“That’s not what I asked.”
He frowned.
“I said I wanted to be with you. If I am, by definition I’m not in danger.” Pushing away from the bed, she walked to him. “If there’s danger, I’ll be perfectly content to stand behind you. I don’t even need to help with what you have to do.” Halting, she laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. “I simply need to be with you.”
A certain wariness filled his eyes. Raising a hand, he closed it over hers, held her palm to his chest. “You don’t have to be with me physically—”
“Yes, I do. Now, I do. Years ago, perhaps not.” She held his gaze. “The youth you used to be is not the man you are. The man you are learned to be alone—very alone, very apart. You can keep the rest of the world at bay, but if we marry, you can’t and won’t keep me at a distance.” After a moment, she softly added, “I won’t let you—I won’t accept that.”
She wouldn’t accept leaving him to deal with life alone.
He understood what she was demanding; she saw comprehension in his eyes, a center of calm coalescing in the darkness.
A long moment passed, then he exhaled. He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. “Very well.” His eyes were still stormy when they met hers. “We’ll go to Amberly Grange tomorrow, and…we’ll see.”
CHAPTER 22
HE’D KNOWN WINNING HER WOULDN’T BE EASY, BUT HE hadn’t expected it to be this hard. It had been bad enough when she’d returned to Wallingham; given all that had evolved between them since, taking her with him to Amberly Grange was a hundred times worse.
As the carriage rocked and swayed, four horses swiftly drawing them into Berkshire, Charles sat beside Penny and contemplated fate’s ironies.
Beside him, calmly expectant, sat the lady he wanted for his wife—the one and only lady who would do, who could fill the position as he needed it filled. A fortnight ago, he’d been staring at the fire in the library at the Abbey, impatient for her to appear—and she had. She’d marched into his house, reclaimed him, and nothing had been the same since—nothing had gone quite as he’d planned.
Last night, in the ballroom, without a word she’d stepped in and eased his way, acted precisely as he’d needed her to, been what he’d needed her to be. For the first time since returning to England, he’d been able to relax in a crowd. Later still, after forcing him to accede to her view of how things should be…he hadn’t been in any mood for gentle loving—she not only hadn’t cared, she’d taken wanton delight in encouraging him to be as demanding as he’d wished, so she could match him and meet him, drive him wild, and in her own inimitable way soothe his soul.
She’d proved she was the only lady for him—then blithely extrapolated his need for her to encompass his entire life, and made his agreement to her constant presence by his side a condition of their future union.
He’d got precisely what he’d wanted, but not as he’d expected. Looking back, looking forward, he strongly suspected that would be the story of their lives.
It was midafternoon when the carriage swept into the graveled drive of Amberly Grange. Dalziel and Amberly had been half an hour ahead of them in Amberly’s carriage.
They were welcomed as expected guests. Shown into the drawing room, they found Amberly awaiting them. He looked tired, but his gaze was shrewd.
He greeted Penny, shook hands with Charles, then waved them to chairs. “Let’s have tea, then we can commence.”
The first step proved easy enough; his butler and housekeeper hadn’t hired anyone in recent weeks. All the staff in the large house had been there for years.
Charles went out to the stables to convey the news to Dalziel, who’d spent the hour since they’d arrived dozing in the carriage. Charles returned to the house alone; when darkness fell, Dalziel joined them.
Over dinner, they put the final touches to their plan.
The next morning, after breakfast, Penny and Charles went for a short ride. On returning, they joined Amberly on the terrace for morning tea. Afterward, all three went for a stroll in the gardens, keeping to the wide lawns circling the house. When the luncheon gong rang, they repaired to the dining parlor; later, Penny and Amberly strolled about the conservatory while Charles read the news sheets on the terrace outside. In the late afternoon, the marquess retreated to the pianoforte in the music room. Penny and Charles saw him launched on a sonata, then, arm in arm, they left the room, strolled along the terrace, then descended to the lawns.
After a lengthy stroll, never out of sight or hearing of the music room and the delicate airs wafting forth on the breeze, they returned and, shortly after, all three withdrew to their rooms to dress for dinner.
Dinner, and the evening spent in the drawing room, followed the predictable pattern, then they retired to their bed-chambers, to their beds, and slept.
The next day, they repeated the performance. Exactly. The program was precisely what one might expect of a nobleman of Amberly’s age being attended by a female relative and watched over by someone like Charles.
All believable, and all very regular. They adhered to their schedule like clockwork. Dalziel was never visible to any outside the house. They’d agreed their best route was to exploit Fothergill’s arrogance and overconfidence, so they set the stage for him, and waited for him to make his entrance.
They’d accepted it might take a week and had resigned themselves to playing their roles for at least that long.
On the afternoon of the first day, while sorting through music sheets with the marquess, Penny overheard a muted discussion between Charles and Dalziel. It was clearly a continuing argument between them. In typical fashion, neither said what they meant outright, but the crux revolved about who would deliver the coup de grâce once they had Fothergill trapped between them.
Charles had a strong case; ruthlessly, with a few quiet phrases, Dalziel demolished it. Penny gave no indication she heard his words, nor felt their glances as they rested on her. Charles wavered; Dalziel subtly pushed, and he gave in. The final act in the drama would fall to Dalziel.
Days passed, and they religiously played their parts, their assigned roles. Amberly, accepting that he could do no more than that, cocooned himself in the regimen; through the hours they spent together strolling the conservatory and lawns, Penny learned more of him, leaving her with a degree of respect and burgeoning affection for the, as Nicholas had correctly termed him, incorrigible old man.