The wry look from his mother was followed by her assessment. “I do believe you made a hash of the affair.”
“She seemed very receptive.”
“What happened, then?”
“I admit I hadn’t had a chance to tell her about the money, but that didn’t seem to bother her nearly as much as I thought. She insisted that if I needed the blunt, she’d give me what I require. Dashed odd thing to do if she was angry with me.”
The countess settled on her favorite chair while inspecting her dearest son. For all that he was the head of the Harford family and had accepted his responsibilities at an early age, there was at times an endearingly boyish air about him. Behind that fashionable and dashing facade, that whimsical sense of humor, existed the trustworthy gentleman, the rock-solid honorable person she knew deserved the woman he loved.
‘Did you tell her that you loved her?” she probed.
It was the sort of question mothers were not supposed to ask, and he gave it the expected masculine response.
“She knew.”
“Lovely. By your kind words and gestures, I fancy. You disappoint me, dear boy. I trust you will not make a second mistake.” She rose and slipped from the room to consult with the cook regarding a diet for the invalid when she eventually regained consciousness.
Jonathan decided he had best return to his house to clean up, then come back later on, when it was more likely that Penny would be awake. They needed to talk, something she did all too well—without revealing a thing.
Darling clucked with sympathy when he heard of the disaster. “Those post chaises are a poor design, my lord,” he declared. “Too tippy by half.”
Jonathan absently agreed with him as he ducked into the library to check his desk for the letter he had discovered in a book that had been one of his father’s favorites. He thought his mother might be pleased to know how much it had meant to her husband, for he had tucked it in a book of poetry, never parting with it.
The letter was where he had left it. He took it along with him while he went up to change his clothes. In record time he came pounding down the stairs, then out to where his carriage awaited him. Darling saw him off, standing at the door with worried eyes as his master tore off down the street.
At Harford House Jonathan encountered a most unearthly silence. Before the house, straw had been placed on the cobbles to cut the noise from passing carriages, a thing normally done in serious illness or childbirth. Rushing up the stairs, he charged into the drawing room, his eyes frantic with worry.
Charis and David looked up to greet him from where they sat on a sofa across the room, discussing their plans.
“Any change?” Jonathan barked, not bothering to explain, and fearing the worst.
“Mother said she seems to be coming to now.” Charis gave her brother a look of concern. In all her life she could not recall seeing him so wild-eyed.
“Good.” He whirled about and dashed up the next flight of stairs and down to the best guest chamber, where he rapped on the door before entering.
Penelope gave him a narrow look, looking pale and delicate in the vast bed. “You might have waited for a reply.” Her voice, though faint, held its normal asperity.
“I might. Hardly need to at this point. We shall be married shortly and then I shall have the right to enter as I please.” He slowly grinned as he studied her face, taking note of the faint flush of color in her cheeks.
“I said there is no need for that.” She gave a fretful look about the pretty room, taking note of the pink-and-white-striped silk draping the tester on her bed, the same used for window draperies, and pink silk moire hung on the walls. An exquisite gilt looking glass hung over a cherrywood chest. It might be a beautiful room, but she didn’t wish to be in it. “You ought not be in here,” she reminded him.
“We need to talk, and I wished to see how you are.”
“Well, I have no wish to natter with you,” she sniped in a peevish tone, suspecting she sounded a trifle childish in her complaint.
“Why do you persist in saying we won’t be married? I said it is the best thing to do. It has been announced,” he reminded her.
“Unannounce it,” she said, then sniffed back a threatened tear. “I fully intend to com-compensate you for all you have done for me since I came to London. If I had realized how painful it would be for you,” not to mention me, she added mentally, “I’d have stayed at home. At least Ernest is no longer a threat to my peace. I believe I have you to thank for that, sir,” she admitted in all honesty, “one way or another.”
“Penny,” he warned, moving closer until he stood at the side of her bed.
“I’ll not have you making so great a sacrifice for me,” she said, tears at last creeping from beneath tightly closed lids. She turned her face away from him, hating him to see her weakness.
He longed to crush her in his arms, so he might reassure her of his love. He flexed his hands in frustration. “Why do you say it is a sacrifice, my love? I look forward to our marriage with great eagerness.”
“Stop those lies,” she cried, outraged he could joke when she had read that letter, she knew of his true love.
He frowned at her words, then sat on the edge of her bed, heedless of any discomfort he might give her. “Just what brought this on?” he demanded in
