Chapter Twenty-Two

Niles thought it a good sign that he was neither exhausted nor sore when his afternoon's exercise ended. Experience told him the aching muscles usually made themselves known the day after a particularly strenuous return to pugilistic practice, but he usually felt at least a little of it after the passage of a few hours. This time, however, he mostly felt invigorated.

A good sign, indeed.

And as if fate wanted to make amends for the misery of the past few months, he was handed another good sign as well. Penelope sat beside him on a settee in the drawing room when everyone gathered there after supper, and she did so with such natural ease that he felt certain her motivation was simply that she enjoyed his company.

"You appear to be in better spirits this evening," he said.

"I am feeling a little less despondent. I followed your lead and decided to send a letter." She smoothed her skirts but not in a nervous or uncomfortable way. "Of course, I had to guess which inn my brother will be stopping at for the night. There is every chance my letter will not reach him, but I had to at least try."

"You, then, are doing better than I am. I never did manage to finish my letter."

She turned a little, facing him more directly. "Is it that you don't know what to say or that you're afraid what you wish to say will only make the situation worse?"

"A little of both."

Penelope set her hand atop his. "I am sorry, Niles. I am sorry this is all so painfully complicated."

He turned his hand enough to properly hold hers, then did his utmost to ignore how his heart pounded at the simple connection. His inexperience with such things was rendering him rather pathetic, no matter that Aldric had insisted otherwise. "That our situation is so messy isn't your fault, Penelope."

He held his breath, waiting to see if she would object to his use of her given name. She had just used his, so he felt himself on firm footing, but he was still nervous.

"It isn't entirely not my fault though." No dismay or disapproval touched her face or words, so she must not have been upset at his informality. "Perhaps if you wrote to your family and told them that I hold no ill-will over all that has occurred, they might breathe a little easier. Had there been any indication in the letters sent to Liam that you were not eagerly accepting of the arrangement, I'd not have chosen to move forward. So, truth be told, we might lay quite a lot of this mess at their feet."

She offered the olive branch with just enough impishness to bring a smile to his face. A bit of teasing, he had learned early in his years among the Gents, went a long way toward easing worries and burdens.

"I shall toss out what I have started in my letter and begin anew. My second attempt will read simply, ‘Grandfather, this is all your fault.' That ought to tidy things up nicely."

How was it that the mere sight of her smile tied his stomach in such pleasant knots?

Her gaze dropped for just a moment, then her eyes widened a bit. "What happened to your hand?"

That pulled his attention to their entwined hands. His right, sitting atop hers, sported a cut on one knuckle. It wasn't long or deep, but it was that angry shade of red that indicated a relatively new injury. He'd wrapped his hands in strips of muslin that afternoon to reduce the bruising and such, not wanting to go into the upcoming fight with hands already in horrible condition, but he'd still managed to split the skin over one knuckle.

How did he explain the injury to her without confessing to what he'd been doing and why? A gentleman taking up boxing for prize money was unacceptable, the very reason he fought under a false name and even took pains to disguise his appearance as much as was permitted. If his exploits were known, it would ruin him.

"I cannot say with certainty precisely when it happened." That was entirely true. "But I can say I was with the Gents when it did."

She laughed lightly. "That I believe."

"We tend to get into mischief when we are together."

"From what I am discovering," she said, "so do the Gents' ladies."

And easy as that, the topic was turned. She didn't press for a larger explanation, didn't insist she disapproved of whatever he might have been doing that resulted in an unsightly gash. She simply sat beside him, leaving her hand in his, looking entirely content with the arrangement. And he, who had never felt a significant draw toward any lady, wanted nothing more than for her to stay precisely where and as she was. He wanted to hold her hand, to listen to her talk, to watch her eyes dance when she was stifling a laugh. All the while, the scent of the sprig of snapdragons he'd asked his valet to move from his morning coat to his evening one reminded him that she thought of him even when they were apart. Unlike so many others, she didn't forget him when he wasn't nearby.

