Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel (10 page)

“Thank God,” she murmured again, and even in the darkness, he would have sworn that her gaze dropped to his mouth.

And he knew he wouldn’t be able to take another breath without kissing her. Without knowing once and for all the bliss he’d craved for so long.

He leaned forward at the same moment she did, and a strange heat flared between them, spiraling up thei—

A god-awful snore rent the air, barely muffled by the bedroom door. It was followed by a series of painful-sounding snuffs.

Pen jerked in his arms. Hell, he startled too, crushing her to his chest protectively as his heart pounded a frantic beat.

Penelope stiffened a scant second before she pushed herself away from him. Her eyes wide now, she scrambled off of his lap, sliding to the floor in a fluid move.

“Oh! Ow, ow, ow,” she whispered harshly as she landed on her sore calf.

Gabriel slid to the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor as Pen hopped away from him on one leg, like a hare that had escaped a hunter’s trap with its life but without the use of one of its lucky back feet.

Damn it all. What kind of bounder was he? He had no place—no place at all—even
contemplating
what he’d almost just done. But good Christ, the way she’d looked at him. The way she’d murmured her thanksgiving that he was there, almost as if she were grateful to find him in her bed . . . He’d been unable to think at all.

Pen shot him a wary glance over her shoulder as she reached the vanity. She snatched a robe from atop it and donned it around her serviceable night rail. When she finally turned back to face him with a wobbly, one-footed pivot, she crossed her arms over her chest as if to add another barrier between her person and his inappropriate advances.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“You cried out,” he explained as he raked a hand through his hair, still trying to get the burning need that had yet to leave his blood under control. “More than once,” he added defensively. “I came in to make certain you were all right.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Nor did she question how his checking on her had turned into crawling into her bed and cradling her while she slept—and had almost led to a disastrous mistake, as that near kiss surely would have been for both of them.

Instead she took in a breath and nodded.

He stood slowly, not wishing to make her any more nervous than she was. “You shouldn’t be stressing your calf like that,” he said as he advanced carefully. “Won’t you let me help you back into your bed?”

She shifted on her feet instinctively and winced at the pain.

“Come, Pen. I promise I won’t bite,” he coaxed as he reached her. He smiled when she allowed him to slip a supportive arm around her shoulders. “Though apparently I
will
attempt to steal kisses from you while you are sleep drugged and vulnerable,” he teased as he helped her cross to the bed once more.

She huffed a laugh and relaxed against him, for which he was immensely grateful.

They didn’t speak as he helped her back into the center of the bed and propped pillows behind her back. When she was comfortable, he stepped back and stood there, feeling both awkward and tense.

“Thank you,” she said. “Again.”

He shook his head. “Was it a nightmare?”

She nodded, and regret swamped him. “You dreamt about Michael, didn’t you? About finding him. God, I’m sorry, Pen,” he whispered, his voice gone to gravel. He felt as if his gut was full of the pulverized stone as well. “It is my fault. If I hadn’t made you dredge up the past—”

“No,” she said forcefully. “You had a right to know.”

But that didn’t make him feel any less of an ogre.

“I—” She swallowed, audible in the quiet darkness. “I
did
dream about that night, but it wasn’t Michael’s lifeless body I found in that hunting lodge. It was yours.”

Gabriel’s breath caught.

“It was you lying there. You who’d taken your own life.” Her voice cracked, and he wished he could better see her face.
“All because I failed you,”
came her desperate whisper.

“Oh, Pen,” he murmured. He couldn’t stand there beside her and let her suffer alone, no matter that it would be foolish to take her into his arms again. He moved to the bed and sat half on it, leaving one leg to brace himself on the floor. Then he pulled her into his side, relaxing into her when she did not resist. “You could never fail me.”

She didn’t respond—only trembled against him, her dream probably still very fresh in her mind’s eye. So
that’s
why she’d been so glad to see him when she’d woken, why she’d scanned his face as if she’d been afraid she would never see it again. He’d mistaken her look for one of desire, but it had simply been one of immense relief.

