It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her gaze roamed his face, and he was struck by the intelligence shining in her eyes. “Of course, Captain Trentwell. Edward thought the world of you. I’d be very interested to hear anything you have to tell me about my brother.” Her voice quavered and a shadow of unmistakable grief crossed her features. “I miss him terribly.”

  She averted her gaze, but not before he saw her blink back tears. His hands clenched inside his gloves. Bloody hell, this was going to be so much harder than he ever imagined. He forced himself to move, to open the carriage door bearing the Earl of Crandall’s seal, grateful that he’d opted to use his brother’s carriage rather than hiring a hack. He held out his hand to help Miss Markham inside. She set her gloved hand in his and he frowned at the odd tingle of warmth that shot up his arm. Before he could fully examine the puzzling sensation, her fingers slid away and she sat on the pale gray velvet squabs. Alec shook his head, then looked up at the coachman. “Hyde Park,” he instructed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before entering the carriage, Alec scanned the area. When he was satisfied no immediate danger threatened them, he slipped his knife back into his boot, then entered the carriage and settled himself on the seat opposite Miss Markham. And stilled at her expression. Bloody hell, there was no mistaking the gratitude shining in her eyes.

  “I haven’t properly thanked you for your intervention, Captain Trentwell.”

  “What were you thinking, going about unescorted—especially in Covent Garden?” The question came out far more brusquely than he’d intended. Certainly far more brusquely than could be considered polite. But damn it, tension still gripped his entire body.

  Color flooded her cheeks, but instead of shrinking into her seat at his rebuke, she hoisted a brow and raised her chin. “A woman of my age hardly requires an escort to walk to the market. While I never would have ventured out alone at night, I believed I’d be safe enough during the day. Clearly I was mistaken.”

  “Clearly.”

  “You quite saved the day and I’m most grateful for your bravery. Not that I’m surprised—Edward always referred to you as a hero in his letters.”

  The knot in Alec’s stomach cinched tighter and he barely swallowed the bitter sound that rose in his throat. Hero. Bloody hell, was there a word in the entire English language he detested more than that one? No. In the first few weeks following his return from the war that damn word had been relentlessly heaped upon him, a weight falling upon his shoulders until he’d felt crushed. Until he couldn’t stand it any longer and had escaped to Little Longstone. To obscurity. And solitude. To a place where he didn’t have to live a lie. Or pretend he was something he wasn’t.

  Like everyone else who’d anointed him a hero, Miss Markham was wrong. But she would soon know the error of her ways. The gratitude and admiration currently glowing in her eyes would quickly dissipate after he told her what he’d sought her out to say. After she knew the truth. The truth that ate at him every day. The truth she deserved to know.

  That he’d killed her brother.

  Chapter Two

  Penelope sat across from Captain Trentwell and pressed her sketch pad more firmly against her lap lest she give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to fan herself with the tablet to relieve the heat scorching her.

  Good heavens, it felt as if her skin were afire and her skirts ablaze. Obviously the aftermath of her encounter with that horrible man, but still no less confounding, especially given that thanks to Captain Trentwell’s swift intervention, she’d barely suffered any fright at all. Indeed, from the moment she’d first seen the tall, arrestingly handsome man standing across the street, before she’d even known who he was, her every thought had been reduced to two words: oh, my.

  Those same two words reverberated through her mind now as his height and the breadth of his broad shoulders reduced the spacious carriage interior to what felt like the size of a hatbox. Heavens, the man took up a great deal of space. And clearly he used up a great deal of air as well, because there seemed to be a sudden dearth of oxygen. Just as well that she couldn’t pull in a deep breath, otherwise she’d most likely humiliate herself by involuntarily heaving the sort of gushy, feminine sigh she had, until this moment, believed herself quite immune to heaving.

