Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucien had not planned to share his ride with anybody, much less make disclosures to Penelope that would give Wellington nightmares. But then, His Grace was said to confide in the ladies, to talk to them of personal matters rather than to his fellow officers or peers, and the ladies respected the duke's confidences.

More to the point, the war was over, thank all the gods in all the pantheons. As if to prove that fact, there sat Penelope on her mare, looking gloriously vital in the morning sun and more dear than home and hearth.

"There was me?" she asked, brushing back a stray tendril of hair. "What does that mean, Lucien? You were off lurking in castles, or wherever a purveyor of fine art and wicked secrets lurks, and I was here, mediating arguments between Purdy and Wren over a purloined ring."

"You were here," Lucien said, tapping his temple. "And here." His heart. "I tried forgetting you, but then somebody would mangle a quote, and I'd hear your voice correcting them. I tried ignoring you, but then a young girl would brush past me, with exactly the same sense of suppressed hurry you brought with you so often, and you would haunt me again. Would you have come with me, if you'd found my note?"

Penelope sat atop the chestnut mare, the perfect equestrienne on a perfect morning—but for a few clouds gathering to the east—and yet, she was also his precious Pen. Quick-witted, practical, kind, and honest.

"I'm not sure, Lucien. I might have talked you out of going. I might have understood why you left. We will never know. Isn't it enough that I'm glad you're back?" She urged the mare forward, and Lucien nudged Lorenzo onward too.

She was glad he was back. That was something, but not nearly enough. Lucien decided on strategic retreat. "How have you occupied yourself in my absence?"

She rode along the crest of the ridge, into the morning breeze teasing at her chignon. "I read the whole library, first. Then I took up the study of Russian for the sake of novelty, but I haven't your capacity for independent scholarship with languages, and nobody was on hand to help with pronunciation. The marchioness trotted me up to Town for a few Seasons. London bored me witless. The fittings alone… Do you know how difficult it is to stand on a stool for two hours without moving while women pretending to be French randomly stick you with pins?"

"Nevertheless, you put up with it." Put up with it and pretended to enjoy it, but Penelope was a poor liar, one of many qualities Lucien esteemed about her.

"The marchioness sets such great store by the whole whirl, Lucien. She has friends in Town, old friends who've known her since girlhood. I know what it is to miss a friend."

As the sun passed behind a stray cloud, Lucien asked the pathetic, callow question. "You missed me?"

Her smile was pure mischief. "I hated you, or tried to. Abandoning Lynnfield with no explanation, no warning. All the people who said you weren't quite mentally stable dined out on the mode of your leave-taking. I hated them in earnest. In hindsight, though, I knew you were unhappy here. You were always studying the maps, corresponding with university professors on the Continent, staring off at the horizon and looking glum. When I ceased being wroth with you, I wanted you to be happy, but it doesn't sound as if you were."

He'd been a proper wreck for the first two years. "I was useful. I suspect you were useful too."

She turned her mare down the Lynnfield side of the hill, onto a path that led to the lake. "I wasn't born here. I am just another item in the estate collection of rummage-sale relatives. Usefulness was a comfort, especially after Henry died. Then too, the marchioness isn't exactly lazy, but she does like to issue little decrees and tell others what to do."

Lucien had found Auntie curiously reticent since his return. Brusquely welcoming, also distracted. "She can hire a companion to order about if you are tired of humoring her. I do think a jaunt to Finbury is overdue, Pen. You own that place, and the solicitors won't bother to look in on it often enough."

They passed back into the trees, the air noticeably cooler despite the lower elevation. "You've seen it recently, I suppose. What aren't you telling me, Lucien?"

What a spymaster she would have made, with her ability to connect hints and clues and come up with insights.

"Did you give permission for your tenants to create a water meadow where the river crosses the northern acreage?"

"No. I can see why they'd want to—better hay, earlier hay, a safeguard against drought—but the miller would object to having the water diverted from time to time."

"As will the downstream farmers in dry seasons. You are the landlord. All maintenance and improvements fall exclusively within your purview, and a water meadow is an improvement."

Penelope made a face. "You won't tell me to write a stern letter to the solicitors and go back to my needlepoint, will you?"

"You'd beat me with my own hat if I made the attempt." She'd hated needlepoint as a girl .

She eyed his top hat. "That's Bond Street work, my lord. I'd beat you with the nearest handy birch rod. Let's race to the lake, shall we? The weather seems to be turning on us, and we aren't likely to have as much time in the saddle as I'd wished."

"From the gate at the bottom of the hill."

Lorenzo had been living the life of a Town horse, while Ursuline was leggy, fit, and game. Despite the gelding's best efforts, the mare had him by a length.

