Anabelle Bryant - His Forbidden Debutante

The dance continued, the violin serenaded, strains of song accompanying the fluidity of their progress, and still he grew more attentive; her tiny waist beneath his palm, the warm, delicate trust of her gloved hand, her quickness of breath. It was as though each rotation wound him tighter, every revolution pulled him inward. He blinked hard and widened his eyes, at once aware he’d drawn her to his chest, all but crushed her to his body and she hadn’t uttered a word of objection.

He stopped, abrupt and jolting, though the song continued for several lingering notes before Moira realised they no longer danced. Penwick could only stand and stare, the distress in the lady’s eyes mirroring the turbulence coursing through him. What had he done? He waited not another minute before rushing from the hall.

Chapter Four

I have dark hair and eyes, in case you’ve ever wondered. I mention it because I find myself thinking about your appearance at times and imagining the person behind the lovely words. I hope I haven’t offended you. I’d never forgive myself if you believed me shallow or otherwise short on manners. I confess my curiosity can be a curse.

His chest thrummed. A long carriage ride through congested London streets, yet here he sat at Boodle’s and his chest thrummed still.

Penwick took a long swallow of brandy, hoping the soothing burn of expensive liquor would quiet his unrest, but it did little more than fuel the torment of conflicted emotion.

He laid his hand across his breast, unwittingly reminded of the letter in his pocket, and snatched his grip to the glass again, his pulse a heavy beat. Perhaps his time had arrived, his heart about to fail. It was how he’d come to the earldom unexpectedly. His extended family possessed an abundance of chest apoplexy and a shortage of males. But no, the unidentifiable sensation was not his heart deteriorating; rather it seemed overfilled, stressed at the walls with urgency. So much so it vibrated, causing the illogical palpitations which stoked his angst.

He wouldn’t label it obsession, but somehow, through their lengthy exchanges, ink on paper, nothing more than slashes and curves, she’d become a part of him, a part he never wished to be without. Yet that needed to change.

He summoned his litany of purpose. Claire was kind and intelligent, sensible and, at the same time, enthusiastic about their planned future. The attempt fell flat.

He tipped the drink to secure the last drop and signalled a footman who stood against the forest-green wall coverings, eager to replace his empty glass. Boodle’s was a sanctuary; the one place in London where his title proved useful more than superfluous. He kept a small table for four near the corner, away from the infamous bow window where dandies watched the crowd and desired to be noticed in return. At least within these walls life continued as expected without fast decisions and pressured opportunity, without societal perception and breathtakingly beautiful women who waltzed as if they belonged to no other partner in the world.

Damnation, his thoughts had wandered yet again.

‘Penwick, very good.’ A familiar voice drew his attention.

Allington circled the overstuffed chairs near the hearth and approached the table, as if a materialisation of current circumstance to smother wayward thoughts and unexplainable happenstance. His smug expression of entitlement frayed Penwick’s patience. Here stood a man who enjoyed being seen through the bow window. Were his father not well liked by peers and respected for his fine jewellery work, Jonathan would not be allowed within the club’s sanctuary. Someone could only have secured the man’s voucher, a favour called into purpose, although Allington worked through the room as if he belonged without a doubt.

‘Are you all right? You look a bit green about the gills. You’re not rethinking your impending marriage, are you? I’ll run you through if you embarrass Claire in any fashion.’ Allington took a chair with his brash ingress, though Penwick would have rather he hadn’t.

‘Of course not.’ He exhaled a cleansing breath and tapped his fingers on the table. Breaking an engagement would prove catastrophic for Claire and he could never live with himself were he to cause her disparagement. ‘Although you’ll never best me with swords.’ An underlying note of challenge in the reply instilled tantamount provocation.

‘That could be true.’ All conviviality evaporated and Allington’s congenial greeting seemed more façade than genuine disposition. ‘Have you given further thought to the investment proposal?’

‘Since we spoke this morning?’ His question rose on the endnote to proclaim the notion as lunacy. Where was the footman with his brandy?

‘I’m a decisive man and assume you are of similar ilk. When something appears sensible and to profitable financial benefit I rarely allow the opportunity to pass.’

‘I’m careful in all aspects of life.’ At last the footman returned and Penwick welcomed the fresh brandy.

‘I’ve learned that about you through incisive observation. It took you ages to commit to my sister. Father wondered if you were sincere. Hesitation painted you in a poor light.’ Allington sent a scant glance around the perimeter of the room. ‘I assured him all worry was for naught. I take you as a man of your word, as should he. All that aristocratic grandiloquence keeps you bound to the honourable course, doesn’t it?’

More than a little seemed troubling with Allington’s statements, though the conversation proceeded no further as Jasper St David and Randolph Beaufort entered the parlour, their aim his table. Penwick couldn’t have been more thankful for the friendly intrusion of two comrades. The men exchanged handshakes and introductions as necessary before Allington took his leave shortly thereafter. The mood eased immediately.

‘Stuffy prig, isn’t he?’ Jasper eyed Allington’s departing form. ‘One must wonder what he’s hiding?’

‘Oh, it’s all high water with him; no matter he comes off as a nigmenog.’ Randolph gathered a sneer in distaste. ‘Strikes me as a bedizened churl.’

‘My future brother-in-law?’ Penwick flicked his gaze to the now empty doorframe. ‘I agree he’s puffed up with his own consequence, although it’s probably nothing more than a handful of tawdry mistresses he’d like to keep in holes and corners.’

‘In holes and corners?’

‘On the quiet side, Randolph.’ Jasper’s grin widened. ‘A practice you find unfamiliar, I’m certain.’

‘I see. Like a code of sorts.’ Beaufort donned a broad smile. ‘Why do you suppose abbreviation is such a long word? I’ve often wondered.’

No one readily replied and Penwick eyed Jasper in meaningful conversation. ‘Of late, Allington has encouraged me to invest in the family business. Every time he mentions it, I become more uncomfortable, yet he persists with the patience of a starving cat waiting at a crack in the floorboards.’

‘Diamonds not your preference?’ Jasper asked the question with a tone expressing his belief that only a clunch would refuse the opportunity to enter into business with one of London’s most successful jewellers; and since Jasper owned Inventive Investments, a company dedicated to gaining collateral for prospering innovators, he possessed sound judgement.

‘It’s more his zealous insistence that puts me off than the actual venture. He presented the proposition this morning and now here we are in late afternoon and he’s badgered me about it again. This single-mindedness is off-putting, a cryptic challenge of pursuit I’ve no interest in perpetuating.’ Penwick drew a long sip of brandy.

‘Perhaps he has a short memory?’ Randolph’s suggestion amused Jasper who smiled towards his good friend before he replied to Penwick. ‘Cork-brained and all that. My uncle suffered from the same malady until he died like a fuddle cap with barrel fever.’