A Gentleman Never Tells (15 page)

England expects, old boy
.

He replaced his cap and began walking, with heavy steps, toward the Castel sant’Agata.

*  *  *

L
ilibet slipped along the pebbled shoreline, scanning the trees, her breath scraping against her throat.

How long had she been asleep? Not long, surely. Only a few moments. She stopped and reached in her pocket for her watch. Eleven thirty-three. When had they left the castle? Well after breakfast, well after morning lessons. He couldn’t have gone far.

“Philip!” Her voice was hoarse, painful, desperate. “Philip!”

She glanced again to the lake. Philip knew he wasn’t allowed in. He would not have disobeyed her so directly. He’d no swimming costume, no towel. He was a remarkably self-possessed five years old, quite sensible enough not to frolic in a bitterly cold lake.

Wasn’t he?

Her veins went light with panic.

No. Be reasonable. She drew a long breath and forced her brain to calm. He wouldn’t have gone in. No sign of shoes and stockings on the shore: Even in the full throes of reckless enthusiasm, he’d never have tried to swim with his shoes on.

Would he?

Oh God. Search the water now, and waste precious time while Philip lost himself further in the trees and the valley?

But if he was in the lake, had stumbled somehow, had climbed on the rocks and fallen in . . .

“Philip!” she screamed with all her might. Surely he must hear her. The wind carried from the lake. If he heard her, he would come toward her. If he were in the trees, and not in the lake.

The old boathouse loomed a hundred yards away, its rust-colored paint peeling in the sun. She broke into a run, pebbles digging through the leather of her sturdy shoes, breath coming hard and fast in her aching lungs. Her muscles had flooded with energy; she flew down the shoreline, pumped her legs, lost her hat.

She threw open the boathouse door. “Philip!”

A starling flew into the rafters with a shocked rattle of feathers. Dust motes drifted in lazy circles among the piles of old wood, the coils of rope, glittering in the unexpected sunlight.

Every muscle in her body sagged with despair. She turned away and ran to the edge of the water. To her left, a pile of boulders stretched a broad short toe into the lake.

Philip loved climbing rocks.

She scrambled up without thinking. The soles of her shoes slipped against the speckled stone; her fingers bruised, digging for purchase. With inhuman strength she hoisted herself atop the highest boulder and staggered out to the edge.

A perfect diving spot. A perfect place for a curious boy to lose his footing and slip into the water.

She peered over the side, scanning the water, horror and desperation shooting through her blood, shaking her fingers. Unreasonable, she was being unreasonable, she ought to be looking in the woods, this was absurd. But something drew her out, begged her to look. Premonition? Fear? Morbid imagination?

The water lapped below her, clear and empty, mottled rocks shifting under the ripples. A school of tiny fish flickered past, catching the sun for a sparkling instant.

“I see you’ve found my favorite swimming hole.”

Lilibet spun about, nearly falling from her boulder.

Lord Roland Penhallow gazed up at her from the base of the rocks, his warm, familiar smile lighting his face. From atop his lordship’s broad tweedy shoulders, Philip stretched his arms toward her and shouted with delight.

“Mama!”

THIRTEEN

S
he slid down the rock, she dropped to her knees in the pebbles, she held out her arms, sobbing and crying into his hair.

“I was so worried! Oh, darling! I’m so sorry!”

“I was after this grasshopper, Mama. The biggest ruddy grasshopper you’ve ever seen. And Lord Roland . . .”

Roland’s voice wrapped around her ear, low and concerned. “Were you so worried, then? I’m awfully sorry. I saw him hanging about the trees, happy as a lark.”

She looked up. He stood there against the base of the boulder, propped up by one sturdy shoulder, staring down at her with an intense concentration of emotion in his eyes. A tweed cap concealed his hair, emphasizing the impeccable bones of his face, the firm cut of his jaw, the long cords of his neck disappearing into his loosened collar. In the spreading noon sunshine, his skin had turned to gold. He looked like a classical painting, an Adonis in modern clothes, too beautiful to be real.

“I’d fallen asleep,” she said, voice hoarse. “I thought . . . I didn’t know where he’d gone . . . I panicked . . . the water . . .”

“Oh, Mama,” Philip said scornfully. “I’d never go swimming with my shoes on.”

She buried her face in his warm, sun-scented hair. “No, darling. Of course not. I was so silly. Of course you were all right. You’re a big boy.” She lifted her eyes again, hardly daring to look at Roland, lithe and handsome and invincible against his rock. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled, and all at once he was human again. “I promised I’d bring him directly to you next time, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she said. Philip’s curls nestled against her cheek like a cloud of down. “You promised.”

He took off his cap, examined the inside, and put it back on again. His eyes cast a considering gaze up to the sky. “I was thinking a chap might have a reward for a job well done.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “What sort of reward?” she asking, rising to her feet.

“It seems to me a picnic might do very nicely.”

“Oh, can he, Mama?” Philip grabbed her hand. “Can he, please?”