"Friends." Digby stood in front of the group. "Tonight, I propose we play a parlor game."

"We always play parlor games," Kes pointed out.

"This time, though," Digby said, "it will be one of my own invention."

Oh, lud.

"We will divide into two teams. I will then draw two slips of paper containing concepts or things that must be incorporated into a poem composed by each team. The best poem will be declared the winner of that round. We will play as many rounds as we choose, and those with the most wins will be granted the right to choose tomorrow night's after-supper entertainment."

Penelope leaned a bit closer to Niles and asked in a whisper, "Do the Gents often compose group poetry?"

"This is the first time that I know of." He glanced at Henri and saw a nod pass between him and Digby, confirming Niles's suspicions. Henri was secretly a published poet and, it seemed, either wanted to practice composing or was looking for something to inspire his next poetic effort. Penelope was the only one in the group who didn't know of Henri's occupation. It wasn't Niles's secret to share.

"Is the expectation that the offerings be silly or that they be impressive?" Penelope asked Niles.

"Both."

She smiled at him. At him. He didn't think he would ever grow tired of that. "I suspect I can manage ridiculous poems that show no aptitude. Fortunately for me, that is apparently acceptable."

"And expected," he added.

Her hand was still in his. He'd not yet been certain of Penelope's feelings, but he was getting an inkling. Please don't let me be mistaken in this.

Digby drew from a crystal bowl one name after another, creating their two teams. Aldric, Henri, Kes, and Digby constituted one. The other consisted of Lucas, Violet, Nicolette, Penelope, and, to Niles's delight, himself. That meant Penelope could continue sitting beside him. They could talk. He would be able to hear her laugh, see her smile. She wasn't holding his hand any longer, but she hadn't left his side. And he truly didn't want her to.

"Now that we have our teams," Digby said, "let us obtain our first poetic prompt. Our poems must include"—he drew a slip of paper from a different bowl, this one white porcelain with blue designs—"a cat and"—he drew from yet another porcelain bowl—"a tricorn hat." He shook his head. "Best of luck, all."

Niles and Penelope's group had all gathered around the settee, Lucas on Niles's other side and the two ladies in chairs that had been procured for them.

Nicolette spoke first. "I daresay the suggestion of a cat and a tricorn has led us all to think of the same thing: Le Chat botté ."

Remembering Penelope had said her French instruction had been virtually nonexistent, Niles leaned closer and translated for her, "The Puss in Boots."

"Ah." She nodded emphatically. "That is precisely what came to my mind. He is nearly always depicted as wearing a tricorn hat."

"Our question, then," Violet said, "is whether we wax poetic about this fairy-tale feline or take a different approach altogether."

Lucas jumped in. "I, for one, can now say that if we don't get to use the phrase ‘fairy-tale feline' in our offering, I will be forever disappointed in us."

They all laughed. But though it was Lucas who had offered the quip, Penelope smiled at Niles.

The evening continued on that way. Someone in the group said something funny or entertaining, and Penelope exchanged a look of delight with Niles. Not once did she give so much as a fleeting indication that she was displeased or disappointed in his relative quietness. He had never felt pressure from the Gents to be more outgoing or talkative than he was. That had helped him not feel hurt when he'd been overlooked or forgotten about when they were in public. Those who knew him best liked him as he was.

He'd lived decades in fear of his family choosing for him a wife who didn't accept or comprehend the person he was. In the end, Grandfather had managed to find a lady who was proving very nearly perfect, and Niles had rejected and abandoned her.

What a muttonhead I am.

"I believe this had best be our final round," Digby declared after two hours of alternately impressive and ridiculous poetry. He drew forth two slips of paper. "Cheese. And..." A laugh sputtered from him. "Cornwall."

"Unfair!" Kes called out. "They have Puppy on their team."

