She sat on the edge of her bed in her nightdress and stared at the note, which she had unfolded and refolded so many times in the last two hours that it was beginning to soften at the creases.
She did not know if she hoped for the words to change or for her mind to settle at ease, but neither happened, and she continued to feel restless.
The garden. At midnight.As though suggesting that two people meet outdoors, in the dead of night, on a country estate full of guests was nothing more remarkable than a stroll.
She was absolutely not going.
The house had been quiet for at least an hour. The clock on the mantel read a quarter to twelve.
Penelope folded her arms, an attempt to remain firm in her decision to go. This was a ridiculous idea. The gardens were open. Anyone could look out a window. Anyone could be restless, or thirsty, or inclined to take a late-night walk, discovering them in moments, and then where would she be? The answer was — disgraced. Finished.
The source of a scandal that would make everything she had ever done as Athena look mild by comparison, and she would have brought it entirely upon herself.
She was not going.
At eleven fifty-nine, she put on her cloak.
The garden at night smelled of night– blooming jasmine and damp grass, and the moon was generous enough to render her candle nearly unnecessary. She carried it anyway, more for the comfort of having something to hold than for any practical reason, and she followed the path she had memorized from daytime excursions through the roses and around the hedge that screened the back lawn from the house.
Penelope was furious. She had decided this as she came down the stairs, and the feeling had only intensified as she crossed the lawn. She was not furious at herself for coming – that particular line of self– reproach has been set aside until morning, when she could give it the attention it deserved. But her angerwas targeted at Cecil for picking this location with apparent disregard for everything it risked.
She found him near the old stone bench at the far edge of the rose garden, half in shadow, entirely too composed for a man who had arranged a clandestine midnight meeting in a garden under full views of many windows.
“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed quietly in greeting, before he could open his mouth. “The gardens? Anyone could see us! Anyone could glance out from the upper floor and – what were you thinking? Were you thinking at all? Or did you simply decide that inconveniencing me was sufficient entertainment regardless of the consequences?”
Cecil waited until she had finished, and once it was apparent that she had nothing left to say for the moment, he then said, with aggravating patience, “Good evening.”
She made an incoherent noise.
“I have walked this garden at length for the three days — during the day and at night as well,” he said, in the same pleasant tone. “I know which windows face this side and which do not. I know the hours the night watch man does his rounds. I know that the hedgerow on the east side provides sufficient screening from the terrace and that the moon tonight is angled so that only this section is fully in shadow.” He gestured around them. “You are not going to be seen.”
Penelope stared at him. “You surveyed the property.”
“I took precautions.”
“Like a–” she searched for the right word “– like a general preparing for some sort of battle?”
“Like a man who did not want you walking into something unsafe. I had given you my word that you would not be at any risk. I aim to keep it that way.” His time made it sound so simple, and something in her chest twisted inconveniently.
He watched her with that infuriating, warm, half-lit expression, and she became aware that her indignation was losing structural integrity.
He tilted his head. “You're still angry.”
“I am.”
“Good.” The faintest smile appeared. “You look rather extraordinary when you're angry.”
“Stop that.”
“I cannot help the truth.” He took a step toward her. “If it helps – you could make me pay for it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, “That there is no better punishment for a man than to make him want something and then forbid it.”
Penelope considered this, regarding him with a barely constrained gaze. The moonlight lay along the line of his jaw and the width of his shoulders, and he was watching her with the complete, focused attention that she had come to understand was not performance – it was simply how he looked at her, and she was not yet used to it.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed.
