by Rose Lerner
“I suppose it will take practice.” She gave him an impish grin, and then her mouth closed back around him. Nev grabbed the bedpost to keep his knees from buckling.
This time she didn’t try to take in more than a few inches; she moved slowly and carefully up and down him, her mouth and hand hot and close. After a few passes like that, she increased her tempo slightly. Nev watched her in fascination, still barely able to believe this was happening. Soon she tried swirling her tongue, awkwardly; he moaned, and he didn’t know how but he could feel her attention sharpen. He could feel her making mental notes on his reactions. It will take practice. The idea of her practicing this with the same thoroughness and devotion she had given to ledgers and the piano pushed him to the edge.
“Penelope!” He had meant it as a warning, but it sounded instead like a plea, or a declaration, and by the time he realized she wasn’t pulling off he could no longer form words. He gripped the bedpost hard enough to hurt and spent himself in Penelope’s mouth. Pleasure rolled over him, so intense he thought he might black out. She stopped moving, but she didn’t draw back. Instead, she struggled to swallow. Not until his muscles relaxed did she pull off, coughing a little, some of his seed dripping down her chin.
Nev had never, not once, seen Penelope let anything drip down her chin. If she ate a peach she cut it up first. “Get up here.”
She stood, weaving a little. He kissed her gently, amazed by the taste of himself on her tongue, and then pulled out a handkerchief and began cleaning her mouth and chin.
She flushed. “I can do it.”
“I know. Let me.” She sighed and tilted up her face. He felt a flash of something-Penelope seemed haloed for an instant in perfect beauty, and he felt a sharp, unsettling pang as if someone had plucked one of his heartstrings, hard, and found it out of tune. It wasn’t like affection or lust-those he knew; it was something entirely unfamiliar.
“Is something wrong?”
He realized he had stopped moving, his thumb at the corner of her mouth. “Not at all.” He tried to smile. The feeling was gone now, but it had left something in its wake-a sort of lifting up, a yearning toward something undefined. He had sometimes felt like this when he heard the opening chords of a favorite piece of music. He had read a poem, once, that almost described it: a shaping and a sense of things beyond us.
That was how he felt when he looked at Penelope just now. As if something were happening to the two of them, just beyond the reach of his understanding. “Thank you. I think that was the most marvelous thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She looked away. “No Spanish coin.” She spoke low enough he hardly heard it.
His hand dropped away from her face. “It’s not. It never has been. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Perhaps because I’ve seen your mistress,” Penelope said dryly, and then looked as if she wanted to cut her tongue out.
How had he forgotten Amy?
“What did you mean?” she asked. “When you said, ‘If that had been you-’ ”
It took him a moment to remember what she meant, and a moment longer to frame an answer that made any sense. He started refastening his clothes. “I just-you know how one gets the strangest thoughts when someone is sick, and I thought-her mother knew your mother when they were children. What if you were the actress and she were the heiress? Then you would be lying there-” The idea was too unthinkable even to say.
“I’m fine, Nev, I’m right here.” Penelope leaned her face against his shoulder, and the idea that someday he might not be able to reach out and touch her was almost a physical pain. “I’m so sorry about Miss Wray.”
“She didn’t tell me. She must have thought I wouldn’t be any use.”
There was a pause; Nev wondered if Penelope was silently agreeing with Amy. “There’s no use blaming yourself,” she said. “We won’t know why she didn’t tell you until she’s well enough to talk.”
If she’s ever well enough to talk. He knew they were both thinking it. “I never realized how much she didn’t tell me. I was with her for a year, I saw her every day-I even told myself we were friends. And I never troubled to find out.” Now he might never have the chance to ask. Everything that Amy had felt and thought and never told him might be gone forever. He looked down at Penelope’s closed expression. “And you-there’s so much you don’t tell me. I never know what’s going on in there. I don’t know how to reach you.”
That, he thought, was why he had needed to pleasure her, to see her gasping and flushed and hear her prayers and curses-to prove to himself that in that way at least he could get to her, in that way she opened herself to him completely.
