The Midnight Rake (23 page)

“I cannot stop thinking of him. Until this is settled—” She raised her hand to her cheek in a worried gesture.

Her defensive tone told him there would be no changing her mind. Still he persisted. Everything remained at stake.

“Forget the past.” He didn’t look at her, unsure if he would finish were he to see sadness in her eyes. “If it’s filled with naught but unpleasantness, begin anew and allow yourself the life you deserve. You have friends here and family.” He could not voice what his heart begged him to admit. That here in London, she would also have him.
Always.
“Isn’t that enough?”

“No.”

Like a fist to the jaw, that one word.

Time ticked by before she continued, but when she did it was nothing he wished to hear.

“I no longer trust my emotion. It didn’t work out in the past—”

“And I’m glad for it. The past brought you to this minute right now.” He returned to the top of the bridge, filled with a raw combination of ardent determination and angry disillusion. “But you’re nothing more than a tease. A distraction of the worst kind. My mother enlisted my help, though I had every intention of avoiding you, avoiding this.” He slashed his arm through the air as if to indicate the emotional mess. “And now I’m burdened with unwanted feelings and it’s your fault, not mine.”

Penelope retreated at his sudden rush. “You misunderstand. I’m not concerned with my own happiness. It’s complicated and I don’t wish to trouble your life because of mine.”

Her remorseful whisper twisted his heart. “Too late for that. You’ve done everything but turn me inside out.”

She made a little noise, no more than an angel’s sigh, although her tensile figure remained motionless as she demurred. “I never meant to. I need to fix the problem I’ve created for Aubry’s sake. You don’t know.”

In my heart, I do.

He did not trust himself to speak, anger consuming him although a dozen emotions fought for attention. Silence accompanied them to the carriage which good fortune supplied in perfect timing otherwise the awkwardness of being denied
again
would have poured forth in accusations he would later regret. Maman fell asleep once their journey began and how serendipitous the other two passengers were not speaking to each other, for nothing was left to say.

Chapter Eighteen

“Aubry?” Penelope entered her sister’s bedchamber. She couldn’t bear the weight of her heartache alone. If she didn’t confess her affection for Phineas soon, she feared she would drown in emotion. But what was she to do? If she abandoned her search for Simon, she could never hope to recover her mother’s cameo and they’d never have a chance at an independent life. The alternative, if Phineas would still have her, she’d be in London, where at any assembly Simon could see her. She had no choice but to find him first. A heartbroken groan escaped with the realization.

Aubry rushed to her side, her face displaying immediate concern. “What is it? Have you been crying? You look wretched.”

Penelope’s eyes filled with tears as she shook her head in response.

“I’ve told you it serves no purpose to think about the past.” Aubry led her to the window seat and offered a consoling hug as they sat on the plush banquette.

“That’s not it.” Penelope managed the words between stifled sniffles. “Today in the park, Phineas told me he cares for me.” Her abbreviated sobs caused her to hiccup. “And I wanted to tell him…”

“About Simon?”

“No.” She opened the crumpled handkerchief wadded in her fist.

“Then?” Aubry leaned in closer, her eyes searching her sister’s face for any trace of understanding.

“That I care for him too.” A fresh set of tears overflowed as Penelope’s face crumbled. “I love him.”

“Oh dear, I never expected this.” Aubry pulled her sister close and nestled her against her shoulder for a good cry. “When I heard Phineas escorted Elizabeth to the social this evening, I assumed there was where his interest lay.”

A ragged breath shuddered through Penny as she withdrew from Aubry’s embrace. “Elizabeth?” She released another sob, the sharp jab of reality renewing her tears before she collapsed into her sister’s arms.

“Yes, Lady Fenhurst was expressing her joy while she fed Mon Ami.” Aubry rubbed her palm in a soothing gesture across Penny’s back. “I’m so sorry. Our time here is not turning out as we expected and now I fear your heart is truly broken.”

Penelope could not answer, nor could she feel. A hollow echo of regret vibrated into an overwhelming loneliness that pierced her heart at the realization she had no true place in the world.