Christ. Pen was a nurturing soul, having always taken people under her wing. He’d seen it from the way she’d treated her servants to the way she always made a point to publicly praise those of lesser social stature than herself in the ballrooms of society.

And now she felt responsible for him, so much so that he was haunting her dreams.

“No matter what becomes of me, it would never be your fault, Pen.”

She sniffed against his nightshirt but did not agree.

“It wouldn’t,” he reiterated, not liking the listless way she slumped in his arms. He tried to lighten the moment. “Admittedly, you can drive a man to distraction, but if lunacy runs in my family, then I was mad
long
before you met me.”

“That’s not funny, Gabriel,” she murmured quietly.

Hell. None of this was. “Pen, your being here these past days hasn’t done me any harm. You’ve
helped
me. You’ve given me some hope. You’ve reminded me of who I am.”

She lifted her head from his chest, tipping her face to his. “Then why are you trying to force me away?”

For your own good, damn it!

But was it? He’d never seen Pen so fragile as he had today. Forcing her to talk about Michael’s death, when it had been clear she didn’t wish it—hell, she’d practically maimed herself trying to outrun the conversation—had tilled up her worst memories. And now he’d become part of them, tied in her mind.

If he sent her away now and the worst happened, would she always blame herself?

He thought about the burdens he carried from the war. Guilt crippled him at times, from decisions he
knew
he’d had no choice but to have made. But knowing and
believing
were two completely different animals in the dark, when the dreams came.

He couldn’t send her away. Not now. It wasn’t as if he’d deteriorate into complete lunacy overnight. He’d let her stay—just until he could convince her that he was not her responsibility.

He closed his eyes, thinking this might possibly be the worst decision he’d ever come to. When he opened them again, he stared down into her face, so close to his own. So very close.

“All right, Pen. You win. But you must promise me that if your methods don’t succeed, you will not blame yourself.”

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips; then she said, “I promise.” But they both knew one couldn’t promise such things. She couldn’t even hold his gaze—laying her cheek against his chest again instead.

He dropped his chin and rested it atop her head. Misgivings, uncertainties and worries whirled through his mind—he wouldn’t sleep a wink, he knew. Would Penelope? Or would her nightmares plague her through the night?

“You should try to sleep,” he murmured. “I will stay with you awhile.”

“That wouldn’t be proper—”

“I’ll leave before sunrise,” he said, loath to let her go. “It’s just, well, when I first returned to England, I dreamt of the war almost every night. There were times the images were so vivid that I refused to go back to sleep for fear of having to relive it all over again.”

She shivered in his arms, and he suspected she knew exactly what he meant.

“I think it would have been easier had I not been alone.” He shifted on the bed, adjusting her smoothly as he swung his other leg up and then settled them both, with her cradled beside him. “Let me stay here with you, just until I am sure you are sleeping peacefully. It is the least I can do since I am the one who brought this all back up in your heart. It is my fault you had such horrid dreams.”

For a long moment, he thought she’d deny him. But then she nodded and tucked her head into the crook of his arm.

They lay there like that for long, quiet moments. Penelope seemed to relax more and more, sinking into him, as if the contours of their bodies were made for each other . . . filling him with bone-deep contentment.

But as she drifted off to sleep, he heard her murmur, “No, Gabriel. The fault is my own.”

P
enelope woke surrounded by the enticing mixture of sandalwood and sage.

Gabriel.

Memories flooded in like the sunlight that streamed through the windows of the bedchamber. She glanced to her side, but true to his word, Gabriel had gone. The pillow next to hers still bore the imprint of his head, however, and she stared at that spot for long moments.

It had been nearly two years since she’d shared a bed with a man. And never had she spent a night in someone’s arms simply for the comfort they offered. Michael’s nighttime visits had been for lovemaking—after which he would drop off to sleep with his back to her or slip out to his studio.