  Of course, such a sigh would only result from pure artistic appreciation, as Captain Trentwell’s countenance was the most compelling she’d ever seen. Even if she didn’t know him to be a war hero, his bearing had instantly marked him in her mind as a military man. His features seemed hewn from granite, from his blade-straight nose to the slash of his high cheekbones to his square jaw. Deep lines bracketed his firm mouth, one which she could easily imagine barking out orders on a battlefield. A mouth that appeared utterly uncompromising and made her wonder if it ever tilted upward in a smile.

  Creases radiated from the corners of his eyes, lines she imagined were the result of squinting into the sun as opposed to indulging in fits of unbridled laughter. A thin scar bisected his left brow, an imperfection that only served to fascinate her further. His hair was thick and wavy, and she wondered if the sun-streaked brown strands would feel as soft as they looked.

  But it was his eyes she found most compelling. When their gazes had met outside Exeter House, even across the span of the street, she’d been pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze, so much so it had been nearly impossible to look away from him. And then when he’d turned around after dispatching that hooligan, rather than her first thought being about her safety, it was, Blue … his eyes are blue. The deep, mysterious azure of the sky at twilight, just before darkness completely swallowed the daylight. His eyes had once again pinned her in place with what flickered in their depths. Pain. Dear God, so much pain. The kind that haunted a person and ate at their soul.

  That flash of pain had disappeared, replaced by a detached expression she recognized very well as she’d seen it frequently in Edward’s eyes—as if a curtain lowered, purposefully blocking out all emotion. Even though Captain Trentwell was a stranger, seeing that raw pain followed by that blank expression grabbed Penelope by the heart, and it had been all she could do not to reach out and touch him and offer him her sympathy. When he’d asked if she was all right, she’d sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d rendered her momentarily mute for otherwise she might well have given in to her bad habit of saying precisely what she was thinking: Actually, I don’t believe I’ll ever be the same again, and I fear it’s entirely your fault.

  He’d stunned her by knowing her name, yet when he identified himself as Captain Trentwell it somehow made perfect sense that the arresting man with the intense eyes and military bearing who’d bravely rescued her was the same courageous man Edward had written to her about at length. Certainly it was a surprise to meet him so unexpectedly. Clearly he’d sought her out and she cringed at the thought of him knowing about the scandal that had forced her to leave Italy in disgrace and return to England to contemplate a future that looked very bleak indeed.

  “Are you certain you’re all right, Miss Markham? You look flushed.”

  His deep voice yanked her from her thoughts, and although she prayed for her skin to pale, she knew she was doomed to both failure and further embarrassment when more heat rushed into her face at the realization she’d been caught gawking at him. The gawking was for artistic purposes, of course—her fingers itched to draw him, paint him, sculpt him in marble—but that didn’t make being caught any less humiliating.

  “I’m fine, Captain Trentwell. I possess a most robust constitution. It’s merely warm in here.” Anxious to change the subject lest she inadvertently confess that he was the source of her flaming cheeks, she asked, “Do you reside in London, sir?”

  “No. I live in Kent, in a small village called Little Longstone.”

  “I see. So you traveled all the way to London to see me?”

  “Actually, I was already in Town, visiting my brother and his family, who are here for the Season, when I learned of your arrival.”

>   “Your brother is the Earl of Crandall.”

  He seemed surprised. “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “No. Edward mentioned in one of his letters that the earl was your older brother.”

  He merely nodded and silence fell between them. Although he didn’t speak, his gaze remained on her and a frown creased his brow, as if she were some sort of puzzle he was attempting to solve. It was nearly impossible not to fidget under his unwavering regard and once again Penelope had to fight the urge to fan herself. Botheration, she was normally most self-possessed, but something about this man completely flustered her. Which was quite vexing as she considered herself quite … unflusterable.

  “Your brother wrote to you frequently,” he finally said. “Whenever he had a free moment he took pen to paper.”

  She gratefully grasped the subject. “I loved hearing from him, knowing what was happening with him.”

  “He enjoyed receiving your letters in return. They always made him laugh.”