A minute passed, and she hadn’t answered him; he could tell she was thinking over what he had said and that she wouldn’t voice her thoughts aloud.
“See, you’re doing it right now,” he said with something like despair. “Damn pennies; I’d give a hundred pounds for your thoughts right now.”
“A hundred pounds is a lot of money.”
“I know that.” He did, and it was a hard-won knowledge. A hundred pounds was plows and horses and seed and food for his people’s children. He would still give it, to hear Penelope’s thoughts.
“I-” she began, and stopped. “I’m not keeping secrets. I just don’t see why you should have to listen to my complaints when none of this is your fault.”
It was all his fault; Penelope was too generous, as always. As she had been at the Baileys’. “You left me alone with her.” He had been so grateful to be left alone to promise Amy that now, finally, he would take care of her. So grateful that Penelope was there to shoulder part of the burden. So weakly, selfishly grateful.
“You were hardly going to ravish her in the state she was in. Besides, I didn’t want a scandal, and you would have created one if you were in that nurse’s presence one moment longer.”
In anyone else, he would have said they were trying to be cruel, trying to give him a set-down. With Penelope-well, perhaps it was partly that. But not all. “You just won’t admit you did it to be kind,” he said. “You don’t want anyone to know how softhearted you are, but it’s in everything you do. Penelope-”
“Please don’t. Do you think a compliment from you can give me any pleasure when your mistress is here? It’s cruel of you to say it, when you know I want it to be true.”
“It is true! What do I have to do to convince you?”
“Don’t. You said it yourself; if things were different, I would be lying there and Miss Wray would be here, and you would be saying these things to her. There’s nothing special about me, nothing at all.”
She seemed so sure, and she was cleverer than he. But he said, “You’re wrong.” He knew it. “Penelope, you’re-”
She ignored him. “And then when the Baileys work out she’s saying ‘Nev,’ and not ‘never,’ everyone will know she’s here, and that she lost your child, and they’ll pity me-God! Do you think a single one of them will believe that you find anything special about me? That I gave you the most marvelous experience of your life?”
Nev felt sick. He had wanted her thoughts; now he had them, and he did not know what to do. He had been too distraught to think about the consequences of Amy’s delirium, but now he realized that Penelope was right. They were about to be the subject of a major scandal. And Penelope was right too, about what her role in it would be-the dull wife, losing her husband’s interest after a month of marriage and too stupid to know it. The thought of it made Nev furious, the thought of people looking at Penelope like they knew her. Of people not realizing how wonderful she was.
He ignored his pang of disappointment that Penelope was worried because of the scandal; of course she wasn’t jealous, it had nothing to do with him. It was unjust for him to want anything else, not now. Even insisting that she believe him, trying to tell her how much he had missed her these last few weeks, seemed suddenly selfish, a plea for a forgiveness he didn’t deserve.
There was nothing he could sa
y except, “I’m sorry, Penelope. I’m so sorry.”
Penelope thought they were going to make it out of church without having to talk to Mr. Snively, but at the last moment he appeared from behind the pillar at the end of the family pew. “So I hear you have become as ministering angels and adopted a sick woman as your own charge.”
“Her mother works for my father,” she said, still startled by how fast news traveled in the country. “The poor woman was at her wits’ end. The London air, you know, is quite harmful to invalids.”
“ ‘The greatest of these is charity,’ ” said Mr. Snively. “And yet I fear that, as the guardian of your souls, it is my duty to remind you that the young woman in question is ill because she opposed God’s plan to make her a mother. Perhaps the danger to her body is but a shadow of the danger to her immortal soul, and so one may question whether in such a case-”
Penelope stared.
“Perhaps it would be more Christian to let her die, is that what you’re saying?” Nev demanded.
Mr. Snively shrank back. “No, no. I suppose your generous hearts have the right of it. Tell me, how is Jack Bailey?”
Nev did not answer, so Penelope said, “His leg looked dreadful to me. I do not see how he can work for at least a month if he wishes to be really healed. Do you think the parish might add to his allotment for that time?”
Mr. Snively frowned. “Alas, the parish is groaning under the relief that is already needed. His leg is very bad, you say?”