An odd sensation swelled in her chest, disconcerting and unnerving. Though nothing untoward had happened between her and Gabriel last night, those few hours in his arms seemed more intimate to her than any she’d ever spent.

She’d told him everything—well, almost everything. She waited for the stomach-clenching regret to come, but strangely, it didn’t. It had been painful talking about Michael and his death, but she actually felt lighter in her heart than she had yesterday. Maybe because she hadn’t sensed any indictment coming from Gabriel.

Of course, he didn’t know the whole truth. No one did—not even Liliana, though her cousin had dragged some of the story out of her.

But there was no reason anyone would ever need to know the rest. She vowed she wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Gabriel as she had with Michael. She was much wiser now—at least more learned. She hoped that was enough.

Penelope rose quickly, anxious to pick up where they had left off in Gabriel’s treatment before he changed his mind about letting her stay. It had been a close thing, and he’d capitulated only grudgingly. She meant to prove that he’d made the right choice.

After a quick toilette—slowed by only a minimal amount of limping, she was happy to note—Penelope was ready to join Gabriel in the parlor. Anticipation fluttered in her middle at seeing Gabriel in the light of day after spending the night cradled in his arms, innocent though it had been.

Not quite innocent,
her mind whispered. All right, so her thoughts
may
have drifted to the carnal a time or two as she’d lain against his muscular contours. And when she’d fallen asleep the last time, Gabriel had once again been the focus of her dreams. But this time he’d been very
much
alive and very much—

Heat stained her cheeks as she pushed open the door that separated the bedchamber from the rest of the suite. The distinctive scent of smoked bacon greeted her nose, as did the yeasty aroma of hot rolls and a glorious whiff of strong English tea. Penelope’s stomach rumbled, pushing aside any lingering embarrassment. Besides, she was actually looking forward to spending the morning with Gabriel, she realized. More than she would have expected.

Until she saw who else was sitting at the table.

Both men rose when they saw her, Gabriel—looking well in light pantaloons contrasted with a waistcoat of bottle green paired with a coat the same golden brown as his eyes—and Mr. Allen, somber in serviceable black, like her.

Still, she hoped she never looked as pinched and forbidding as the director of Vickering Place did right now.

Gabriel smiled in greeting—a welcoming smile, if a bit strained. “Good morning, Lady Manton. I trust you slept well.”

“I did, thank you,” she replied with a sweet smile of her own. He knew she’d slept well, as he had been the reason. When he’d offered to stay with her in case the nightmare returned, she’d been sure she’d never be able to sleep again. But she’d drifted off in the safety of his arms and hadn’t woken again until bright sunlight forced the issue.

“And how is your leg this morning?” he inquired politely—and a little stiffly, due to Mr. Allen’s presence, no doubt.

“Better than I expected,” she answered, carefully making her way toward the table to join them. “Given how much it hurt yesterday. There is little pain this morning, more of an aching heaviness.”

“Then you should be able to return to the inn this evening, I expect,” Mr. Allen said. The words were polite, but something about his tone set Penelope’s teeth on edge. He seemed more than pleased with the prospect of her leaving them.

“Oh, not quite yet,” she demurred, and embellished her limp a smidge as she crossed the rest of the distance. “Pain is still pain, and I wouldn’t like to risk permanent injury.” What she
truly
didn’t like was the idea of Mr. Allen trying to get rid of her. She glanced at Gabriel. “That is, if Lord Bromwich is amenable to another night or two on a cot.”

“Of course,” came Gabriel’s staunch reply.

She took the seat held out for her by a servant and smoothed the linen napkin on her lap as the men settled themselves just after her.

Breakfast was an awkward affair, her delight in the well-prepared fare dimmed by the stiff silence of the diners. Gabriel shot speculative looks at Mr. Allen over his plate, whereas the director shot similar glances at her—with a bit of what she suspected was condescension tossed in. Only a few bites in, Penelope lost her appetite altogether.