  An image of Edward’s smile flashed in her mind and hot moisture pushed behind her eyes. “I’m glad. There wasn’t usually anything of great interest to report. My position as art teacher to Lord and Lady Bentley’s three children wasn’t rife with excitement.”

  “On the contrary, he found your stories most diverting. As did I. He often read passages of your letters aloud to me. My favorite was your retelling of an art lesson with Lord Bentley’s children at the lake on his country estate.”

  Penelope winced. “Oh, dear. Edward told you about that?”

  “He did. Bit of a … difficulty you had there.”

  “You are kind to describe the incident as such, sir, for in truth it was a Debacle of Gargantuan Proportions, especially since the children were supposed to be completing drawings as gifts for their grandmother’s birthday celebration that evening. But it was such a lovely day, and really, how was I to know the rowboat would spring a leak?”

  Captain Trentwell raised a brow. “A leak? I believe you wrote that it sprung a half dozen.”

  “Yes, and very inconveniently not until after I’d rowed into the middle of the lake. Fortunately, the water was no more than waist deep and the children were all able swimmers—not that you’d have known it from all their yelling and splashing about. I learned that day that even the most gently bred, polite children turn into unruly, boisterous imps when lake water is involved.”

  “If I recall correctly, you were also guilty of splashing about.”

  “Only to defend myself from the veritable walls of water those little devils flung my way,” Penelope replied in her most prim tone.

  “Naturally. Although I feel compelled to inform you that your brother often referred to you as Imp.”

  “I’m certain he did,” Penelope said gravely. “It is an old family nickname. Goes back generations. It means, um, ‘one who possesses great decorum.’ ” She gave a decisive nod, which sent her spectacles sliding down her nose.

  One corner of Captain Trentwell’s mouth quirked upward. “Indeed?”

  She pushed up her glasses and forced her gaze to remain on his eyes rather than that fascinating upward flick of his stern mouth. “Yes. Great decorum. That is, after all, how I was able to get myself and three extremely bedraggled, wet children back into the house, redressed and freshly coiffed, and with finished drawings in time for the party that evening without Lord or Lady Bentley knowing about our, er, adventure.”

  “I believe that would take dexterity and ingenuity rather than decorum, Miss Markham.”

  “Perhaps. But mostly luck.”

  “And the bribing of several servants, if I remember the story correctly.”

  Penelope raised her chin. “Bribery is such an … ugly word. I prefer to call it a trade entitled ‘I’ll Sketch Your Portrait in Exchange for Your Silence in This Matter.’ ”

  Captain Trentwell nodded in an approving manner. “Most effective, I’d wager. One can only wonder what fate might have befallen you without your artistic talent.”

  “I would have sunk even more quickly than that leaky rowboat.” No need to add that she’d inadvertently managed to do just that in Italy, a most unfortunate situation that had left her in her current dire circumstances—disgraced, unemployed, not likely to be employed, and alarmingly short of funds.

  “Edward showed me several samples of your work—small illustrations you included with your letters to him. You’re very talented.”

  An embarrassed flush crept up Penelope’s neck. “Thank you, however those were just idle drawings.”

  “If so, then you are very talented indeed. Edward told me your work belonged in a museum.”

  “My brother was my greatest champion.” A sad smile tugged at her lips. “If only Edward had been a museum curator and I’d been born a male so my work would be taken seriously.”

  He studied her for several seconds with an indecipherable expression. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Ever since that day … since Waterloo … I’ve wanted to meet you and personally extend my condolences on your loss. Edward was an extremely fine young man. A brave and exemplary soldier. An inspiration to others, including myself. I’m sorry, so very sorry for your loss.”

  His hoarse rasp, coupled with the palpable tension emanating from him, made it clear his words were not only heartfelt, but difficult for him to speak. Emotion swelled Penelope’s throat, and to her mortification a tear slipped down her cheek.

  Before she could reach for her handkerchief, Captain Trentwell muttered something that sounded like bloody damn hell then yanked a snowy linen square from his pocket. “Here,” he said in a gruff voice, holding out his hand.

