His Forbidden Debutante (9 page)

Drawing a deep breath to reorder her conflicted thoughts, she turned towards the mirror and pretended to adjust her headdress, grateful for the mask that concealed her identity and utter loss of calm capability. Still her heart pounded in her chest as she recalled the lock of his eyes, the unvoiced emotion found there. There was no disguising the silent acknowledgement of their shared communication, the moment significant, their thoughts intertwined.

The Clipthorne estate comprised a vast plot of landed property with several outreaching cottages and flower gardens spanning beyond the most impressive building, the elaborate main house. The fortified manor, composed of pale brick and multiple rectangular windows, stacked one atop the other as if they climbed stairs to the sky, their panes sectioned in diamond configurations. It was said the windows had caused Allington to purchase the house to please his wife, who believed the glass shapes represented the family business in most admirable fashion.

No one could deny the property’s value. Situated in a prime location that allowed travel into the heart of the city, it also reserved sanctuary far enough from the bustle to conjure a feeling of bucolic respite. Penwick preferred the wild apple copse to the west of the estate and often chose to stroll with Claire along the gravel path whenever he visited. As an additional boon, the great house boasted a capacious ballroom with mirror-smooth marble tiles, so infrequently utilised it offered Penwick and the younger Allington the ideal fencing arena.

He glanced out the window as his driver manoeuvred their final approach. The sun shone and he squinted against the rays stabbing the interior. Jasper’s comments from their meeting two days past drifted back to nudge his curiosity. Why did Allington persist? The estate stood as proof the family had acquired all the proper components of status, wealth and respected reputation. But alas, the lack of title endured like a torn hole in one’s shirt or coffee stain on a fresh cravat. There existed no way to cloak the blemish.

Not to suggest lack of title determined a man’s worth or compartmentalised integrity, but if one sought the reverence offered to peerage, if one hungered for the aristocratic leverage a title enabled, then yes, the absence thereof would impair one’s happiness; which struck an ironic chord with Penwick who’d had the earldom forced upon him out of necessity and might have preferred to continue his uncomplicated countryside life. He often reflected on simpler times when all he need do was maintain a modest home and fledgling stable of horses; when his best times were occupied by the receipt of Lavinia’s next letter and the organisation of the many hundreds of things he wished to write back as soon as he could claim an inkpot and pen.

He dropped the velvet curtain to obscure the view and settled against the upholstered bench. With purpose he’d disallowed himself from rereading any of the words in his wardrobe drawer. He refused to carry the nonsense in his breast pocket any longer and at length contemplated flinging the key from his bedroom window away in a rash moment of frustration. Eventually he’d replaced it to a location of safekeeping, fearing he’d regret the impetuous rebellion. Despite his contrariness, he couldn’t forget the lovely conversations of his past or the more recently ignited emotions after dancing with the little fox at Dabney’s masquerade, and somehow, on a level he could never explain, the two seemed related, at least by a similar soul-searching quality if nothing else.

What had become of his composure and forthright determination? Had he fallen under some kind of bewitchment? He scoffed at the preposterous notion. He was a man of honour and respectability who prided himself on closely following the rules of gentlemanly behaviour. With an amused chuckle he retrieved his silver-collared walking stick and exited the carriage as soon as it rolled to a stop, a familiar voice chasing away concern.

‘Penwick, I received your message with gladness. Claire will be delighted to share the day.’ Bertram Allington, patriarch and respected senior of the family, greeted him in the front hall, his palm clasped in a tight handshake. ‘I couldn’t have chosen a more benevolent or honest gentleman to seek my cherished daughter’s attention. My wife, rest her gentle soul, would be so pleased. I shall stand proud at the ceremonies. Only a few short days now.’

Ten, actually.

The convivial welcome did little to assuage Penwick’s unquiet, but he shoved the apprehension aside and perpetuated confabulation as they walked towards Bertram’s study.