She couldn’t contain a small sigh of relief as the painful meal came to an end. “Well,” she said, injecting a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice as she stood, “that was lovely. I am certain you have a full day ahead of you, Mr. Allen. Overseeing Vickering Place is quite a task, I’m sure. Lord Bromwich and I have a full day ahead, as well—and I’d like to get started immediately.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Allen intoned, dabbing at the corner of his mouth before discarding his soiled napkin. “As I intend to spend the day with you, observing your
methods
for myself.”

Unease and irritation warred for supremacy in her middle. Mr. Allen sitting in with them? What sort of progress could she expect Gabriel to make if they could not talk alone?

“While I’d be happy to engage in a theoretical discourse regarding my methodology, my style of treatment requires a good amount of deeply personal discussion, of the type I am certain Lord Bromwich would like to remain private.”

If possible, Mr. Allen’s face grew even more pinched. “Nevertheless,
I
am the director of Vickering Place, and Lord Bromwich is under
my
care. I appreciate that his family has asked for you to see him, but if you wish to continue, you will do so under my conditions.”

“Allen,” Gabriel growled.

“No,” she interjected as she noticed Dunnings, Carter’s beefier and more foreboding counterpart, stand more alert at his post in the corner. The stoic attendant added a hint of menace to the gathering that she didn’t care for, particularly when she saw him fist one hand at his side.

“If that is what you wish, Mr. Allen, I will be happy to have you join us,” she lied. Perhaps he would get bored soon and go back to his responsibilities elsewhere.

When the three of them were seated—she on the chaise, Gabriel and Mr. Allen in opposing wingbacks—Penelope cleared her throat. “Well, as we discussed yesterday, Lord Bromwich,” she began, sending a what-else-can-we-do smile at Gabriel, “
I
believe much—if not all—of your condition may have its roots in battle fatigue—”

Mr. Allen made a scoffing noise in his throat. “
That
is your supposition? Lord Bromwich suffers from mania, Lady Manton. Or have you forgotten how you found him when you first arrived?”

The flush of anger made her cheeks hot. “Of course I haven’t forgotten. However, aside from his episode, he has been completely lucid.”

“Many lunatics have lucid moments,” Mr. Allen countered coolly.

“Moments, yes. But I’ve never heard of one who is lucid most of the time. There is normally some hint of instability in between bouts, of which I’ve seen no evidence,” she shot back.

“You are hardly the expert.”

“
Enough
, Allen,” Gabriel warned while Penelope bit down on a sharp reply. She held up a staying hand in his direction. She could handle Mr. Allen on her own.

She pasted a calm smile on her face and trained her gaze on the director. “Perhaps not. However, I have studied maladies of the mind quite extensively, and I’ve never seen a case like his. What I have seen, however, is evidence that cruel treatment has been shown to make a patient’s condition worse, rather than better. Looking through Lord Bromwich’s records, I notice you’ve advocated several horrifically painful procedures for him. Bleeding, cupping, purging, blistering—”

“All perfectly acceptable forms of treatment for lunatics,” Mr. Allen said, his eyes narrowing on her.

“All antiquated and barbaric.”

He sniffed in a very what-does-a-lady-like-you-know-about-it way and said, “All treatments good enough for our king.”

“Who was never cured and
died
of his madness,” she retorted, which earned her an angry glare from Mr. Allen.

Penelope would never believe that many of the treatments inflicted on those who suffered from lunacy were appropriate or helpful. To her, it went against every bit of humanity and common sense she possessed.

But she knew that wasn’t why she was angry enough with Mr. Allen to be as rude as she’d just been. Her argument was simply a surrogate for what really burned her—that the director refused to even contemplate that Gabriel was not crazed but rather broken in a different way. A way that might not require him to be locked away in Vickering Place for the rest of his days.

But she shouldn’t have antagonized him so. She wasn’t certain what had come over her. She was typically sweet and genteel in her dealings with others. She
knew
making Mr. Allen angry would do little to win him over to her way of thinking.