  “Thank you.” Penelope slid off her glasses, set them atop her sketch pad, then dabbed at her eyes, which continued to leak a seemingly unending stream of tears. “Forgive me, Captain Trentwell. Contrary to all evidence, I’m not normally a weepy female. But hearing you—a man Edward so greatly admired—speak so highly of him, well, it just touches me. And reminds me how much I miss him.” A watery laugh escaped her. “If he were here right now he’d roll his eyes, tell me to stop being such a nodcock, and perform his brotherly duty by reminding me what a red-eyed, blotchy fright I look when I cry.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She shook her head and squinted at him. Without her glasses it was difficult to make out his expression, but surely he was horrified to find himself trapped in a coach with a crying female. Determined to pull herself together, she gave her eyes a rigorous swipe, her nose a gusty blow, then slipped her glasses back on.

  “You didn’t upset me, Captain.”

  His grave gaze flicked to his wet handkerchief she clutched, then returned to her eyes, which she knew looked red and puffy. Heavens, he did indeed look as if he’d rather be facing the fires of hell than sitting across from her. Botheration, why couldn’t she be one of those women who looked adorable and dewy when they cried rather than swollen and blotchy?

  “There’s no need to spare my feelings, Miss Markham.”

  “I’m not. Truly, I’m not upset. Indeed, I’m honored. That you would take the time to seek me out. To pay tribute to my brother. In spite of the hardships involved, Edward loved being a soldier, and a good deal of that had to do with you, with being under your command. It would please him no end that you came to see me. And said such nice things about him. I, of course, thought he was brave and wonderful, but as his sister, that was rather expected of me.” Without thinking, she reached out and rested her hand over one of his clenched fists. “Thank you, Captain Trentwell. You are indeed as kind and fine a man as Edward said.”

  She sensed him go perfectly still. Then his lips pressed into a thin line and a frown creased a deep crevice between his brows. His gaze shifted downward, riveting on her hand resting upon his. Penelope stared as well, struck by how small her cream-colored glove looked compared with his. At how intimate the sight of her fingers curved over his appeared.

  A heated tingle raced up her arm and her
breath caught at the sensation. His tightly clenched fingers flexed beneath hers, and although her inner voice screamed at her to pull her hand away, she found she couldn’t move. Couldn’t draw a breath. Couldn’t do anything save stare at her hand atop his.

  For several seconds it felt as if time stopped and the entire world existed inside the confines of his carriage. Then he broke the spell by gently taking her hand and setting it back on her lap.

  A wave of embarrassment washed through her and she mentally chastised herself. Touching a man she’d just met was completely inappropriate, yet it had felt so natural to do so. No doubt because, although they were strangers, she felt as if she knew him. She raised her gaze and discovered him looking at her with an intensity that curled her toes inside her leather walking boots. “Miss Markham. There is something I need to tell you.” His deep voice sounded harsh. Urgent. “You need to know that …” He frowned and cleared his throat. “That is to say, I—”

  His words cut off when the carriage jerked to a halt.

  “Hyde Park, sir,” came the coachman’s voice.

  Captain Trentwell blinked, then shook his head, as if coming out of a trance. He appeared about to say something, then pressed his lips together. He sat still as a statue, looking at her, his eyes bleak. Penelope clearly sensed he was struggling with … something. She longed to help him, but didn’t know how.

  “You were saying, Captain?” she prodded gently.

  He exhaled a slow breath, then shook his head. “Nothing.” His frown deepened. “Nothing,” he repeated. He then inclined his head toward the window. “Shall we walk?”

  Penelope swallowed her curiosity and nodded her consent. Obviously she’d have to wait to discover what he’d wanted to tell her. Clutching her sketch pad to her chest, she exited the carriage and together they entered the park.

  Chapter Three

  Tell her! Bloody hell, tell her now. Then send her on her way and be done with this torture.