‘I still wait for a special delivery from my most lucrative diamond mine. A collection of perfect stones clearly formed and more precious than you’ve ever seen. For some reason, the shipment has not arrived and, as the wedding draws nearer, I need investigate the cause of delay. Be confident, Penwick. I will have the diamonds ready when you need them, designed into a gift to please Claire like no other; perhaps an exquisite pendant or priceless choker, unmatched by any worn before, to thrill whoever sets eyes upon the masterpiece. I’ve sketched several designs and need only the stones to complete the gift.’

‘I trust you have the situation under control.’ Allington’s description of his daughter portrayed a pretentious socialite who Penwick had never seen displayed in her personality. Had he made his decision expeditiously?

At one time he’d been untroubled with his assessment, having chosen his would-be bride with deliberate intent. He examined reports and descriptions, gathered by a man he employed for the exact task, and narrowed the possibilities to a short list, at which time he met each candidate at a societal function while the female remained unaware of his purpose. He believed the unassuming approach would offer a truer sense of the lady’s character, without courting affectations or the pretentious, often awkward, effort to please during a formal call. From that process he’d decided upon Claire Allington and he retained no regret.

As if his reflection conjured her appearance, the lady entered the room, a vision in butter-cream satin. She placed a brief kiss on her father’s cheek where he worked across the room at the sideboard pouring brandy and then turned, bestowing Penwick a grand smile that expressed her pleasure at his sudden decision to visit. The gleam of unfettered hope shone bright in her eyes, and in light of her expression at the sincere joy of his attention, he banished the odd discomfit which tightened his chest and reached for the brandy as soon as Allington made his way across the room.

‘Claire, you are as lovely as always.’ He pressed his mouth to her gloved hand, aware her father watched his every action. ‘The day is fine. Would you care to walk in the gardens?’

‘Yes. That would be pleasant. I shall fetch my wool wrap and meet you in the front hall when you finish speaking to Father.’ She flushed a fetching shade of pink and hurried from the room.

Their conversations followed a predictable tract, desultory and often lacking depth. In that regard he hardly knew his betrothed and yet their wedding day loomed.

Still, she was the right choice. All fine features, slim figure and careful etiquette. His faltering hesitation was an exercise of futility. Claire would become an ideal wife, capable to manage a large estate, converse with wit and intelligence, and all the while please the eye. The smile he returned expressed sincere acceptance and he exhaled deep, at last conquering the irregular doubt that had somehow invaded his demeanour of late.

She didn’t need to wait very long. Bertram released him with few words, seemingly anxious to send Penwick off to court his daughter, and, as with other visits, he accompanied Claire to meander along the slated path lined with yew and manicured topiaries leading from the grand house towards the apple trees, a favourite location. A wholesome breeze kept the bright sun from becoming uncomfortable and before long they’d shared congenial conversation all the way to the gated entrance where a wrought-iron bench sat sentry.

‘I’m so pleased you’ve come to Clipthorne today, milord.’ She darted a coy glance in his direction. ‘I’ve something to ask and hope you will oblige, as I’ve set my heart upon your answer.’

The matter sounded grave and he couldn’t imagine what topic would cause such solemn importance, so he quickly settled beside Claire on the bench and wrapped her gloved hand within his own. ‘Anything. Ask me, please.’ Concern marred his words.

‘We are to be married in little over a week, and yet…’ She paused as if considering whether or not to complete the enquiry.

Her sudden disposition, farouche and shy, perplexed him. At odds, an invidious insect dissected their conversation and he waved it away, distracted momentarily before shifting his focus to his soon-to-be bride.

‘I would like for you to kiss me.’ She confessed the words in a hushed tone, yet their meaning could not be misconstrued.

‘Kiss you?’ A wave of relief washed through him. A kiss was a simple problem to solve and of late he’d wondered at how they’d broach intimacy when she’d never allowed more than a slight embrace or brief touch to the arm.

‘It has occurred to me that, in all our opportunities, whether a moment left in the drawing room unchaperoned or similar to now, when we spend the afternoon in conversation, we’ve never shared an embrace. I should like to experience a token of your affection before the wedding night. Wouldn’t you agree?’ She canted her face in his direction and allowed her eyes to fall closed.

