Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (12 page)

She didn't like where this was heading. "And if I refuse to answer?"

He sat back, considering the matter. "I suppose you would have to pay a forfeit."

What on earth was he driving at? Very well, she had some questions of her own. He could be honest with her, or he could pay a forfeit. Whatever that meant. "I will play. But only if you abide by the same rules."

He twisted his mouth in a rueful grin and chuckled. "I suppose I left myself open for that challenge. Very well, my lady. I agree. Shall we begin?"

Chapter Twelve

Penelope's blue eyes grew wider and she exhaled slowly. "Yes."

"Last night, I was enchanted by a goddess." He leaned closer, breathing deeply of her scent. Peaches and gardenias, an irresistibly sweet combination—innocent yet sensual. "But, unless I am very much mistaken, it was obvious to me that you had never made love before."

A blush crept over the porcelain planes of her face, and she turned away from him. "Really, sir."

"I am not trying to embarrass you, Penelope. But you must understand what I am trying to say." How could he put this in a manner that she would comprehend? "As a gentleman, you know, there is a difference between making love to a widow and to a…virgin. Had I known that you were untouched, I would never have—"

"Are you saying that if you knew I was a virgin, you would never have touched me?" She turned back to face him, her eyes snapping. "Why does that make any difference?"

"Well, it makes a difference to me." Hell, how could he put his feelings into words? "I would have handled matters differently. I would have gone slower. I would have been gentler. Hang it all, Penelope, I would never have made love to you in a carriage."

"Pierce, it doesn't matter. None of that matters."
Her gaze remained turned
down
to
her lap, her cheeks still stained a deep rose hue.

"It does matter, at least to me. So now, we come to the point of the game. My question for you is this—how can you be married to a man for so many years and remain untouched?"

Her chest heaved with a heavy sigh. She remained quiet and still, her eyes still cast down, her head drooping. "I promised Peter I would never tell." She glanced up at him. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "I don't suppose it makes any difference now."

A bitter taste flooded his mouth and he swallowed. He had gone too far. "Penelope—forget I said anything."

"No, I suppose you do have a right to know." She straightened and turned towards him. "My marriage to Peter was, as you may suspect, unnatural. You must know, he was a good man and he loved me in his own way. He made it possible for me to live independently—in fact, he gave me every pound he had upon his death."

Pierce nodded but said nothing. Anything he said seemed ineffectual at that moment.

"When I married Peter, I was completely innocent of the world. I fell in love with him and expected that he would love me as my father and mother loved each other. When we met, I was having my first London season, and he was much older than I was. But we got on very well. And I adored him. When he proposed, I was the happiest woman on earth. But I had very little idea of what happened in the boudoir." She paused, as if wondering how much to tell. "My mother told me what to expect, but Peter did nothing like that. Not on our
wedding-night
, and not during the several months that followed."

He reached out and grasped her hand. She cast a shaky smile his way and continued.

"It wasn't until I stumbled upon Peter with one of the stable lads that I found out the truth. My husband preferred the company of men, not women." She sighed. "It was a terrible, brutal way to find out the truth. I wanted to leave him, but he made me swear I would stay with him. You see, when he married me, people stopped suspecting he was anything but a loving husband. And so, I promised never to give away his secret. And I kept my promise, until today."

Pierce
was a complete and utter cad for making her spill such a secret. And yet, what did he expect? The reason behind it had to be unnatural.
Lady Annand
was made for love. And to be denied that love for so long was nothing short of criminal. "Penelope, darling," he murmured kissing her fingers. "I am so sorry."

"Don't apologize," she replied. "Peter and I got on very well after a fashion. I loved him and he loved me, in his way." She looked up at him, ensnaring him completely with her bright emerald gaze. "And I don't regret what we did last night, Pierce. What we did—I wanted, very much. But I never considered your feelings in the matter. I apologize for not being honest with you. You must admit, though, it is a very delicate subject to bring up."

