-watcher come to the district intent on spotting all the species peculiar to the area.
“Quite a challenge to do it in a month, but I’m determined.” Brown-eyed, brown-haired, with pale patrician features and an easy smile, Fothergill, a few inches shorter than Charles, was a distant relative of the socially reclusive Lord Culver. “I remembered the area from when I visited as a boy.”
They discussed the local geography, then moved on to join Lord Trescowthick and a Mr. Swaley. A gentleman of middle years, middle height, and wiry build, Mr. Swaley was staying with the Trescowthicks. He became rather reserved when Charles politely inquired what had brought him to the district. “Just looking around-a pleasant spot.”
With an amiable expression, but tight lips, Swaley added nothing more.
Charles didn’t press, but, smiling easily, extolled the virtues of the district. Realizing his tack, Penny did her part; it soon became clear that Mr. Swaley’s interest was focused more on the land than the sea.
“Though what that tells us,” she murmured as they moved on, “I can’t imagine.”
Charles said nothing but steered her to where Mr. and Mrs. Cranfield of nearby Cranfield Grange were entertaining the fourth mystery man.
He’d alerted his grooms and sent word to the smuggling gangs to let him know of any itinerant visitor. Gimby’s murderer, however, might move in higher circles; none knew better than Charles that executioners could be as aristocratic as he. He’d warned Dennis Gibbs not to assume Nicholas was the murderer, specifically not to let that assumption blind him to other potential candidates. That was excellent advice.
Mr.Albert Carmichael, a gentleman Charles guessed to be much his own age, was indeed a houseguest of the Cranfields. Before he could ask what had brought Carmichael to the area, the man asked about the local hunting, then progressed to what shooting might be expected and when, and what type of fishing was to be had, both in the rivers and the sea.
“Is it easy to get the local fishermen to take one out?”
Inwardly bemused, Charles answered, encouraged by a nodding Mrs. Cranfield. Then Imogen Cranfield, who’d been dancing with Mr. Farley, returned to her mother’s side, and all became clear.
Imogen had been a plain, rather dumpy girl; she’d grown into a plainer, still somewhat dumpy woman, but she
