She focused her attention on her breakfast, then, hoping her brother would cease with his interrogation. Thankfully, he did, and she was able to finish her breakfast without any more incidents.
That was not to say no further issues would arise after breakfast.
The foyer, as it turned out, was an excellent place for pacing.
Penelope had not entirely planned to march about the area, honest. She only intended to peer through the windows at the front of the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man she would soon be betrothed to as soon as he arrived. After she had done that — and was disappointed because there was no sign of him — she wondered if it would be all right to simply linger in the foyer.
It had simply happened, one foot following the other in a circuit that took her from the front door to the foot of the staircase and back again, over and over, while the grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the seconds with a lack of urgency she found deeply vexing.
Cecil had said he would come at ten o'clock. It was now, by her last estimation, somewhere approaching half past nine, and still the driveway was empty and still the clock refused to hurry.
She had expected the back and forth to tire her out, but the same constant pulse of strength that kept her awake at night was also feeding her with energy. And so, the pacing continued.
She was on her fourth or fifth circuit – she had lost count – when she became aware of footsteps on the landing above and looked up to find her brother descending the stairs with a book tucked under his arm, evidently heading back to his study. He passed her with nothing but a smile, and she relaxed, thinking she was safe.
Then she heard him stop.
“Penelope.”
She halted mid-step. “Yes?”
“Why are you pacing about the front door?”
A pause. “I am not. I am walking. There is a distinction.”
“You have beenwalkedpast the front door no less than six times since I came down the stairs.”
“I am aware of how many times I have walked past the front door, Lionel, as I am the one doing the walking.” She turned to face him with what she hoped was an expression of serene composure. “I am experiencing some… indigestion. Yes, that is what ails me. I find that a gentle walk helps to settle it. Ithought it wiser to remain indoors than to venture outside in the morning air.”
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Then he crossed the foyer, tucked his book more firmly under his arm, and pressed a kiss to her forehead with a kind of fond resignation that she suspected she did not entirely deserve.
“You are very strange,” he said. “I love you enormously despite it.”
She felt a pang of guilt, sharp and swift.
“I love you too,” she said, meaning it wholly.
He patted her shoulder once, turned, and disappeared in the direction of his study.
Penelope exhaled and resumed her pacing.
She was mid-stride when she heard it – the low, distant crunch of wheels on gravel. She stopped and listened, a smile growing on her face as the sound grew steadily closer. She ran to the windows just as a carriage came into view, dark and familiar, rolling up the drive at an unhurried pace that she found simultaneously reassuring and unbearable.
She was outside before she had consciously decided to move.
The morning air was growing warm as the sun was becoming brighter and hotter, and she stood on the front steps and watched the carriage roll to a stop with her heart doing something entirely ridiculous without her permission in her chest. After what felt like eons, the door opened, and Cecil stepped down.
He looked exceptionally well, and in that moment, she realized that although they had spent many hours together the day before, she had missed him dearly. He looked devastatingly handsome in his dark coat, and the knot of his cravat was immaculate.
Cecil had always looked neat, but there was something deliberate about how much he looked put together that made her heart shiver. In his arms, he carried a large bouquet of flowers in various shades of cream and blush that caught the morning light and stole her breath.
He saw her and his expression shifted – something open and warm breaking across his features, the careful composure he habitually wore simply not present. As though, here, with her, he had decided he did not need it.
“I passed a flower shop,” he said, as he came up the steps toward her, holding the bouquet out with a directness that was entirely characteristic of him, unburdened by pretence. “I thought my angel deserved something to brighten her morning.”
Penelope took the flowers with warm cheeks and lowered her gaze to admire them. They were beautiful, soft and fragrant, tiedneatly with ribbon. She looked up at him from over the blooms with an affectionate look she made no attempt to conceal.
“Your mere presence has already brightened it considerably,” she said. “But these are lovely. Thank you.”
