Practice to Deceive (39 page)

He smiled and went on, “I'd felt very close to you while you and Geoff were at Lac Brillant. It was because I told my papa I would not marry until I'd seen you again, he insisted I take the Grand Tour. Not that he didn't approve, but he thought me too young to have made up my mind. I met Charles Stuart in France and very soon gave him my allegiance. He kept me busy. The years slipped away so fast. Then, when I saw you again…” He kissed her hair and finished simply, “I knew.”

She said, her voice tremulous with emotion, “And so began to call me your sister! Wretched man.”

“Yes. When I'd come to my senses. At first, I was so giddy with love. Each time you came to tend me I could scarce refrain from seizing you and telling you how I felt. I was so selfish, in fact, that I actually crept from my bed once and came to the door to woo you.”

“What stopped you, love?”

“Daffy.” He felt her stiffen, and said, “Not intentionally. It was on the morning Otton had pawed you and I was beside myself. Daffy scared us all out of our wits by rushing in and wailing about them taking Jasper away, and you left Rob and me whilst you calmed her. Rob hadn't enjoyed very much sleep the previous night—”

“For some odd reason,” teased Penelope.

He pulled her earlobe. “Wretched Bainbridge. Anyway, he sat down and soon dozed off. I lay there, thinking of how splendid you'd been, and how cleverly you'd managed to fool Sybil with your ‘cold.' And I began to long so to hold you. I crept to the door and opened it. Only—you and Daffy were not quite done. She was on her knees, clinging to you as if you were her last hope, and you—”

Penelope's eyes were very wide. “You—heard what she said?”

“That I would bring you nothing but fear, sorrow, and a cruel—”

“Oh, my dearest, I am so sorry! How you must have felt.”

“I felt a worthless wretch because she was perfectly right, and I should have thought more of my prospects. Neither of you saw me. I closed the door and vowed I'd do nothing again to cause you to suspect how much I loved you.” He sighed. “It was far more difficult than I'd imagined. And now—look at me! I've brought you to—”

“You have brought me the greatest gift life can offer, my darling. Love.”

There was only one answer to that, of course, and it was several dizzying moments later that he sighed and, still holding Penelope very close in his arms, murmured, “What a life we will have, you and I. I shall take you to a little village outside Paris. The very loveliest spot. There is a
pension
where we can stay until we hire a place—only until the King grants an amnesty, of course.”

“What kind of place?” she asked dreamily.

“I'd thought a cottage, perhaps. Not too large. A cosy cottage with a patch of garden where I can grow vegetables and—”

The thought of this firebrand digging vegetables reduced Penelope to a squeal of laughter.

“Rascal,” he grumbled, kissing the top of her head. “I am a great hand with a shovel, let me tell you.”

“I wish I may see it! And I must have a corner of the garden patch for flowers, if you please?”

“Of course. And in the evenings when we are worn out by our labours in the patch we'll come in to a cheery fire.…” He yawned.

“Before which you will fall asleep whilst I make dinner, I suppose.”

“Gad, what a marplot! No, madam. Mrs. Quentin Chandler shall have a cook and a pretty little French housemaid who will—”

“Who will do very well to keep her saucy eyes from
Mr.
Quentin Chandler!”

He chuckled. “And we'll have a cat, of course. And a dog…” And suddenly, the picture he painted brought such an intolerable longing that he turned up her face and, running his fingertip along the hollow of her cheek, said, “Oh, Penelope Anne—how I love you. Do you think you could endure to take me to husband?”

Blinking away happy tears, she said huskily, “With joy and pride, and … forever, my darling. Oh … my darling…”

Relinquishing her mouth dazedly, Quentin was at last brought to an awareness of the sound that had been agitating at the edges of his mind for some moments. “Good Lord!” he groaned, and reached for the check rein.

The trap was swung up, and Dutch Coachman's face, dripping, peered in at them. “You all right, sir and ma'am?” he enquired, grinning.

“My poor fellow! You're fairly drowned. Find us a nice inn, quickly. We'll all be the better for a rest and some hot food.”

