But now, watching her pace the library with barely restrained fury and hurt, he found that the victory felt hollow. Worse than hollow – it felt wrong.
“Why are you upset?” he asked instead, keeping his voice carefully neutral even as guilt gnawed at him.
Penelope stopped pacing and whirled to face him, her skirts swirling around her ankles. “Why am I upset? You just publicly humiliated me, questioned my character, suggested I am nothing more than a meddling busybody with an empty life, and you have the audacity to ask why I am upset?”
Each word was sharp, clipped, vibrating with emotion.
“I did not humiliate you,” Cecil protested weakly. “I was speaking about Athena –”
“I am Athena!” Penelope managed to catch hers before she could scream it out, lowering her voice to a furious whisper that was somehow more cutting than a shout. “You were insulting me, Your Grace. Do not pretend otherwise. Every word you said was directed at me, and you knew it.”
Cecil felt something twist within him at her accusation.
“You treat me abominably,” Penelope continued, resuming her pacing with renewed vigour as her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. “You constantly try to provoke reactions out of me, and then you have the nerve to come here and ask why I am upset. You get on my nerves with your charming facade and your inappropriate questions – like the one you asked in the carriage!”
Cecil's lips twitched despite himself, despite the guilt. “You mean asking if you have ever touched yourself?”
Penelope's face flamed scarlet, the blush spreading down her neck. “Yes! That is not something you ask a lady! And certainly not a friend! What were you thinking?”
“But you have not,” Cecil said, taking a step closer, drawn by something he could not name. “Have you?”
Penelope looked as though she wanted to slap him. Her hand actually twitched, rose slightly before she caught herself. “That is none of your concern!”
“I will take that as a no,” Cecil said, allowing himself a small smile despite the heaviness in his chest.
And it was true – he had won. She had confirmed what he already suspected.
But instead of satisfaction, he felt something else entirely. Something that made his pulse quicken and his thoughts turn in directions they had no business going. He found himself wanting to know more, wanting to teach her, wanting to be the one to show her pleasure.
The thought should have alarmed him. It did not.
“It is such a shame,” he murmured, moving closer still until he was only a few feet away, “That you do not know of lust, Lady Penelope. That you have denied yourself that experience.”
Penelope stopped pacing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. For a moment, she simply stared at him – and then, to his surprise, she spoke.
“What does that mean?” Her voice was quiet, but there was genuine curiosity beneath the anger.
Cecil's eyebrows rose. “Are you asking me for instructions?”
He had meant it as a jest, another way to needle her, to deflect from the uncomfortable emotions churning in his chest. But the look in Penelope's eyes was not anger. It was curiosity – genuine, unguarded curiosity. And something else. Longing, perhaps.
And suddenly, Cecil felt as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into an abyss that promised either flight or destruction.
“If you want to know,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a low rumble that he barely recognized as his own, “You will have to ask me politely.”
Penelope's hands seemed to shake at her sides. He could see the war raging behind her eyes – pride battling against curiosity, propriety against desire, anger against something warmer and more dangerous.
He should not be doing this. He should turn around and leave before this goes any further. He should apologize for his behaviour at dinner and walk away.
But he did not move.
Finally, Penelope drew in a shaky breath and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Tell me more, Your Grace.”
Cecil shook his head slowly, taking another step forward. He was close enough now to smell her perfume – that floral scent that had haunted him since the day he discovered her secret. Close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Now, now, Penelope,” he said, and the sound of her given name in his mouth felt dangerous, intimate, like crossing a line from which there was no return. “Surely you can do better than that. Be more polite.”