He chuckled. "Of course." She seemed most eager to make love to him last night—hearing her admit it the morning after stroked his ego magnificently. "Thank you for telling me, Penelope. I won't breathe a word to another soul."

"Thank you."

They sat together in the stillness of the study, broken only by the occasional snap of the fire in the grate. A tree branch, bereft of its leaves, tapped against the window pane.

"Pierce?"

"Yes, Penelope?"

"It's your turn."

He sat up, a little jolted by how neatly she had turned the tables on him. "Very well. What question do you have for me?"

"Where did you go last evening? You left the carriage in such a rush, and Bill was so insistent. I waited for you forever down in here in the study, but finally gave up and went to bed—which is when you came crashing in from my balcony. What were you up to?"

Oh, hell. How much could he reveal without compromising his investigation? And yet, she had bared her soul to him. As a gentleman, how could he refuse?

But he wasn't a gentleman. Not to her, anyway. As far as she knew, he was only Pierce Howe, a thief-taker she had hired to track down a wandering servant. And somehow, that made her admission that she wanted to make love last night even more alluring.

He couldn't reveal the truth without revealing who he really was. Twist was insistent. Unless he helped their investigation, his true identity would be revealed. And he wasn't ready for that yet. It would ruin his career, and possibly his relationship with
Lady Annand
. She had already been lied to by one aristocratic man. She'd be furious if it happened again.

"Forfeit." The word dropped from his mouth like a stone.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Beg pardon?"

"I'll pay the forfeit." It could be rather amusing for them both, after all. Especially if she chose something amorous. "What would you have me do, my lady?"

Her mouth hung slightly open, her eyebrows still raised. "Do you mean to tell me you would rather pay a forfeit than tell me where you were last night? Or why Bill kept interrupting us?"

"I find the idea of paying a forfeit to you more tempting than talking about last night," he replied. Ah, there it was. The Howland gift of gab. But it was more than a way of sweet-talking the lady, it was the truth. Especially if he had a chance to prove himself as a lover again…perhaps in the comfort of that huge bed of hers, festooned with all those fripperies.

She sat back, a mulish expression crossing her face. "Very well."

He leaned forward, tugging at his cravat. "Where shall we start?" Perhaps they should move up to her boudoir. He would hate to get caught by Simmons again. Especially since they hadn't been able to make love without interruption of some kind.

"Not where, but when," she replied crisply. "Your forfeit is to go track down Blake and get an invitation to his house party. Now."

"I had planned to do so anyway," he muttered, leaping up from the settee. "How is that a forfeit?"

"The other part of the forfeit is this: you must show me where the Barclay Agency is. I shall go there and question them myself. You seem to have gotten nowhere, and Cicely is still missing."

He shook his head. "Penelope, I cannot do that. If you barged in there—"

"Barged? Really, Pierce, you are most provoking." She stood before him, her face turning a deeper shade of pink.

"Come now, have some sense. You cannot go there and question them. If they have anything to hide, it would alert them to our investigation." He grasped both of her shoulders. Her bosom was rising and falling with the quickness of her breath, and it was mighty difficult to train his thoughts on one path.

"Very well." She paused, as though she were mulling the matter over.  "But you still must pay a forfeit. You must take me with you to that house party of Blake's."

His heart thumped in his chest. "That, my lady, was precisely what I had in mind."

***

That ridiculous Pierce Howe and his high-handed ways. If only he weren't so handsome, she'd send him packing. But from the moment he uttered the word forfeit, she had been trying to think of anything she could get him to do that didn't have to do with lovemaking. Her traitorous body had begun warming at the sight of him tugging at that cravat of his. And she had to stop matters then and there, otherwise she would be completely at his mercy.

He was gone now, thank heavens. Off to track Blake down. And she was on her way to Jane's flat for tea. Elizabeth would likely pop in. And they could puzzle out how she should conduct herself as this house party together.