Very soon afterwards, her wet cloak having been carried off by the pretty chambermaid who had brought hot water and clean towels to the neat bedchamber of The Three Quails Inn, Penelope turned to where Quentin sprawled sleepily in a chair before the small fire. “Wake up, sleepy-head,” she admonished, tugging gently at his hair.

He blinked up at her. The green gown was creased and rumpled, and her hair was dishevelled, raindrops glinting here and there among the tumbled curls, but meeting his gaze a deeper pink glowed in her cheeks, and shyness caused her lashes to droop. He stood, and said very softly, “How lovely you are, my lady.”

“Oh, pooh,” she said in a rather uncertain voice. “Do you mean to go on tonight?”

“If the weather clears. I must push on, dearest.”

“To where, Quentin? Can you tell me?”

He pulled her closer, paused thoughtfully, then chuckled. “You'll know the instant you see a signpost with the name. No, love—for your own protection I'll tell you no more than that it lies near the Ashdown Forest, and—” He slipped both arms around her waist, looking at her in a way that caused a strange tension to interfere with her breathing and set her heartbeat racing. “Penelope Anne,” he sighed, “how very much I wish I could wed you now.”

Despite the knowledge that her face must be quite pink, she met his yearning gaze steadily. “And I. Is—is it possible?”

“Oh, yes. If the banns had been called for three Sundays. If I had a special licence.” He kissed her eyebrows lightly, feeling her tremble. “Small chance of that.”

“But—we
will
be wed. Tomorrow, or … the next day.” She saw desire turn his eyes to green flame, and she put her arms up around his neck, her skin tingling as she gave up her mouth to his. She was breathless and shaking when he lifted his head. “I want…” she whispered, “to belong to you, darling. Now. Tonight. I don't want to wait another day.”

‘Another day,' he thought, and his heart sank. What might happen tomorrow? What if he was taken, and Penny hounded? What if he went to his death, and she was left alone and unwed—perhaps carrying his child? “No!” he said harshly. “'Fore God, have I not done you enough harm that I must now tempt you to do this?”

“You do not tempt me,” she argued.

“Oho,” he cut in, with a rather uncertain grin. “I repulse you, do I? Now mark this, Mrs. Bainbridge—”

She put her hand over his lips. “Stop. I belong to you. Whatever happens. Don't you … want me?”

He groaned and crushed her close again, kissing her hair, smelling the sweet faint scent of the perfume she wore, feeling her soft body pressing so enticingly against him. “
Want
you?
Lord!
How can I tell you—” He thrust her from him and turned away, drawing an unsteady hand across his eyes. With a really heroic effort, he faced her again and said lightly, “Just at the moment, m'dear, I want my dinner more.” And seeing her suspicious frown, he added quickly, “Besides—my arm is deuced troublesome.”

“But,” she demurred reasonably, “you'd not need to—”

“Penelope Anne!” Laughter danced into his eyes. He said primly, “I was never more shocked!” and retreated to the adjoining bedchamber.

Left alone, Penelope sighed and did what she might to restore her appearance. She missed Daffy's expert assistance as she dressed her hair, and even more when she put on a simple travelling gown of cream muslin, embroidered in shades of blue and with many little buttons down the back. She was still struggling with those fiendishly elusive buttons when a scratch at the door announced Quentin's return. He looked rested and elegant in his coat of burgundy velvet, with snowy lace foaming at throat and wrists, his hair powdered and tied back neatly.

“How well you have done, dearest,” said Penelope. “If you could possibly manage some of these irksome buttons…?”

He managed willingly, but the business of the buttons became considerably extended since he found it necessary to kiss her back with each button he secured. Penelope's skin began to shiver with that new electric excitement as his lips touched her bare back. His hands were very cold and she could feel them trembling. She spun around as he finished, reaching out to him with eager arms, but he retreated, gasping threadily that he must not, dare not kiss her again.

“Coward!” she murmured. “That's not fair.”

He agreed. “I'm a selfish rogue, I own it, and fairly famished!”