Phineas arrived at White’s shortly after ten. He’d escaped the clutches of Elizabeth Bretton and her perseverating mother before the dinner bell rang by making excuses in way of another engagement and that much was true. Little was gained from the evening and he cursed how easily the chit manipulated him into an additional social commitment, assured he was on the hook for any morsel of information. So far she had meted out nothing worth investigating. Poor Penny, forced to rely on family members solely concerned with their personal agendas.

He scanned the room, assessing the crowd’s raffish behavior and raucous laughter. The dim interior, all dark wood and hunter green, echoed the weighty reputation necessary to belong to the exclusive club. That Ridley possessed a membership escaped reason. A server passed by with a tray of dinner plates, the scent of smoked eel, gull’s eggs and other delicacies distracted his purpose momentarily. Yet the sooner he saw to his goal, he’d be able to return home for a little peace and quiet.

He moved beyond the wide bow window and took the stairs to the second floor discovering exactly for whom he searched. Amid the crowded level, he lingered near the periphery of Ridley’s grouping and waited for his friends to arrive. Ripe for a fight, his temper ran on a short leash. Every time he reflected on the trouble Ridley caused with whomever he became connected, his anger reignited. Worse, he refused to consider the afternoon spent with Penelope. He wanted nothing more than to solve her problem and be rid of her as soon as possible. The sting of her rejection reminded of his foolish confession on the footbridge. Emotion was better left dead and buried. How
apropos
. A bitter smile threatened. Better to concentrate on duty and respectability.

“Fenhurst, join us for a drink. I promise not to talk about the horse I stole from under you at Tatt’s the other night.” Half in his cups, Ridley’s rude summons was unexpected. Two empty brandy bottles littered the floor. Nothing invited interest more than a bad example. A few lads engaged in obnoxious laughter, but they quieted as soon as Phin’s steely glare flicked in their direction.

Phineas pulled up a chair and poured a brandy. If Ridley bought the bottle, he would happily help empty it.

“So how does he ride?” Phin spoke with boisterous volume. Let Ridley dig his own grave. He would hand him the shovel. Especially knowing the man could not complete the transaction and Trump remained owner of the grey. It had to feel significantly uncomfortable, to be so close to something desired that nevertheless remained unattainable. Phineas flexed his fists and blew out a measured breath.

“Like a bloody lightning bolt. I nearly shit my pants the first time I gave him full rein. You missed out on a beauty. Nothing smarts as much as opportunity lost.” Ridley took a long swallow of liquor. “Next time you need to be quicker otherwise who knows what I might steal.”

Phin gritted his teeth to invoke patience and spanned the fingers on his left hand. He wanted to punch someone. He needed to punch someone.

“Aah, but better a thoroughbred than your sweetheart? You wouldn’t want to be asking the same question after I’ve ridden—”

The sound of his fist meeting flesh overrode any objection as Phineas lunged across the table. Cards, chips and alcohol flew through the air with a good amount of cursing as others hurried to clear the way. It ended quickly. Ridley was too inebriated to offer good defense, managing only to slice Phin’s shoulder with a broken bottle while pinned to the carpet.

“Be careful with your insults. Consider moving on. It would prove insalubrious for you to remain in London.” The warning, said with unmistakable finality, rippled around the room’s perimeter, the ready crowd anxious to repeat the ultimatum. He relieved a little pressure from Ridley’s throat, enough to gain the assent he expected, but the foolhardy man refused. With effort, Ridley turned to spit blood on the carpet. Fast rising bruises marred the man’s face and Phineas stood, anxious to be gone and hopeful he would never cross paths with the bastard again.

Penelope replaced the book of sonnets on the library shelf. The house, silent save the ticking of the grandfather clock, brought her a measure of predictability, a condition that had escaped her life of late. Unable to sleep, every foolish plan she’d determined resulted in shambles and prodded her restlessness. She was no closer to finding Simon than weeks ago and she’d lost her heart in the process. Attempting conviviality at dinner for Lady Fenhurst’s benefit proved torturous. With ease the Countess perceived something was amiss.

And what of Phineas? She fell into his embrace, welcomed his kiss and then pushed him straight into Elizabeth’s arms. A twist of panic and regret caused her to sag against the bookcase in defeat.