Penelope shuddered, remembering. “He not only broke the leg in falling from the ladder, he also fell on the pitchfork he was using to thatch the roof. His leg is quite frightening, with a gaping hole straight through-”
“There, there.” Mr. Snively smiled and patted her arm. Penelope hated his smile; it was like a snake’s. “Your ladyship must not distress herself. I consider it very ill-advised to have allowed you to see the wound at all. Your husband, I presume, did not condone such a thing.”
Nev had been with Miss Wray. “I assure you, I was not nearly so distressed as Mrs. Bailey!” Penelope instantly regretted her words. Whether they liked it or not, Mr. Snively would be their minister for a good many years. Unless someone brains him, she added to herself.
“We’re almost there,” Nev said. “Mama, try not to embarrass us in front of Sir Jasper. Nothing is more terrifying to a gentleman than a matchmaking mama.”
Lady Bedlow huffed indignantly. “Of course I wouldn’t have the ill breeding to-”
“And Louisa, try to be civil. Sir Jasper is our nearest neighbor.”
“Yes, my lord,” Louisa muttered.
The carriage rounded a corner, and Penelope gasped. At the top of a rolling hill, Greygloss lay enthroned in pastoral splendor. It was the largest house Penelope had ever seen: a Palladian manor with enormous symmetrical wings that stretched out from the gleaming white columns of the portico. She had thought the Grange gigantic, but the Grange would fit easily in one-half of Sir Jasper’s house. She leaned across Nev to get a closer look, and felt him sigh.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he said.
Penelope thought quickly. “One of my father’s friends built himself a seat in Essex. He told me that these Neoclassical homes are almost impossible to get water to because they’re all at the top of a hill.”
Lady Bedlow sniffed. “What a very practical consideration.”
“Don’t provoke me, Mama,” Nev said mildly. “I can still cut down the Loweston oaks, you know. We could use the money.”
The ceiling of Sir Jasper’s entrance hall was impossibly lofty, comprising as it did two stories. The tiled marble floor gleamed, and the furnishings shone richly. It was beautiful and in exquisite taste, but Penelope thought the antiquated, Jacobean Grange was friendlier.
“Good afternoon.” Sir Jasper hurried toward them. “Welcome to my home.” Penelope thought he looked at Louisa when he said it. Certainly he held her hand in his a fraction longer than he should have.
Of course, he was obliged to escort Penelope in to dinner, but Lady Bedlow quickly sat on Penelope’s other side, hoping to leave Sir Jasper’s left for Louisa. Instead, Nev took that chair, talking to the baronet about hunting and looking so very unaware that his choice of seat had any implications whatsoever that Penelope knew he had done it on purpose. She was hard-pressed not to laugh at the look on Lady Bedlow’s face.
The food laid out for them was aggressively English-not a cream sauce or ragout in sight. “Forgive the simplicity of my table,” Sir Jasper said. “I find English cooking more healthful than French, but it must appear sadly plain compared with the efforts of your splendid chef.”
Penelope was unpleasantly reminded of one of her father’s friends, a Methodist who had given up all forms of meat. His elaborate explanation that no, he didn’t judge those who dined on animal flesh, only he found the mind was so much less clouded by carnality when fed on purely vegetable sustenance, had been delivered in precisely the same tone. “Not at all,” she said, smiling. “My father disliked French cooking. It will be quite like home to have some plain beef again.”
Until Sir Jasper’s face went blank, it did not even occur to her that he might not like to hear that Greygloss was quite like home to Penelope Bedlow, née Brown. She wasn’t usually so tactless. And she hadn’t even meant it. Greygloss was far too elegant to be anything like home. God, she wanted to be home. She wanted her mother’s horrible purple tablecloth and people who liked her.
“Your mother’s cook was splendid!” Just the sound of Nev’s voice made Penelope feel better. “I meant to ask her for the receipt for that calves’ feet jelly.” He tasted Sir Jasper’s jelly. “This is very good, but that had something extra in it-I’m terrible at guessing ingredients, but perhaps a spice of some sort?”
