He clamped his lips shut, thrust his hands into his pockets and watched her walk away, turning down the corridor and disappearing from view. Still he remained, listening, until he heard the distant clunk of her bedchamber latch falling. Only then did he let out his disgusted snort.
Turning, he headed for his apartments and his bed.
He stood very little chance of its being a good night.
CHAPTER 6
THEY NEXT MET OVER THE BREAKFAST TABLE. HE WAS already there, waiting. Penny walked in, nodded his way, smiled at Filchett, sat in the chair he held for her, then poured herself a cup of tea and helped herself to toast.
Charles watched her. He’d got precious little sleep last night. Consequently, he’d had plenty of time to think, enough for the inconsistency in her response to him to rise out of his memories and stare him in the face.
Thirteen years ago he’d thought she’d had enough of him, that after their first and only bout of lovemaking she’d finished with him, never wanted to see him, speak with him, or do anything else with him ever again. That message had reached him loud and clear, but from a distance. A distance she’d insisted on preserving and that, with their families all about, she’d had no difficulty arranging.
Because of that distance, he hadn’t realized the truth. She hadn’t stopped wanting him; she still did. She hadn’t so much been giving him his marching orders as holding him at bay until his real marching orders had taken him away.
Thirteen years ago, she’d been running. Something about their lovemaking had frightened her, but he still didn’t know what. He’d originally, reluctantly, put her adverse reaction down to the physical pain, but he’d never been sure; it hadn’t seemed much like the Penny he knew, but how could he tell when she’d refused to talk about it?
Considering the question now, there were other aspects—her independence, her pride, some unexpected sensibility—that might have contributed to make her take against him, but he knew better than to think he could follow the tortuous processes of her mind. That was the mistake he’d made thirteen years ago; he wasn’t about to make it again.
If she had any difficulty, he’d make her tell him in words incapable of misconstruction. He wouldn’t allow her to deflect him; he had no intention of taking a pert No for an answer, or accepting a dismissal, no matter how distant and haughty. This time the situation favored him; their families, the gaggle of females who, with the best of intentions, perennially managed to get in his way, weren’t there for her to use as a screen. This time, there was just him and her and what lay between them. He wasn’t going to let her—the one and only lady for him—slip through his fingers again.
With that resolution firmly made, he’d spent the small hours deciding how to proceed. How to seduce her. The first step was obvious, an absolute requirement; he couldn’t seduce her under his own roof.
Courtesy of his investigation, which investigation she was determined to immerse herself in, that requirement wouldn’t be difficult to meet.
He waited, patient, unperturbed, his gaze on her. Filchett, reading the undercurrents accurately, left in search of more coffee.
Penny buttered her toast, then reached for the jam. After last night, she’d made a firm resolution to restrict her interaction with Charles to the field of his investigation. And to keep at least a yard between them if at all humanly possible.
He’d accepted her refusal last night, but she had no wish to repeat the exercise, even less to tempt him or herself. She might not have the strength to utter the word next time; the likely consequences didn’t bear contemplating. She had absolutely no ambition to be his sometime lover, warming his bed for however long he was there, only to be alone again when he returned to London. To be forever alone once he found his bride.
Eventually, unable to continue to pretend to be unaware of his gaze, she looked up and met it. “How are we going to learn how Granville communicated with the French?”
Down the length of the table, his dark eyes held hers. “Other than by continuing to ask, perhaps being rather more specific in our questions, I’m not sure we have that many avenues to follow.”
He looked down, long fingers idly stroking his coffee cup.
Suddenly realizing she was staring at those mesmerizing fingers, she looked up as he did.
“One thing—I think we need to pay more attention to Nicholas.”
She swallowed. “In case he knows how Granville arranged things?”
“I doubt he knows—if he did, he wouldn’t be asking so many questions, and so widely. But it’s possible, even likely, that he knows a piece of the puzzle—he at least knows enough to realize that there has to be someone else, or something else, involved.”
?
?Hmm…so how can we learn more from him?”
Charles resisted the temptation to jump in with his solution. Not yet—let her ponder, weigh up the options, think things through. If she came up with the answer he wanted by herself, so much the better. “There’s still the other gangs to speak to. The more we learn of Granville’s activities, the better chance we stand of stumbling onto some clue. But Nicholas is the one person we’re sure was involved—keeping apprised of his movements would be wise.”
He set down his cup, pushed back his chair. “I’ve estate matters to attend to. If you can think of any way to improve our intelligence of Nicholas’s activities, I’ll be in the study.”
Rising, he walked out of the room, knowing he’d surprised her. Finding Filchett hovering in the hall with a fresh pot of coffee, he directed him to the study, and followed.
Penny remained at the breakfast table, sipping her tea, nibbling her toast, and trying to fathom Charles’s direction. Eventually reflecting it was never wise to question the benevolence of the gods, she rose and headed for the parlor. A sun-warmed, feminine sitting room his mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law used when relaxing en famille, the parlor was empty.
She sat on a window seat, looked out over the manicured lawns, and considered what to do. What she could do.