The dining room was occupied by only one other couple, a middle-aged pair with the stamp of
nouveau riche
upon them and an odd habit of either not talking at all, or bursting into impassioned utterances at the same instant. The lady's wig was much too elaborate to be properly worn in a hedge tavern, and her wide hooped gown of magenta taffeta gained nothing from an elaborate garnet necklace. The gentleman's chair faced away from them and he did not look up as they entered, but the woman's narrowed eyes took in Penelope's gown, shawl, and hair in one quick sweep, then passed on to Quentin. After that, she scarcely looked elsewhere save when engaging in the sporadic outbursts with her husband. Beyond having offered a polite bow when first he walked into the room, Quentin paid no attention to this behaviour. Penelope, however, was vastly irked by it.

The serving maid hurried to their table with a bowl of watery and lukewarm chicken soup in which were dumplings that Quentin glumly pronounced no heavier than cannon balls. Penelope discovered she was hungry, and forgot their ill-mannered fellow diners as she struggled with the soup. “Dear one,” she said softly, “are you not too tired to press on tonight?”

“You forget I had a good nap on the way here. I'm very weak, however, for I'll be dashed if I can get my fork into this thing! How are you—Good God! Small wonder that lady stares so. Here, love…” He reached across the table to cover Penelope's hand with his own. “Put this on as soon as you can manage it without causing the starchy creature to faint.” He pressed his dragon's-head ring into her hand and, as she closed her fingers around it, he murmured, “If you wear it back to front, it should resemble a wedding band—temporarily, at least.”

Unobtrusively, Penelope managed to slide the ring onto her finger. It was much too large, but to wear his ring brought a tightening of her throat and the sting of tears to her eyes. Quentin saw her distress, promptly misinterpreted it, and chatted easily, recounting some nonsensical episode he had involved his brother in when they were children. The waiter came to take the bowls and bring a basket of bread, a platter of cold pork, a half of a mutton pie, and a bowl of water in which huddled some pallid carrots. Looking up, Penelope found Quentin's concerned gaze on her. A relieved smile lit his face. He said, “I don't wonder that soup upset you. Dreadful stuff. You should do better with—” He glanced down, saw the drowned carrots and moaned, “Oh … egad!”

Penelope smiled at him. “Geoff was the same. He despised vegetables.”

“You will find it hard to convince me that those deceased objects are vegetables. And as for your brother, I wonder Lord Hector did not take that lad in hand. If he don't pay less attention to his sweet tooth, he'll be fat as a flounder before he's—”

The glass Penelope had been lifting crashed down. The woman in the magenta gown sent a supercilious glance her way, and her spouse turned to direct a curious glance at Penelope, then continued to stare at her, frowning. The waiter came running to mop up the lemonade and bring a fresh glass.

“You're tired, poor girl,” Quentin said worriedly. “Gad, I wish I'd not to drag you on, but—”

“What did you mean about Geoff?” demanded Penelope urgently. “Can it be that you didn't know he was killed at Prestonpans?”

“The devil! How could—”

“'Pon my soul, but it
is!
” exclaimed the magenta lady's husband. Undeterred by the annoyed frown Quentin slanted at him, he stood and advanced on their table. “Your pardon, sir, but I believe I have the acquaintance of your companion. It is Miss Montgomery, is it not? Permit me to jog your recollection, ma'am. I am Sir Leonard Epps. Your papa and I were old friends. I trust I see you well?” His brows lifting, he glanced at Quentin, who had risen politely.

Aside from a vague sense of recognition, Penelope had no memory of a close friendship existing between this gentleman and her father. Confused, she lied, “Of course I remember you, Sir Leonard. May I present my husband, John—er, Somerville?” And she could have sunk as
‘Bainbridge'
rushed belatedly into her flustered mind.

Sir Leonard shook Quentin's hand, but he had noted Penelope's hesitation and that, added to her vivid blush, brought the glint of suspicion to his eyes. He returned to his wife after the slightest of courtesies and bent forward to mutter to her. Lady Epps' smile seemed to creak as she pinned it on her thin lips and, although she bowed to Penelope, her eyes were glacial.

Agitated by the inexplicable reference to her brother, horrified by her blunder, and sure that Quentin would explode with mirth at any instant, Penelope concentrated upon her food. It was mediocre. She ate lightly and refused dessert.

Very aware of her discomfiture, Quentin said, “We'd best go, love,” and rose to pull back her chair. At the same moment, Sir Leonard and his lady started past, murmuring farewells.