Jane's butler let her in to the untidy flat. Stacks of paper, bowls of roses, and discarded cheroot stubs littered t
he
surfaces.
Jane had flung floor to ceiling windows open, letting gusts of December wind
. Penelope crossed her arms over her chest. "Jane, darling? Where are you?"

"In here." Jane emerged from a corner of the room, a kitten in one hand. "Isn't he sweet? He keeps biting me, the feisty boy. My butler found him out on the terrace, and I've been giving him warm milk." The kitten purred loudly, climbing onto Jane's shoulder. "I shall call him Byron."

Penelope held out one finger, which the kitten promptly batted with his paws. "My goodness. He is a naughty one."

Jane laughed, and waved her over to the settee, the kitten still balancing on one shoulder as she walked. "To what do I owe the pleasure? You did tell Bradley to bring tea, didn't you? I lost track of time."

Penelope began to peel off her gloves but thought better of it. The room was quite chilly. "I did. For heaven's sake, why do you have the windows open? It's freezing in here."

"Two reasons: to air out my cheroot smoke and to air out the kitten smell. He did his business on one of my old manuscripts. Didn't you, my little Byron?" she crooned in a high-pitched tone.

"You're smoking again? Oh, Jane, it's such a vile habit."

"True." Jane walked over to the windows and closed them, holding on to the kitten with one hand. "But I am having trouble with the plot of my new novel and the smoking helps me to think." Then she sat and gazed at Penelope, the cat purring on her shoulder. Her sharp eyes raked Penelope from head to toe. It was dashed difficult to hold still, and pretend that she cared about the kitten and cheroots when she was dying to tell Jane everything—or hide it all and keep it locked in her heart.

"You've made love."

Penelope gasped. "How can you tell?"

Jane shrugged, displacing the kitten, who fell into her lap. "It's a talent I have. Come, spill the details. Surely it was Howe. You're not one to take up with random men."

She could not fight the blush heating her face. "Of course it was Howe."

"Hmmmm." Jane stroked the kitten absentmindedly, her eyes still trained on Penelope's face. "He's quite handsome. And a bit of a rogue. I'll wager it was quite nice. Did it make up for all of Peter's—ahem—failings?"

"Yes." If only the butler would come in with the tea things to distract Jane. But then, nothing ever deterred Jane. She would probably continue talking about it even with the butler in the room. "Listen, Jane, I made a wager with him. He has to take me to a
Christmas
house party in Derbyshire. A gentlemen's house party."

Jane's eyes lit up. "How famous! Darling Penelope, when you jump in, you jump in with both feet, don't you?"

"Oh, hang it all, Jane. I have no idea what I've let myself in for." Penelope rose from the settee and
paced
the floor, slipping a little on a stack of papers that slid over the Aubusson carpet. "Here I am, the Ice Goddess, until recently a virgin, and I have to pretend to be a light skirt. It's certainly not a role I am meant to play. But it's the only way I can get a chance to find Cicely."

She paused her pacing and turned towards Jane. "And Pierce is being most cagey. He leaves and won't tell me what he's up to. I don't like it. I hate that he's not honest with me."

"He's just being a man. And, isn't he a thief-taker? Surely exposure and honesty are cheap coin with him."

She rounded on Jane, her anger surging. "Men and honesty! Don't get me started, I beg of you."

Jane held up her hands in supplication. "Darling, please. Don't be angry. Not all men are as shady as Peter had to be."

Penelope sighed, and then she plopped down on the settee beside Jane. She took the kitten from her friend's shoulder and began running her fingers over its soft fur. "There are two matters in which I need your help, Jane. First, I need to know how to play my part well. I need to know how to look and act like a light skirt."

"And you thought of me? I am flattered." Jane extracted a cheroot from a wooden box on the side table and lit it with the aid of a candle guttering nearby.

"I don't mean that you act that way. But you have more experience of the world. Your writing, the wide circle of your acquaintance—you have a much more cosmopolitan existence than I do."