His dark blue eyes sparkled with mirth as he shook his head.
“There were. I selected this one.”
“And if I object?”
“Then you would have objected before I sat down. You did not, therefore it is too late for anything to be done.”
His tone was not unkind, but the simple way he accurately described her actions was significantly more irritating. As though he could sense her growing ire, he nodded ahead, at the source of the lovely sounds that filled the air.
“Shall we listen to the music?”
The quartet launched into something sweeping and melancholy, and Penelope directed her attention toward them, determined to be as transfixed by the performance as she could be.
That proved to be more difficult than she expected, with her senses all too aware of Cecil’s presence. It was hard to ignore him when she could feel the heat radiating from his body, and it reminded her of how hot his hands had been against her skin.
She recalled how breathless his kisses had left her; how empty her mind had been as he upheld his end of the deal and showed her pleasure unlike anything she had ever known.
Penelope had managed to keep those thoughts at bay through most of the day, but now that he was so close, it was as though the floodgates had been broken.
Beside her, Cecil was entirely still. He did not fidget. He did not lean close to her to make a remark or bother her with a silly question. He simply listened, and she was overly aware of hisproximity in the way she was always aware of his proximity now – a warmth along her left side, a slight disturbance in the air, a general heightening of her attention that she found profoundly inconvenient.
She refocused her attention on the music, this time anchoring her thoughts and attention with fists curled around the fabric of her skirts.
The performance was breathtaking. She would have enjoyed it enormously under other circumstances, or indeed under these circumstances, had she been capable of genuine concentration. But her mind continued to wander. Her hands, occupied with nothing, drifted to the hem of her gloves, and she found herself picking at the trim without thinking – a habit she had broken herself of years ago and which had apparently decided today was the occasion for its return.
She did not notice she was doing it until a warm hand covered both of hers, and she went very still.
Cecil did not say anything. He simply held her hands loosely between his own, stilling their restless movement, and kept his eyes on the musicians as though absolutely nothing of note was occurring. His grip was light. He was not holding her fast, merely holding her. Steadying her. Like a hand on the back of a nervous horse.
She became immediately, comprehensively aware of everyone in the room.
Her eyes moved – carefully, without moving her head – around the arc of chairs. The elderly countess, two seats to her right, was watching the violinist with an expression of deep satisfaction. Mrs. Carmichael, directly opposite, was leaning toward her daughter, whispering something. Lionel, across the room, appeared to be listening attentively to something Jane was murmuring, his expression politely interested.
No one was looking at them.
She tried to extract her hands. Cecil's grip tightened by the smallest possible increment.
“Let go,” she murmured.
“Why are you nervous?” His lips barely moved.
It seemed subtlety was his strong suit, she noticed.
“I am not nervous.” She whispered, almost hissing.
“Your gloves would suggest otherwise.”
“My gloves were simply – I was adjusting them.”
“For the past four minutes.”
“I was unaware you were keeping watch.”
“I always know what you are doing.” He said easily, the statement causing her to stop fussing entirely.
“That is… an odd thing to admit.” She told him quietly after a moment.
“Is it? I thought it was rather honest.”