She squeezed Philip’s fingers. Roland wore an inquiring expression, eyebrows raised, chin tucked inward. No longer godlike, nor even human: rather like a particularly irresistible golden retriever, hoping for a bone.

Relief, deliverance, euphoria still sang in her blood, danced in the tips of her fingers. The back of her head blazed in the warm Italian sun. She was in love with Roland Penhallow; she was in love with the world.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course he can.”

*  *  *

T
hree hours later, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his jacket slung over one shoulder, Roland dragged his eviscerated body back up the hill to the castle.

Until now, he’d considered a hard day’s hunt atop a vigorous stallion the most exhausting pastime known to man. An afternoon spent chasing a vigorous young boy about a lakeshore had relegated
that
notion to the land of fond nostalgia.

“He needs a father,” said Roland.

Lilibet didn’t reply. She trudged by his side, between two long rows of grapevines, her face shadowed by the brim of a large hat. Fifty or so yards ahead, Philip ran from vine to vine with the superabundant energy of his species, stopping every so often to check for new growth.

What the devil were they feeding him?

Roland pulled aside his collar with one finger to allow a trifle more air to circulate around his heated skin. “I suppose you would say he has a father already,” he continued. “A blood father.”

“Yes, he does. He loves his father.”

Roland switched the picnic basket to his outside hand, bringing him closer to her body, to the swish of her lettuce green dress. “Is Somerton a good father?”

“Not particularly. But it doesn’t matter. Children love you regardless.” She was subdued, thoughtful. He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. She’d been so happy and animated at the picnic, almost like the lively Lilibet he’d known that summer in London. Her laughter had bubbled through the warm spring air, had made his heart swell with joy. But as they’d packed up the basket again, an intense quiet had settled over her. She’d folded the cloth and stacked the plates in silence, avoiding his glance, avoiding his touch.

A gentle drone rang his ear, a passing bumblebee, black and fat and drunk with pollen from the orchards. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word
father
,” Roland said. “I only mean that he’s a boy, a growing boy. He needs—I believe he needs—a man about, from time to time.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I know what you meant.”

“Do you agree?”

“It depends, I suppose. On who the man might be.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t so much as tilt her head in his direction. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, on Philip’s larking figure, the lines and curves of her body snugly encased in her dress. With piercing sharpness, he longed to touch that body, to lie with her, to peel away the layers of cloth between them. He wanted to bury his face in her bosom, to lay his hand atop her growing belly, to plunge his body into hers, to make her weep with pleasure, to worship her.

He brushed the back of her hand with his own, grazing the tips of her fingers for an instant. “And if that man were me?”

“I don’t know, Roland.” Her voice ached in his ear. “I can’t . . . I can’t even think about starting again. Even if . . . even if my marriage . . . even if Somerton were magically to disappear, without any consequences, without his killing you or taking Philip, or both . . .”

“I’d never let him do that. You know I wouldn’t.”

“Even if all these things were to happen, I can’t . . .” She checked herself.

“Can’t what?”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispered. “You don’t know. To be betrayed like that. Oh, I know you’ve sworn that you’re different. Every man says that. But all I have to go on, Roland, is what you’ve done. All I know is that you’ve spent the past six years tumbling from bed to bed . . .”

“Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

“. . . and how can I possibly expect you to change? Even if I were madly in love with you . . .”

“You
are
madly in love with me. As I am with you. Let’s not pretend, Lilibet.” He stopped and took her arm and turned her to face him. With one finger he lifted her chin. “Look at me. Let’s not pretend
that
, at least.”

She regarded him steadily, her eyes a startling blue in the bright afternoon light. “Even if I were in love with you, I couldn’t ask you to be someone you’re not. And I couldn’t give another child a faithless man for a father.”

The air seemed to empty out of his ears at her words. “I am not faithless,” he said, but it sounded feeble, even to himself. “I have not . . . I’m not what you think. I’m not what everybody thinks. I . . .” He stopped himself by brute mental force.
Do not say it. Do not tell her
.

She raised one eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.

He tightened his grip on her arms, willing her to believe him. “This . . . this reputation I have. I won’t pretend it doesn’t exist. I won’t pretend I didn’t cultivate it. But . . . the popular rumor . . . the things you’ve been hearing . . .” He closed his eyes, drew breath, opened them again. Her beautiful face swam before him, intent lines drawn in her forehead. “It is all exaggerated. I swear it, Lilibet.
Greatly
exaggerated.”

“How am I to believe you?”

“I swear it, Lilibet. On my honor, I swear it.” He slid his hand down her arm to enclose her hand. She glanced up the row of vines to Philip and back again to him. “I swear it,” he whispered.

She shook her head and turned to continue up the row. “Rumor is usually wrong in the details, I’ve found, but seldom in the essentials.”

“In this case, both,” he said. “In this case, rumor is what I’ve designed it to be.”

“Oh, come,” she laughed. “Why on earth would any man cultivate a reputation for promiscuity, without enjoying the reality?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Terribly convincing of you.
I’m telling the truth, darling, but I can’t tell you why
. Yes, frightfully sound.” But her hand remained in his, warm and slightly damp, returning just the smallest amount of pressure.

