“Your mother did.”
“Is that so? I never knew.” He wished he had.
“Your father did. She told me so. She was not happy he’d denied you, you know.”
“No. I did not know that, either.” That sad note unraveled his good humor. “But he has apologized.”
“Good for him. Harlow always did display good judgment. Most of the time. I’m happy to help you to a happier state, Tain. Delighted, actually, that I can. That you trust me to help you.”
“I pray I can find the way to convince her we are right for each other. I have many plans to turn her around.”
“Why does she not accept you, Tain? One look at her at Gertrude’s house and I could see she loves you with the finest passions.”
“Ah, my lady,” he said with exasperation. “Her objection is that old one.”
“Ba. The gel thinks she is not worthy? That’s silliness. She has much to be proud of. She married three men and made each an excellent wife. Any scandals from their homes were of the men’s making.”
Anger blossomed in his chest that so fine a soul as Penn should have suffered so. “I wish to give her the perfect mate she should have always had.”
“And I will help you make it so.”
Two weeks later in Lady Bridgewater’s serene blue salon, he had the privilege to greet Penn once more. She wore a green concoction trimmed in ivory. All complimented the subtle blonde and red highlights in her glorious hair. He ached with wanting her. “You are ravishing as ever, darling.”
She gazed at him cheerfully over the rim of her little green china cup. “You are a rogue to corner me so.”
He tried to appear nonchalant. “Shall I speak of the weather?”
“You might.”
“Not those pearl ear-bobs that complement your alabaster skin?”
“Which I could not resist wearing.”
“Might I assume their use indicates a change of heart?”
“I continue to ponder the matter.”
He grinned at her and reluctantly turned toward the unwelcome fellow who’d appeared at their side. “May I introduce you, Lady Goddard, to one of my good friends, Lord Willoughby? We served in St. Petersburg years ago when we attempted to persuade the czar to our thinking.”
She spoke with Willoughby with as much detail as if she’d studied the dossier they’d carried with them to Russia. The woman seemed as informed of points of diplomacy as the ability to make him hot and hard with one smoldering look into his eyes.
He walked home. In the rain. Alone. Cursing his solitude.
Vowing to make short shrift of her recalcitrance.
The next morning from a Piccadilly pastry shop, he ordered sent round to her, a fresh bake of their finest, crispest biscuits. To accompany them, he sent her orange marmalade from Fortnum and Mason.
That afternoon, he received polite cards bearing her thanks.
Instead as payment, he hungered for her kisses.
The following week, he managed to have scarce two minutes alone with her. Lady Bridgewater’s invitation list this week was filled with men. Men of all ages. Men of all titles. And wealth. And damnable charm.
She dipped in curtsy. “Wonderful to see you again, my lord.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever known that you were so popular.”
She glanced at the room, full of chattering people. “Charming group. Entertaining, don’t you think?”
