A Lady of His Own

subject to the same restrictions that applied to younger ladies. If she wished to take a lover, she could; there might be whispers, but as she wasn’t planning on marrying anyone, where was the scandal? She had no desire to return to London, and county folk were prosaic about such matters; where no damage was done, who had the right to cry foul?

Unlike Harriet, she did not feel-never had felt-desperate to marry at any cost. Her identity, her status, had been hers from birth; she didn’t need to marry to create it or shore it up. She’d never believed marriage of itself-the ceremony, the institution-had any intrinsic value; its value derived from what it represented-mutual respect and sincere affection at the very least, preferably the far more powerful emotion the poets called love.

The thought brought Millie and David Essington to mind, and their new state. While she could feel pleased for others knowing how much children meant to them, she felt no maternal urges herself; the wish to procreate had never ranked as a reason to marry, as it did for some ladies. Her attitude to children might have changed if she’d ever married, but that was one question to which she accepted she would now never learn the answer.

She glanced back at Charles, still writing, the scritch-scratch of his nib across the paper the only definite sound in the room. Half-turning, she leaned against the window frame and studied him; he was concentrating on his report and thus not attuned, as he habitually was, to her.

As usual when they were in the same room, she was aware of him at some level that had nothing to do with conscious thought. Yet with his attention deflected, she could look at him, examine him if not dispassionately, then at least rationally.

His head was bent, silky locks so black they ate the light curling over his collar. He could have been a model for Lucifer, with his rakish, hard-edged, sculpted features, his sensuous mouth, the arrogance of his chin, nose, and heavy-lidded eyes.

Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, acknowledging the power and harnessed strength inherent therein.

She turned back to the window.

On most counts, she’d chosen to let life as other ladies knew it pass her by. She’d held firm to her ideals and even now didn’t regret it. Yet Charles had proved to be the only man with whom she could be physically close, share any physical relationship, and here he now was, back again, laying seduction at her feet.

There was no compelling reason to refuse. Whatever he offered-whatever degree of sexual interaction-she would take it. She owed herself that much. She deserved that much. It had been so long since she’d experienced physical hunger, so long since she’d felt its mind-numbing heat.

And this time she knew the score; her heart would be safe. She didn’t need to hand it over in exchange; that wasn’t, as she’d learned, any part of his contract.

Fate had decreed she couldn’t have her heart’s desire; her will and her pride had prevented her making do with any other man. She wasn’t going to refuse whatever Charles offered to share with her. To her mind, it was rightful consolation.

A sound behind her had her turning to see him affix his seal to the folded packet. He set the seal aside, waved the letter to cool the wax, and swiveled to face her.

“Ready?”

She met his gaze, held it for an instant. “Yes.”

Stepping away from the window, she led the way from the room.

CHAPTER 12

IN THE HALL, CHARLES DROPPED THE PACKET ON FILCHETT’S salver, then remembered he needed more clothes.

Penny waved him up the stairs. “Go on. I’ll wait.”

He went, but she followed. He wasn’t surprised when she halted in the open door to his bedchamber and leaned there, arms folded, watching him gather a selection of shirts, cravats, and hose.

“Where have you been keeping them? Your clothes?”

He glanced briefly at her. “In Granville’s old room-the one he used before he succeeded your father.”

“Why there?”

“So I could search it at leisure, and because, if I were Nicholas, it’s the first room I would have searched-it’s therefore a room he’s unlikely to return to, and the maids don’t go in there anymore.”

“You didn’t find anything?”

“No. A diary would have been too much to hope for.”

“From Granville? Indeed.” After a moment, she asked, “How did you get back to my room last night? I thought you’d left the house.”

He wrapped his selections in a soft hunting jacket. “No. Norris knows I don’t leave. I head for the garden door, then go up the back stairs.”

So she was never truly alone with Nicholas.

Picking up his bundle, he waved her back, closed the door, and followed her to the stairs and down.

He’d already sent word to the stables; their horses were waiting. Stuffing his clothes into a pair of saddlebags, he tossed them across Domino’s neck, then lifted her to her saddle, mounted Domino, and they were away.

This time she led, urging her mare into a gallop as soon as they left the park, streaking up the grassed side of the escarpment, then flying south, riding into the wind. He joined her, thundering along beside her. The wind rose to greet them, shrieked in their faces, dragged at their hair.

They paid it no heed but streamed over the green, checking only to descend to the flat and clatter across the bridge at Lostwithiel before taking to the heights again. The wind followed their progress, whistling like a banshee as they turned east for Wallingham and thundered on.

A sense of deja vu rose and crashed through him. They’d ridden this way, just like this, many times before, but he was so far removed from the youth he’d been, and she from the girl he’d known.

Exhilarating and disconcerting, that sense of sameness only emphasized all that had changed.

And all that hadn’t.

They raced, not each other but simply for the sake of it. Late afternoon edged into evening, the sun a ball of fire dousing itself in the ocean ahead of them. In the last of the golden light, they rode wild along the ridge, then down through the fields to clatter into the Wallingham Hall stable yard.

Penny kicked her feet free and slid from her saddle; he met her gaze as, boots touching ground, he hauled the saddlebags free, slung them over his shoulder-and suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Awareness, sharp, intense and familiar, flashed between them.

Eyes wide, she stared, then swung on her heel, grabbed up her trailing habit, and headed for the house.

He fell in beside her as she walked past the kitchen garden. She glanced at him; he caught her gaze, held it- sensed the raw energy prickling over his skin, arcing between them, felt its compulsion in his veins.

Knew she felt it, too.

It was he who stepped away, increased the distance between them. He looked ahead. Impossible to whisk her off to her room or anywhere else, not like this, with the elemental hunger their wild gallop had set free riding him. And her. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

He dragged in a breath, held it. Forced himself to open the garden door and stand back, to let her precede him and walk a safe distance down the corridor to the front hall before he stepped across the threshold.

Pausing just inside the door, he waited.

She realized, stopped, and looked back.

He nodded. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, he turned, walked the other way, swung onto the back stairs, and climbed swiftly upward.

Away from temptation-a temptation that hadn’t changed with the years but had simply grown.

By the time she returned to her bedchamber later that evening, Penny’s nerves were jangling, taut, tightrope- tense-waiting. Not with innocent expectation, but an educated and quite specific anticipation; she knew what she wanted.