Exhaling in resignation, her lids fell closed. For the umpteenth time she envisioned Phin’s amber gaze, his strong arms holding her in the perfection of his embrace. And his words, the ones he did not say aloud, the emotion that lived in his eyes; as if he declared himself…declared his heart.

She could not blame his anger. With fervor, she answered his affections and then refused him with words. The mixed sentiments would cause anyone to become addlebrained and he was the last person she wished to hurt. Sighing in despair, she walked to the library window. She owed him some sort of explanation. After speaking to Aubry and crying until her tears ran dry, little else made sense. If she could explain, help him understand her reckless choices, perhaps he would not despise her.

A golden moon shone in a clear sky littered with stars. Not foolish enough to have faith in wishes, she chose a bright point and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, squeezing her eyes closed. Minutes stretched as she repeated the solemn loneliness of her midnight ritual, unable to control her nightly restlessness.

The steady thud of hooves thundering down the back path drew her attention. She could not see the rider, but she knew it would be Phin.

With the immediate desire to explain, she opened the French doors and ventured onto the flagstone path wearing only her thin night rail and slippers. Careless of the consequences, she moved past the remainder of the house, and made her way to the stables, the darkened interior interrupted by the weak light of a far lantern. The stable hands had finished for the night having fed and watered the horses, supplied new hay for bedding and clean flannel blankets for the morrow. The stable smelled fresh and raw, and in a way she could never explain it emboldened her as she stepped further from the shadows and closer to where Phineas brushed his horse.

He knew the moment she entered the barn. The light tread could have been anyone as the hour grew late, but a whisper through his heart told him otherwise. When a shadow fell across the single lantern on the stool, he turned, not wanting to see Penelope or acknowledge the contrary emotion gracing her lovely face.

Her hair flowed around her shoulders unbound, as if she brushed it to a satin sheen before readying for bed. She wore the same silk wrapper as the other evening and with the lamplight behind her, little was left to his imagination. A soft glow silhouetted the smooth curve of her hip, the delicate turn of her pert breasts. He drank in an eyeful before he met her questioning gaze.

“Your shoulder’s bleeding.” Her look of inquisition turned to concern in a heartbeat. She closed the few strides between them, hand outstretched, but he caught her fingers before she placed them on his skin.

“It’s nothing.” He bit off the words as he glanced to the large tear rending the linen at his shoulder. A horse nickered, breaking the moment. She raised her other hand and reached to move the torn fabric and reveal the wound beneath.

“Are you alright?”

Her hesitant inquiry persisted with the same force as her fingers prodded the wounded skin caked with dried blood. He jerked his shoulder back.

“Have I hurt you? I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered with tremulous emotion.

He scoffed at her question. He would not console her, not when he walked such a dangerous line.

Without permission, she traced the skin outlining his injury and laid her palm flat against his chest as if to offer comfort. He could no longer remain silent. The threat of acting on the sensual fantasies that plagued him overtook better sense.

“Do not trifle with me, Penny.” His voice sounded harsh and he knew he looked more severe than he intended with his bloodied clothes and hair falling forward. Weary with the want of her and aware his unfulfilled longing made him dangerous, he chose words carefully. “You would be smart to leave now.”

The threat meant to warn her, but she did not move aside. She looked beautiful, even in the midnight dim of the stable and the desire to reach for her, claim her and make her his, grew with fierce longing. He turned in frustration, a silent curse on his lips. “Leave. You shouldn’t be here, dressed as you are. You push me too far.”

“You understood from the start why I traveled to London. Why are you angry with me?”

The innocence of her indignation proved his undoing. Anger? He felt no such emotion. Blood flowed thick in his veins, his pulse hammered inside his head and all the while his body strained with the heat of his unrelenting desire to drag his mouth, hot and open, everywhere, for the taste of her skin.

Anxious to keep his hands employed, he reached inside the stable cabinet and found a clean shirt. In one swift movement he removed the torn garment, but within the span of a heartbeat before he grasped the linen to raise over his head, her hands touched his bare back, their tentative press as erotic as any courtesan’s secret. He whipped around, unsure of what he meant to do, no longer in control of his actions.