“Enough, both of you,” Lionel said wearily, holding up a hand. “Can we not go five minutes without bickering? We have hours yet before we arrive.”
Before either of them could respond, the carriage jolted to a sudden stop, throwing them all forward slightly.
“What is happening?” Penelope asked, leaning toward the window and pushing aside the curtain.
Lionel opened the door and stepped out, speaking briefly with the driver. Cold air rushed into the carriage, carrying the scent of grass and earth. When he returned, he looked apologetic.
“There is an issue with one of the wheels. It should only take a few minutes to fix, but I am going to assist them. The driver could use an extra pair of hands. I will be back shortly.”
He disappeared again, closing the door and leaving Penelope and Cecil alone in the suddenly too-small space.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Penelope could hear the sounds of work outside – men's voices, the clank of tools, the whinny of horses.
“You are wrong, you know,” Penelope said quietly, breaking the silence.
Cecil raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“Love is not a foolish notion. It is the most beautiful emotion one can experience. But it is also the hardest to find – and the easiest to lose.” She looked at him directly now, holding his gaze. “Just because it is difficult does not make it worthless.”
“Spoken like someone who has read far too many novels,” Cecil said, but his tone lacked its usual mockery.
There was something softer in his voice, something almost thoughtful.
“And you sound like someone who has never allowed himself to feel anything genuine,” Penelope retorted. “Tell me, Your Grace – have you ever loved anyone? Or is your heart truly as cold as you claim?”
Cecil's expression darkened, something passing across his features too quickly for her to identify. “Emotions are a hassle. They complicate everything and serve no practical purpose. My father taught me that.”
“Your father,” Penelope said slowly, remembering what Nora had told her about Gregory Wightman. “Was he a loving man?”
Cecil's laugh was bitter, harsh. “My father loved nothing and no one except himself. He believed that every relationship was a transaction, every interaction an opportunity for gain. He taught me that sentiment was weakness, that caring for others only made you vulnerable.”
“And you believed him?” Penelope asked softly.
“I had little choice,” Cecil said, far too casually to be unaffected by memories of his past. “He demonstrated the truth of his philosophy daily. My sisters sought his approval, and he gave them nothing but criticism. Love did not serve any of them well.”
Penelope felt a surge of sympathy. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was instructive,” Cecil said flatly. “And it served as proof that all emotions are useless. Except for lust, of course.”
Penelope blinked, suddenly feeling as though the carriage had become too small for the both of them.
“I beg your pardon?”
“At least lust is honest,” Cecil said, leaning forward slightly with a grin. “It does not pretend to be something it is not. It does not promise forever and then disappear at the first sign of difficulty. It is simple, straightforward, and honest. But you would not know about that emotion, would you, Lady Penelope?”
Penelope's cheeks flushed, and she glared at him. “I am not as naive as you think.”
Cecil's eyes gleamed with interest, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Is that so? Tell me, then – have you ever touched yourself?”
Penelope's mouth fell open, her face burning with embarrassment and indignation. “How dare you–”
But Cecil had already pulled back, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips as Lionel climbed back into the carriage, brushing dirt from his hands and looking pleased with himself.
“All fixed,” he announced cheerfully, oblivious to the charged atmosphere he had interrupted. “We should arrive within the hour. The driver says we made good time despite the delay.”
Penelope turned away quickly, staring fixedly out the window as the carriage lurched back into motion. Her cheek still tingled where Cecil had touched it.
But she could feel Cecil's gaze on her, burning like a brand.