So she took a deep breath and said, “I apologize. I understand that we both wish what is best for Lord Bromwich. We simply have differing ideas about how to accomplish it.” Her next words galled her to say, but she did anyway. “I do hope you will forgive that I am very passionate about my own.”

Mr. Allen sat stiffly in his chair, his expression not changing in the least. “The equilibrium of the mind can be dislodged by a surplus of passion, Lady Manton. That is a
well
-documented cause of insanity.”

Tiny hairs rose on the back of her neck at his response, not caring for either his tone or his sentiments.

“Yes, well, while the effects of battle fatigue are
less
documented, the majority of Lord Bromwich’s symptoms fall within them,” she said, attempting to steer the conversation to less treacherous territory. Gabriel’s jaw had clenched tight when she’d checked his defense of her earlier, and now his fists were balled at his sides. Dunnings had inched closer to their grouping, his eyes darting between the three of them. And Mr. Allen had clasped his hands in front of his chest and was rhythmically stroking the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of his other.

She directed herself at Gabriel now, realizing that Mr. Allen wasn’t going to listen to anything she proposed. “I believe we can lessen and perhaps even cure some of those symptoms through uncovering the hidden associations behind them.”

“What?” both Gabriel and Mr. Allen said in unison.

Penelope thought about how best to explain. “I think we can all agree that the mind is very powerful and mysterious. Doctors and mental philosophers have argued for years over where defects of the mind originate and how to cure them.

“I happen to fall into the school of associationists. We believe that all people start out as blank slates and that the things we
experience
in our lives connect to our reason. Our reason then forms a conclusion about our experience and associates that experience with corresponding ideas and experiences we’ve had to drive our future actions.”

Both men looked at her with twin expressions of confusion on their faces.

She couldn’t blame them. She suspected she had sounded rather like Liliana did when her cousin tried to explain chemical theory to her.

“Think of it as cause and effect,” she suggested. “A child touches a hot stove, they experience a burn and then their mind makes the association that stoves can be painful and the child does not touch a stove again. This is a very simplistic example, of course. But our minds do this for everything that we experience in life.

“Sometimes the associations are obvious. But sometimes our minds will connect illogical things
unbeknownst
to us—
particularly
when we experience trauma, like that of wartime service—that can take over our senses and force us to behave in ways we do not understand.”

“Ridiculous,” Mr. Allen said with a dismissive shake of his head.

But a peculiar, interested look came over Gabriel, as if her words made sense to him. As if he were willing to listen further, perhaps even be willing to let her test her theory.

But they’d never be able to dig deeply enough into his psyche to expose and banish his faulty associations and to effect lasting change in his life with Mr. Allen’s negative presence.

Dash her injured leg. If she were healthy, she could take Gabriel outside to walk and talk, where Mr. Allen might be less inclined to follow. Judging from his pasty white skin, he did not seem the outdoor type. But until she healed, that was not an option.

She could only hope Mr. Allen would lose interest now that he’d decided she had nothing to offer, and leave them to it.

*   *   *

Four days later, she was wishing Mr. Allen would lose significantly more than interest. His way to the manor from the gatehouse that she’d learned was his private residence, perhaps. Or maybe his licensing—as Vickering Place served more than one lunatic, the sanatorium had to be visited at least once a year by the Royal College of Physicians under the 1774 Madhouses Act. She was so frustrated with the man, she even caught herself wishing he’d lose his health—not for good, of course. Just for a few days, so that he would have to stay home. Then she could speak to Gabriel alone.

For despite Mr. Allen’s outspoken disdain for Penelope’s theories and practices, he insisted on being present whenever she was with Gabriel. And if something required the director’s presence elsewhere, either Dunnings or Carter were stationed near. She might just be unreasonably suspicious, but it seemed as if the attendants stayed closer than they had before—certainly within earshot at all times. Dunnings was more vigilant than Carter, she’d noticed. But the result was that she and Gabriel had made no progress since their night in his bedchamber.