"Walk to the cottage," Penelope panted when they pulled up on the track that circled the lake. "Your horse wants conditioning, my lord."

"My lady wants graciousness in victory," Lucien retorted. Pen had also lost a few hairpins somewhere after the first quarter mile, and a long, coppery curl had come loose at her nape over the second stile.

"Allow me my small pleasures," she said, patting her horse. "Ursuline loves a good gallop, and so do I."

I love you. Lucien mentally chopped the words into tiny pieces and threw them into the lake, though they were true.

Always had been, always would be.

"We should have raced the other direction," Lucien said. "Looks like a shower headed this way." Or possibly the harbinger of an entire stormy day. No predicting spring weather in Kent, though Welsh weather was even more mercurial.

"Do you know what I miss most about Wales?" Penelope said, showing no sign of turning her mare around. "The rainbows. We have them here, but not as vivid, not as many. Once upon a time, I saw three different rainbows from the top of the hill behind our dower house."

That dower house was Prinny's now. "My summers with my mother's parents were magical and not only because they told me all the stories, taught me all the songs, and kept up my Welsh. The land in Wales isn't sedate like dear old Kent. The air isn't soft. "

A rumble of thunder sounded from the east. "We'll get soaked, Lucien." Penelope didn't seem particularly bothered by the prospect.

"Not if we wait it out in the cottage."

The lake cottage, a four-bedroom dwelling Lucien had been advised to keep in reserve lest more relatives come straggling up the drive, sat back some twenty yards from the shore with a lovely view facing out over the water, a small barn, and a modest walled garden.

"They'll worry at the manor if we don't come home," Penelope said.

"They will not. You and I have been out in downpours before, Pendragon, and then there was the time we were nearly caught in a blinding snowstorm. Most of that lot won't even be aware that we've ridden out, and the stable knows better than to sound the alarm."

The cottage came into view around a bend in the shore. A venerable willow in the chartreuse glory of new foliage dipped a few fronds into the water, until a stiff gust sent ripples chopping across the lake and branches tossing on the wind.

"Lorenzo hasn't another hard run in him just yet," Lucien said, which was true. "The cottage boasts a chess set, as I recall."

"And a roof," Penelope said. "The roof decides me. Trot on, girl." Ursuline obliged smartly, as did Lorenzo, and within two minutes, they'd reached the little stable yard beside the barn.

"I'll get a fire started," Penelope said, extricating herself from the saddle without any assistance. "You tend to the horses. Just take off bridles, loosen girths, and—"

A spatter of hail whipped down.

"Go," Lucien said, swinging a leg over the pommel and leaping down. "Go, start us a fire. Find the chess set."

He would have jogged the horses into the barn aisle, the better to avoid a drenching, but Penelope put a hand on his arm, looked him right in the eye, and kissed him on the mouth, then grinned like an imp. She lifted her hems and pelted along the path to the back porch of the cottage, while Lucien stood in the frigid rain and watched her go .

The two horses regarded him as if he'd lost his wits, and yet, he didn't look away until Penelope found the key above the lintel and slipped into the house.

Nefoedd, helpwch fi os gwelwch yn dda . "Heaven help me," he translated for the benefit of the horses. "I cannot allow her to keep kissing me like that."

Lucien saw to the horses, by which time a sleety mess had started in earnest. He made his way to the house, bareheaded and without haste, the better to marshal his resolve where Penelope and her runaway kisses were concerned.

"I correct myself: Penelope can kiss me all she likes. It's the scampering off afterward that we must address," he muttered, giving the door a hard stare. "A chance to kiss her back would be sporting and—"

The door opened. Penelope grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him over the threshold.

As it turned out, kissing her back served very well indeed.

Penelope had loved Lucien the boy, who'd befriended her when most young fellows would have turned up their noses at a homesick female of any age, much less one somewhat their junior. She had been Lucien the youth's boon companion and become infatuated with Lucien the young man.

Lucien the adult male, home from the war, half mystery, half long-lost love, was a fascinating blend of his various predecessors and compelling in his own right.

He'd been a slender youth, tallish, and quick rather than substantial. The man glaring at the cottage's back door window was trim, also wrapped in muscle. His quickness of mind and body was accompanied by a sense of power he'd lacked earlier in life.

And he is mine .

She accepted that truth with equal parts relief and rejoicing. Lucien was hers, he was home, and the moment called for boldness.

Penelope yanked open the door and pulled Lucien inside, and then she indulged in an unrestrained bout of kissing. Somewhere between fusing her mouth to his and lashing an arm around his waist, she shoved the door at his back closed.

He hauled her close, lifted her off her feet enough to reverse their positions, and caged Penelope against the door with his body.

"No disappearing," he muttered. "You don't get to leave me standing in a puddle of bewilderment and unrequited passion this time."