It was all so proper, wasn’t it? And didn’t he enjoy the decorum and order of a well-thought-out plan? No, not when it came to intimacy, ardent emotion and surging passion. He’d kept his heart locked away like the jewels of the crown. It was the letters, Livie’s words and promises, which kept him obstructed. How utterly unfair to his intended. How of little consequence he’d treated her feelings.

Did she question her attractiveness? If somehow his reserved approach to their courtship had disparaged the lady’s confidence, he should bear shame upon his conscience. He would loathe any such circumstance and moved closer, tightening his hold on her folding hands before lowering his mouth to her uplifted lips, poised in wait.

It ended all too quickly. He’d no sooner captured her mouth, lingered carefully to initiate a proper kiss, than she slipped from his grasp and stood from the bench. He watched her with keen observation as she fanned her face and threw him a cautious glance over one shoulder.

‘That was everything I thought it would be.’ Her words were a pleasant hurry.

He could never agree. Still, she seemed pleased. He swallowed the objection he might have made.

‘I propose we collect a few pippins and bring them to Cook for a tart with dinner this evening.’ She turned fully now and a hesitant smile emerged before she nodded to where he remained on the bench. ‘You will stay for the afternoon meal, won’t you? I know the upcoming days will be hectic. I’ve fittings and appointments to tend, although I would enjoy your company were you to dine with the family this evening.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He rose and walked towards her, but she’d already turned and moved further down the path, reaching for a low-hanging apple. While curious, her behaviour spoke well of her manners excepting, at this particular moment, Penwick reconsidered the importance of civil behaviour. Her actions had instilled doubt more than removed it and, in an uncharacteristic backlash of thought, he wondered how it would feel to kiss the little fox from Dabney’s masquerade. Her eyes spoke of intensity and deep, passionate emotion. Desire spiked, hot and insistent, a separate effect, unrelated to his kiss with Claire and in indelible contrast. The little fox was different in myriad ways. How would her tongue feel as it rubbed against his, locked in a feverish kiss of impromptu urgency? Would she lick his lips, nip his chin? His body responded as always when he considered her, his cock not immune to the now familiar daydream.

Releasing a confounded breath, he reached for the nearest apple, snapped it from the branch and took a wholesome bite before following Claire, his well intentions abandoned.

Much later, after they’d carried the fruit to the kitchen, Claire went abovestairs to change and Penwick happened upon the younger Allington in the hallway as he made way to the guestroom where Strickler waited with his attire.

‘The ballroom is empty.’

This insightful remark was a gauntlet thrown. In economic communication Allington declared the room awaited their presence for a successive competitive assault.

‘You have me at a disadvantage as I’ve travelled without my blade.’ Penwick had not expected Allington at Clipthorne and more truthfully was distracted of late, at fault to consider they might fence today. His betrothed remained his primary focus, he reminded himself in an afterthought.

‘You’re welcome to use any of the collection aside from the sword I’ve chosen. A combative challenge is exactly the exercise needed before indulging in the sweets you’ve collected for dinner.’

Had Allington watched him escort Claire around the property? Something about the man raised Penwick’s alertness. ‘I will join you there shortly. Allow me the opportunity to change my clothes.’

He did so with promptitude and returned to the expansive ballroom enthused by the notion of besting Allington yet another time. Fencing proved one of the few threads of his old life that interwove seamlessly into his role as earl, his knowledge of horseflesh also an advantage. He chose a sleek foil with a blunted tip. For as much as Allington appeared out for blood, the description represented a misnomer. Penwick did not believe the man meant to wound him as much as prove a point. This cliché amused, but he abandoned his ponderings and grasped the metal handle to assume position in the middle of the marbles where Allington waited
en garde
.

The silky clash of steel upon steel possessed the room for a good quarter hour before anyone spoke. Allington kept a fast pace, but Penwick had honed his ability to a superior level. Furthermore, his opponent reverted to invariant tactics which produced a level of predictability within their bout, one Penwick easily anticipated.

‘Quite the swordsman, aren’t you?’

No polite retort existed, as to acknowledge his skill would cause Penwick to appear arrogant or, worse, rude.