* * *
Hugh leaned back and swung one leg over the armrest of the ancient leather chair he preferred while visiting Summer’s Park. He was more than a little foxed. Cortland had deserted him over an hour ago to go to his duchess and newborn son, leaving Hugh to his own devices. The two men had paced the study for ages before receiving the news of Lilly’s safe delivery. Well, Cortland had paced anyhow. Hugh had languished on the comfortable settee, sipping scotch—liberal amounts of it. And now, even though he had every intention of retiring to the guest chamber he normally used, his body refused to obey. He really must cut back on the spirits.
Guilt groused at him. He ought to be traveling north. He needed to investigate rumors of tenant unrest at his estate near Manchester. He’d only detoured to Summer’s Park to consult with Cortland before addressing the situation, but then Lilly had gone into labor, and he could not leave his oldest friend at such a distressing time!
That had been two days ago.
Tomorrow, he would depart.
Hearing footsteps approach the corridor, Hugh glanced toward the door, expecting to see Cortland. He would be strutting like a peacock, no doubt, having sired a son first time around. Preparing for another toast, Hugh reached for the decanter of scotch but then stopped when he saw that it was not Cortland.
Definitely not Cortland.
Rather, it was a disheveled Penelope Crone. The good old girl was one of the rare single ladies with whom a bachelor was safe to find himself alone. As an unmarried viscount, he remained vigilantly mindful of ambitious mamas and debutantes. He enjoyed his bachelor status far too much to risk it for a peck and a feel.
No, Penelope, a confirmed spinster, was as reluctant to marry as he.
Except, this evening, there was something different about her.
As she entered the room, her hips swayed in a manner he’d almost consider beguiling. Very unusual. Penelope was pragmatic about all things. Was she ill? Wasshefoxed? Holy hell, he must have drowned in his cups, because damned if Practical Pen wasn’t looking as though she wanted to seduce him!
Surely, he was mistaken.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, and her lips tilted upward in a secret sort of smile. Soft tufts of reddish golden hair framed her face. Hugh also could not fail to notice that her breasts were very close to spilling out the top of her bodice.
He pulled his leg off the chair and sat up straight. “Pen,” he nearly choked when she leaned forward, giving him an even better view of her…, “I trust all is well with mother and babe?”
Hugh had known Penelope for ages and being alone with her was not something he’d normally find concerning. She was like a cousin to him, practically a sister! Obviously, assisting the ladies with the long birth had brought about her unusually disheveled appearance. She’d most likely not slept in over twenty-four hours. This sensuality in her gaze was surely an aberration—the concoction of her tousled appearance and too much scotch on his part.
And then she turned toward the window, raised her hands up and behind her neck, and stretched, like a feline soaking up the sun. Her position thrust her chest forward and emphasized the long, swanlike column of her neck. Her skin was the color of porcelain except for a few delicate freckles sprinkled here and there. Hugh gulped as he watched the edge of her bodice.
She then turned her head toward him and gave hima look.
This could not be reality, for Hugh knew women, and that look was the look a woman gave a man when she wanted him. “Lilly and the little marquess are perfect.” Her voice sounded breathy as she floated toward him.
Hugh’s body stirred.
Jumping to his feet, he ignored the unwanted sensation of lust. Where had his manners gone? A gentleman always rose to his feet when a lady entered the room.
“What a day, eh, Pen, old gal? Join me for a toast?” He reached for the glass he’d been going to pour for Cortland, tipped a few fingers of the amber liquid into it, and held it out toward her. He struggled with his balance but managed to avoid spilling any of the liquid onto the table. His hand barely shook as he handed her the drink.
Penelope stepped closer to him. Closer than necessary for her to retrieve the drink. “I’ve never tasted scotch before.” She wrapped her fingers around the glass, covering his, her voice low and velvety.
Hugh wanted to release the drink, but fragile fingers had captured his own and, for the life of him, he could not figure out why he would ever want to be free. His mind was unusually distracted by her lips, which parted temptingly when Penelope lifted the glass, along with his hand, so that she might take a sip.
Watching the aromatic liquor flow into her soft, wet mouth, held him in an enchanted trance. After taking a long and steady sip, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. She licked her lips and swallowed the strong spirit.
“Mmm…” She surprised him by not coughing. And then she lowered her chin again and opened her eyes. Emerald eyes that he’d never really noticed before. With her hair not pulled back so tightly, they appeared wider. Her lashes were lightly colored but lush and thick. Studying them for the first time, he noticed little blue flecks. Why, her eyes were nothing short of spectacular!
She stood intimately close to him, her hand still covering his. Hugh glanced down to her bodice and pleasantly noted how proximity gave him quite an eyeful of cleavage. His groin tightened when she again lifted the glass.
Tohislips.
He watched her over the rim as he swallowed. She then took another drink for herself before returning it to the table. What in the hell was going on?
And then Miss Penelope Crone, the original wallflower, bluestocking, queen of all spinsters, pressed her body up against him and wound her arms around his neck. She was tall, not as tall as Hugh, but tall enough that when she spoke into his ear, her breath heated his skin.
“We ought to celebrate, don’t you think?”
