Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

“And no, before you ask, I haven’t any idea who he might have got to do the deed. I doubt they’re local, which means they shouldn’t be that difficult to trace. I’ve put the word around that I’m looking for news of any passing stranger—we’ll see what turns up.”

The gates of Branscombe Hall loomed ahead. In short order, the carriage rocked to a halt; Charles descended and handed her down.

Lady Trescowthick, waiting to greet them inside her front hall, all but cooed at the sight of them—not, Penny reminded herself, because her ladyship thought there was anything between them, but purely because she’d succeeded in getting them both, as individuals, to her event.

Parting from her ladyship, they walked to the archway leading into the ballroom; Penny glanced sidelong at Charles.

He saw, raised a brow.

Lips twitching, she looked ahead. “Just as well most of the unmarried young ladies are in London, or you’d be in serious trouble.”

“Ah, but I’m entering the arena well armed.”

“Oh?”

His hand covered hers on his sleeve. “With you.”

She nearly choked on a laugh. “That’s a dreadful pun.”

“But apt.” Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the room, then glanced down at her. “It would be helpful if you could resist temptation and remain by my side. If I have to guard my own back against feminine attack, I won’t be able to concentrate on Nicholas.”

She threw him a look designed to depress pretension, not that she expected it to succeed, then swept forward to greet Lady Carmody. Yet as she and he commenced a slow circle of the room, she bore his words in mind; he hadn’t been joking. In this situation, staying by his side undoubtedly qualified as doing all she could to further his investigation.

Ladies had always chased him; at twenty, he’d been a magnet for feminine attention, far more than his brothers had ever been. And he hadn’t been the earl then, not even next in line for the title.

She’d been one of the few who had never pursued him—there’d never been any need. She’d simply let him chase her.

And look where that had landed them.

Ruthlessly, she quashed the thought. Thinking of such things while he was anywhere near wasn’t wise. Let alone when he was standing beside her.

True to form, he glanced sharply at her.

She pretended not to notice and gave her attention to Lady Harbottle. “I had no idea Melissa was feeling so low.”

“Oh, it’s just a passing thing. I daresay now she’s been a week in Bath she’ll be right as rain again and back any day.” Lady Harbottle smiled delightedly at Charles. “I know she’ll want to hold a party as soon as she gets back—to renew old acquaintances, if nothing else.”

Charles smiled, and pretended he couldn’t see the speculation running through her ladyship’s head. The instant an opening offered, he steered Penny away. “Refresh my memory—didn’t Melissa Harbottle marry?”

“Yes. She’s now Melissa Barrett. She married a mill owner much older than she. He died over a year ago.”

“Ah.” After a moment, he asked, “Am I to infer that her trip to Bath wasn’t to try the waters?”

“Melissa?” Penny’s incredulous tone was answer enough.

“So she might now be described as a widow with aspirations?”

“Quite definite aspirations. She’s now wealthy enough to look rather higher than a mill owner.”

“If by any chance she asks you, do be sure to tell her to look somewhere other than the Abbey.”

She chuckled. “I will if she asks, but I doubt she will. Ask me, that is.”

He swore beneath his breath and steered her to the next group of guests.

It was a relaxed affair. Most of the local gentry who’d resisted the lure of the capital were present; it was indeed a useful venue to renew acquaintances and realign his memory. Whenever any lady with a daughter yet unwed eyed him too intently, he glibly steered the conversation in Penny’s direction—most took the hint. Some, indeed, suspected rather more.

Their speculation didn’t bother him, but he took care to avoid jogging Penny’s awareness to life. Juggling her while dealing with a serious investigation was difficult enough without fashioning rods for his own back.

A waltz, however, was too much of a temptation to resist.

“Come and dance.” He caught her hand and drew her through the still-chattering guests.

“What…? Charles—”

Reaching the dance floor, he swung her into his arms, and into the swirling, twirling throng.

Penny frowned at him. “I was going to say I don’t want to waltz.”

“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”

“I spent four Seasons in London—of course, I can waltz.”

“So can I.”

“I’d noticed.” She could hardly help it; she felt as if her senses were whirling, twirling, around him.

He smiled, and drew her a fraction closer as they went through the turn, predictably didn’t ease his hold as they came out of it. “We’ve danced before.”

“But never a waltz—if you recall, before, it was considered too fast.” For good reason, it seemed. She’d never felt anything but elegantly graceful when waltzing with other men. Now she felt breathless, close to witless.

The waltz might have been designed as a display for Charles’s brand of masculine strength. With effortless grace, he whirled her down the room. Heads turned as they passed; others looked on in patent envy.

She had to relax in his arms, let her feet follow his lead without conscious thought, or she’d stumble—and he’d catch her, laugh, and set her right again. She was determined she wouldn’t let that happen, that for once, she’d match him on a physical plane.

And she did. Calmly, serenely.

Not, however, without paying a price.

It was impossible not to note how well they suited, he so tall, so large, she a slender reed in his arms, but tall enough, with legs long enough to match him. Impossible not to be aware of how easily he held her, how much in his physical control she was, albeit he wasn’t truly exercising that control; this time, in this exchange, she was a willing partner.

That exchange itself tightened her nerves, left her senses in a state of abraded alert. In the cocoon the revolutions of the waltz wove about them, it was impossible not to know, to feel, just how powerful was the attraction that, contrary to her expectations, still existed between them.

Impossible not to know that she still evoked the same sexual interest and intentness in him. Impossible not to acknowledge that she reacted to that, responded far more deeply, in a more fundamental way than was wise.

His hand spread low on her back, burning through her thin gown, his other hand engulfing hers, were not simple contacts but statements, his hard thigh pressing between hers as they whirled through the tight turns both a memory and a declaration.

Her senses quivered; the moment shook her, yet focused on him, on staying with him and not letting him sweep her wits away, she realized that however much she felt and knew and experienced, he did, too.

That last was apparent when the music ended, and he reluctantly slowed, halted, and released her. She heard the breath he drew in—as tight, as constricted, as her own. The knowledge buoyed her; if there was weakness here, it wasn’t hers alone.

“Nicholas,” Charles murmured. Nicholas was standing a short distance away, talking with Lord Trescowthick; he looked rather pale, his stance was stiff, and he shifted frequently. “He seems rather tense. Is he always like that?”

Penny studied him, eventually replied, “He wasn’t when he first came down last year, but over the past few months, yes. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping all that well.”