"And you have Archbishop on yours," Penelope said. "He has shown himself a more adept poet than the rest of us combined."

That had them all laughing again, though she most certainly did not realize the entire reason why.

That felt a little unfair, but fortunately, Nicolette was in their group and knew the extent to which Henri was comfortable with his situation being known. "Henri's course of study at Cambridge was poetry," she told Penelope. "It seems, after so many years, he still remembers some of what he studied."

"Ah." Penelope nodded, then stood and, in a dramatic posture, pointed at the other team. She declared in thunderous tones, "Unfair!"

That sent uproarious laughter through the room once more.

In the midst of it, Lucas leaned closer to Niles and said, "I wish Julia were here. She and your Penelope would be instant friends and mischief makers."

"She's not my Penelope," Niles insisted.

"Then, you, my friend, are not paying enough attention."

"To her or to myself?"

"To either one."

Penelope sat once more, grinning broadly and looking as though she couldn't have been happier with life. "This had best be the greatest poem ever composed on the topic of Cornish cheese," she warned them all in laughing tones. "I believe I have just staked all our reputations on it."

"Cornwall does produce some very delicious cheese," Niles said. "But I cannot say we are particularly famous for it."

"So, a poem about Cornwall's lack of famous cheeses?" Lucas suggested.

Nicolette nodded solemnly. "Such a tragic thing must be immortalized in verse."

After the allotted time had expired, the team elected Niles to be the one to share their offering, he being so closely connected to the subject matter.

Listen friends to my tale of woe,

When down to the southern coast I go,

Through towns and villages alike,

I seek in Cornwall a tempting delight.

But no lesson have I ever learned better:

I must go to Somerset when searching for Cheddar.

He took a sweeping bow amid the cheers and laughter of the group. This game Digby had invented would, perhaps, not actually prove helpful in Henri's professional endeavors, but it was proving an absolutely delightful way to pass an evening.

"With our final offering of the night..." Digby motioned to Aldric, which was almost as much of a shock as Niles being the representative of his team. Aldric was many things, but he was not a performer.

In vain I have tried to dismantle

My love for Pont l'Eveque and Cantal,

Gloucester and Cheddar, Wensleydale and Gruyère.

Though many things try, none can compare.

So let us embrace and pay true homage

To the joy that we glean from delicious le fromage.

As the room applauded, Penelope leaned closer to Niles. "Am I right in remembering that fromage is French for ‘cheese'?"

He nodded, and her attention returned to the group. How easily and naturally she turned to him with questions and conversation. Niles was very unaccustomed to that.

Try as they might, a winner for the evening could not be decided on. The Gents could be competitive when they chose to be, but most of the time, they played games purely for the enjoyment of it. That night proved the same. They shrugged at their lack of a victor and declared the evening an unmitigated success.

The exertion of the day began to catch up with Niles, and he reluctantly excused himself for the remainder of the evening, intending to drop exhausted on his bed.

Penelope, however, followed him and pulled him aside at the edge of the corridor. It was empty at the moment, but enough people were still awake and still wandering about that it wasn't so private as to be scandalous.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"I'm certain that when I arrived here, you wanted nothing so much as to see me depart. But instead, you've allowed me to be part of this group, to be able to call them friends, and to know you better. I..." She seemed momentarily at a loss for words. "I have been lonely for a long time, Niles. I don't feel that way anymore. And I am so glad to know you—actually know you, not merely know the list of things I was told about you. So, thank you."

"I'm glad you came, Penelope." The sincere, heart-deep declaration spilled from him unbidden. "And I'm glad you stayed."

"So am I." She rose on her toes and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek before turning and slipping inside her room.

Niles didn't move for what felt like hours.

She'd kissed him. She had kissed him. And his world had tipped on its axis. He'd been hemming and hawing over his seemingly conflicted feelings. Then she'd kissed him, and there was no sense denying it any longer. He had fallen in love with Penelope Seymour.