“Can you not have the slightest particle of faith in me?” he asked.

Philip turned abruptly and began to run toward them. Lilibet dropped his hand like a stone, leaving his fingers empty and grasping for her touch.

“I’ve learned, your lordship,” she said, under her breath, “to prefer deeds over words.” She asked Philip, “What do you have for me, darling?”

Philip shook his head and held up his hands in Roland’s direction, closed together in a ball. “It’s not for you, Mama. It’s for Lord Roland. Look! It’s a grasshopper!”

He opened a crack between two fingers and Roland peered inside. “Egad! Look at that fellow! He must be an inch long, at least!”

“His name is Norbert,” Philip said, looking in his hands himself with a fond parental gaze. “I’m going to make a cage and fill it with grass and keep him in my room.”

“
Our
room,” said Lilibet, “and you won’t do any such thing.”

“Oh, Mama! Please! He’s really a well-behaved grasshopper! He let me catch him without any trouble!”

“Nevertheless. No inch-long insects in my room, if you please. Not even well-behaved ones.”

Philip’s lower lip trembled. “Please, Mama! I’ll feed him myself!”

“Look here,” said Roland, unable to withstand that trembling lower lip, “I’d be happy to keep the little fellow in with me.
I’ve
no objection to inch-long insects. Properly caged, that is.”

The sun burst out onto Philip’s face. “Oh, sir! Would you? Would you really?”

“With pleasure,” Roland said, “properly caged.”

“Really, Lord Roland, it isn’t at all necessary,” said Lilibet.

He smiled at her. “My dear, it’s quite necessary. Every young man should have a pet of some kind. Why not a grasshopper?”

“That’s right, Mama! Norbert’s a lovely pet.”

Roland held up his hand and ticked off his fingers. “Doesn’t require meat. Doesn’t require daily walking. No hair on the upholstery. No puddles on the Aubusson.” He brandished his closed fist triumphantly. “A most eligible pet. Don’t know why I don’t keep a flock of them myself. Or . . . or is it a cloud?”

She was laughing. “Oh, very well. But you’ll have to sort out the cage yourselves. A very
sound
cage, if you please.”

“I believe we can manage that all right, can’t we, Philip?” Roland chuffed the boy’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir! I’m sure Abigail will help us find some chicken wire.” Philip dashed on down the row. His words floated behind his racing body, growing faint. “I think I shall train him up for a flea circus!”

“Oh God,” Lilibet said.

Roland took her hand again, and she didn’t resist. They were drawing near the end of the row; in a moment, they would be out in the open, with only a short meadow between them and the flagstones of the kitchen courtyard. “May I see you again later?” he asked quietly.

“For what purpose?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Another attempt to seduce me?”

“If you like. I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Another laugh. “You’re trying very hard, aren’t you?”

Philip had disappeared around the end of the vine row. Roland stopped and turned to face her, taking her other hand in his, her palms smooth and fragile against his fingers. At some point during the walk, her hat had shifted a bit to one side; he reached out and straightened it, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Is it working?” he asked.

His heart thumped in his chest, waiting for her answer.

Her blue eyes slipped for an instant to his lips, and back up again. “After dinner,” she said. “I’ll ask Francesca to keep watch on Philip, or Morini.”

“Who’s Morini?”

“The housekeeper. She won’t mind.” She spoke a little breathlessly; her hands tightened around his. He could smell the lavender of her skin, the sweetness of her breath. Her round pink lips beckoned irresistibly.

And really, why resist?

Before she could object, he took her face between his hands and buried his lips in hers: not gently, not inquisitively, but as if he were devouring the delicate flesh of a peach from the inside out. He stroked her tongue, the roof of her mouth, the satin sides of her cheeks; he inhaled the scent of her like a drug, shooting through his veins. After a single shocked gasp, she arched her back and leaned into the kiss, returning the stroke of his tongue, her hands
Good God!
grasping the curve of his buttocks with a firm, possessive grip and pressing his hardened cock into the curve of her belly.

She made a hungry growling sound from somewhere deep in her throat; he thrust his fingers into her hair, beneath her hat, and moved his feet to trap her legs between his.

“Mama!”

Philip’s voice drifted over the rows of vines.

Lilibet stumbled backward with a little cry, pushing him away.

“Coming!” she called hoarsely. Her hands went to her hair, pushing the pins in place, straightening her hat. Her eyes held his, wide and round, the blue so intense he wanted to crawl inside. “I must go,” she whispered, and turned away.

“Wait.” He gripped her hands. “Tonight.”

Her chest heaved for breath, breasts straining beneath the thin linen of her dress. He could see the tick of her pulse where it jumped in her neck. “Yes, tonight.”

“What time?”

“Late. Eleven o’clock, perhaps. Outdoors, where we can’t be found.”

“I’ll think of something. I’ll send a note.”

She nodded, drew her hands away, and hurried down the row, disappearing almost before he could move. His stunned brain took a moment to review what it had just learned.

Tonight. Outdoors. Note. Eleven o’clock.

If he could survive that long.