“I believe she uses oranges and limes instead of lemon juice,” Penelope said.
“Oh, is that all? We should ask Gaston to make it that way.”
“Won’t he be offended?” Penelope had not dared to ask Gaston to alter any of his recipes, both for fear that Nev liked them the way they were and because she had heard so very much about temperamental French chefs.
Louisa laughed. “Oh, no, not at all. He was forever altering receipts according to our preferences when we were younger. He even used to make me baked cheese in brioche with cheddar, though I know it went sore against the grain. Indeed,” she added, “I have always been so used to French cooking that I do not know how I could feel at home with any other kind.” She did not look at Sir Jasper when she said it, but a defiant note crept into her voice that made her meaning clear to everyone.
Lady Bedlow looked stricken, and Nev’s lips thinned. Penelope sighed inwardly and cast about for some small talk.
Sir Jasper blinked. Then he smiled. “You may find out differently someday. When I was your age I thought I should never feel at home without my collection of model frigates.”
Louisa’s face set rebelliously. Penelope found the image of Sir Jasper making model frigates rather charming; she wondered what Nev’s hobbies had been at seventeen. But she could have told Sir Jasper that it was the worst possible thing to say. No seventeen-year-old girl wanted to be told she was a child.
Lady Bedlow, evidently afraid that Louisa would say something unforgivable, rushed into speech. “Ah yes, being young can be such a trial, can’t it, Sir Jasper? Poor Louisa has been so dull in the country that I’m afraid it’s wearing on her nerves.”
Louisa audibly ground her teeth.
“She’s been begging her brother to host a house party, but-” Lady Bedlow stopped, probably not wanting to come out and say that Nev could not afford it. She gave a trilling laugh. “Well, I doubt his friends would be appropriate company for Louisa anyway.”
Nev set his jaw and didn’t say anything.
“There is nothing wrong with Nate’s friends, Mama!”
Penelope, who had been wanting to slap the dowager countess, was seized with a sudden affection for Louisa.
“Anyway, I don’t care about the house party anymore,” the girl said, still flushed. “I know that it’s an unnecessary expense. And it’s-it’s nice to simply do as I like. There’ll be plenty of time to see my friends in the autumn.”
Penelope was once again agreeably surprised. She had assumed, when Louisa had stopped complaining about the house party, that the girl had simply given up the cause as lost. It hadn’t occurred to her that Louisa might genuinely understand why it was impossible.
“That is very mature of you, Lady Louisa.” Sir Jasper looked even more pleased than Penelope felt. “However, there is no need to be so Spartan. I have been thinking of hosting a house party in a fortnight, and if you provide me with the names of a few of your friends I would be happy to invite them.”
Penelope smothered a groan; she would have wagered that Sir Jasper had had no such intention at all, and now there would be a house party, and she and Nev would have to go and pretend to like Sir Jasper’s friends.
Louisa did not even seem pleased; of course, there was nothing worse than a gift from someone you didn’t wish to be beholden to. “That is very kind of you,” she said, “but it really isn’t necessary.”
Sir Jasper smiled at her. “Oh, no, I insist.”
Despite Nev changing the subject to threshing machines (a heroic sacrifice), dinner dragged on interminably. Finally, the ladies left the gentlemen alone. Penelope did not know whether to long for Nev’s return or dread Sir Jasper’s, especially since the dowager countess spent the interim scolding Louisa for her treatment of the baronet.
“And you ought to be more careful to get enough sleep,” Lady Bedlow concluded her speech. “There are circles under your eyes.”
“Mama, there are not. Anyway, I sleep a good deal. It was only last night I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry I woke you, but-”
“Oh, and you’ve spilled something on your sleeve!” Lady Bedlow spit into her handkerchief and rubbed at an invisible spot of food on the muslin. “You know what a light sleeper I am. If you must read in the middle of the night, you might at least bring your book to your room with you. I can see how you thought that Mr. Young’s book would help you sleep, however. How a daughter of mine ever turned out so clever, I do not know. I suppose it’s just as well; Sir Jasper told me he prefers a well-read girl.”