What was he...? Oh. "Those were test kisses. I was giving you a chance to hare off." Again.

The kitchen was gloomy and chilly, but Lucien's gaze could have lit signal fires at twenty paces. "I am finished with haring off. Done, through. Fini. Gorffenedig. Fertig und vorbei. Finito . Do you understand?"

"You are home to stay in French, Welsh, German, and Italian. Good, because if you do disappear on me again, note or no note, I will be similarly finished with you, sir." Penelope delivered that ultimatum unrehearsed, but the words had come from her heart.

If Lucien abandoned her again, she would not answer for the consequences.

"Understood." His gaze became, if anything, more fierce. "You should also understand that you need not deploy kisses to keep me at Lynnfield, Pen. Kiss me because you want to, not because you abhor the thought of running the place in my absence again."

Must he be so irresistible when making his proclamations? "You were gone, but I had Lynnfield in your place. Don't blame me for guarding what was left to guard."

He made a sound, part exasperation, part surrender, then leaned closer. "My heart is yours to guard. Always has been. Always will be."

Not a proclamation, a declaration, and Penelope would have been happy to stand in a puddle of joy, except that Lucien had resumed kissing her. His approach was nearly reserved, so gently did he press his lips to the corner of her mouth, and Penelope somehow bore it.

She withstood the pleasure of Lucien's arms coming around her securely and enfolding her in strength and warmth. She endured the way he cradled the back of her head in his palm and urged her closer, and she accorded herself saintly restraint for not attempting to wrap a leg around his hip, though her riding habit would have doomed that undertaking in any case.

"I like this," she murmured as Lucien pressed lazy kisses to her brow. "You were never this patient in your youth."

"I was never this determined."

She closed her eyes and tried to think, such as any command of her mental powers yet remained to her. Lucien had been prodigiously stubborn as a boy. He'd lived on bread and water for a fortnight rather than apologize to his tutor for declaring that six extant royal princes were a burden on the national exchequer.

Penelope had slipped him the odd meat pie and some fruit tarts, of course.

The tutor had given notice before it was all over, and Penelope suspected that had been Lucien's objective.

"You were very determined," she said, patting Lucien's bum.

"You made me look lackadaisical by comparison. Kiss me."

She pinched him. "Don't give me orders, Lucien. That hasn't changed."

"Please kiss me, or I will take matters into my own..."

She kissed him, slowly and sweetly, and only then realized how snugly he'd been holding her. His embrace relaxed, and the gloomy old kitchen became magical. Rain pattered down, the wind moaned around a corner of the house, and as the fire in the hearth gradually overcame the chill, Penelope's sense of urgency faded into wonder.

"You won't do anything impetuous, will you?" she asked during their next intermission .

"Go down on bended knee? The floor is cold and in need of sweeping, but the notion has a certain appeal."

"Impetuous," Penelope said, easing back and taking Lucien's hand, "like disappearing into London to visit the jewelers' shops. Sending an express off to your pet duke about impending nuptials. Confiding in St. Didier."

Lucien led her to the fireplace, shrugged out of his riding jacket, and laid it on the raised hearth. "Would it bother you if I let St. Didier know that I'm courting you?"

Courting. Well, yes. "Has he become your friend?"

Lucien sat on his folded coat and tugged on Penelope's hand. When she'd taken the place beside him, he looped an arm around her shoulders.

"I suspect St. Didier is your friend, Pen. He threatened to all but thrash me if I toyed with your affections, and he was in deadly earnest."

"He's always in earnest. I like that about him. No silliness or pomposity. He's also discreet. I suppose you might intimate to him that he need not thrash you after all." The fire was warm at Penelope's back, and Lucien was warm as well. May the rain last all day, please.

"Penelope, I am courting you. You need not fear that I'll decide to resume spying or take up another butler's post. I was so homesick for so long... Then I reasoned that Lynnfield was muddling on well enough without me, and Huntleigh needed some assistance, though he was plain Finn Cathcart to the world. I will not gallop off without an explanation, and I will not decide that I'd rather court Tabby Ingraham, or whoever the local reigning belle is."

"I believe you."

Lucien bent his head to murmur near her ear. "But?"

Penelope sat back enough to meet Lucien's gaze. "Sir Dashiel must not learn of our courtship too soon or from anybody but me. His pride will be wounded regardless, but we have no call to be callous. He will be Lynnfield's neighbor for all the rest of his days. One wants good relations with one's neighbors."

"You aren't simply looking around for delaying tactics, are you, Pen?"

"No." Not truly. "Perhaps a little. You've only just come home."

Lucien sat up, though his arm remained around Penelope's shoulders. "I owe you years of patience, Pen-and-Sword. Take all the time you please. Rearrange all the furniture in your mental attics until you are comfortable with the notion of marrying me—or you have decided we would not suit. I left without explanation, as far as you are concerned, and now I'm back, alluding to a note you never saw and sentiments I never declared. I was off doing God knows what, God knows where... Regaining your trust will take time."

"I should argue with you. Tell you that my trust and my heart have always been yours. Add a few Welsh endearments." She would not be lying, exactly, at least not about her heart, but as for her trust...

"But you are too honest for placatory platitudes," Lucien said, "and I treasure you for that. Haste isn't usually my style either, if we've reached the blunt-speaking part. Perhaps your hesitation is justified."

"Justified how?"

"Do you know what my mother's last words to me were?" He took Penelope's hand in both of his.

Lucien never spoke of his parents. "What did she say?"

"‘I love you. Always remember that I love you.' She died shortly thereafter, though she was a young woman. If I feel a sense of urgency about courting you, perhaps I am driven by old ghosts."

Penelope laid her head on Lucien's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lucien. She was devoted to your father, I'm told."

"Too devoted? Papa's death devastated us both, then Mama was gone too. I had so many questions, but then it was decided I was to be sent to Great-Uncle Thomas, and when I was allowed to visit Wales, I could not bring myself to pester my grandparents with a boy's questions. "

And all he'd have earned in response to those questions was more words. So much about Lucien was illuminated by this quiet conversation. His fascination with the empirical quality of natural science, his love of all things rational and cerebral, even his keen ear for the spoken word.

His unfailing kindness to another orphan.

"Lucien, you aren't rescuing me, are you? Taking pity on the spinster antidote third cousin before she succumbs to the charms of the bumpkin next door?"

Lucien gave her a one-armed hug. "Call Sir Dashiel a bumpkin to his face, and he will expire of injured pride. I am not rescuing you, though you did rescue Lynnfield in my absence. I am not taking anything like pity on you, though you might be said to be taking pity on me. I'm eccentric, you know, and I was too stupid to avoid the Continent in time of war. When polite society learns that I was a peer's butler, they will declare me entirely non compos mentis , and what they've said about the Lynnfield elders does not bear repeating."

And in London, Lucien would have collected all the gossip, one way or another. "The gossips haven't been exactly kind to me either. The marchioness has let a few things slip. She is fond of Sir Dashiel. A neighbor of long standing, always a gentleman, that sort of thing. My unmarried state embarrasses her, methinks."

Lucien rose and offered Penelope his hand. "The marchioness wanted you nearby, doubtless thinking that you'd be able to run both Lynnfield and the Roost, which you are more than competent to do. Aunt has a pragmatic streak, though she keeps it well hidden. The rain has stopped."

Penelope rose and caught Lucien in a hug. "It might start up again. I am curiously reluctant to brave the elements just now." Also curiously fortified. Encouraged in the old-fashioned sense of having found some bravery.

Lucien rested his chin on her crown. "We will face the elements together, if that makes a difference."

Missing him had left Penelope with a well of longing that would take years to fill, though she comforted herself with the realization that Lucien had carried a similar burden, and for just as long.

"To brave challenges with you will make all the difference in the world, Lucien." She kissed him once more for good measure, then handed him his coat.

They were soon in their respective saddles, trotting for the manor, because the sky presaged more rain, wind, and mischief. They had made it as far as the gate before a wet figure came into view, tramping along the lane toward Lynnfield.

"He's soaked, whoever he is," Penelope muttered. "Caught in the proverbial downpour."

"I know that walk," Lucien replied. "I know that hat. Uncle! Uncle Malcolm!"

The figure trudged onward. Penelope urged Ursuline into another trot. "Uncle Malcolm, wait." She caught up with him, and still he marched along. "You are soaking wet, you poor thing. Lucien and I built a fire in the lake cottage, and if you—"

Lucien came up on his gelding. "What's amiss?"

Malcolm brushed a glance over Penelope, and she felt a chill that had little to do with the nasty weather. "Malcolm is furious."

Lucien swung down. "Uncle, are you in difficulties?"

Malcolm stared straight ahead, a sopping-wet old fellow who yet exuded both ire and self-possession.

"Pen, if you'll take Lorenzo to the stable, I will accompany Uncle to Lynnfield."

Malcolm offered neither support nor protest at that plan. Penelope took the gelding's reins. "You don't want me to send a cart?"

"I suspect the situation calls for discretion. We'll see you at lunch."

Penelope left even as another spate of drizzle commenced. When she topped the next rise, she looked back, half thinking to blow her darling a kiss, except that Lucien and Malcolm were slogging along, heads bent against the wind, and the moment was too disquieting for silly kisses.