“Are you indeed,” he murmured, watching as she fidgeted with her grey fan. The ladies of London would be conveying coded messages by their actions, but there was nothing to be deciphered from a fingernail stabbing at the lace. “Then I shall patiently wait until you have rested, Miss Penrose. I am forever at your gentle disposal.”
The lace tore.
Grief, he’d never met a woman so difficult to charm, and that included old Mrs Dunstable who’d been deaf to his compliments…and blind to his lavish bow. He swivelled to the ginger-haired gent swaying by her side. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Pilkinghorne’s the name. Professor Pilkinghorne. Did you know you’re a day early?” The man imparted a robust handshake, red jowls quivering.
Another bothersome house guest. This fellow appeared amiable enough although judging by his florid complexion, Sir Jago’s fine collection of French brandy had been more tempting than the fusty old library texts.
“Ah, you’re here researching Cornish legends, I’m told, and yes, I have been made aware of my premature arrival. I’m Winterbourne. How long are you staying for, Professor?”
“Until we’ve read all two hundred and sixty-eight books.”
“How…academic.” No wonder the fellow overindulged.
“Do you know, I’ve noticed an excellent example of medieval tapestry located beneath the punch bowl, so if you will excuse me, my lord, Miss Penrose.”
By the look of the professor’s gait as he crossed the room, the chap must have been quaffing since early afternoon as Sir Jago had suggested.
Jack rocked on his heels and scrutinised the dancers, uncertain of what to say. And he was never uncertain of what to say. He could usually jabber on for hours about nothing in particular.
“Professor Pilkinghorne seems…”
“Foxed,” Miss Penrose supplied. “He often is. I think he drinks to forget although I’m not sure what.”
Jack watched those shell-pink lips as she spoke, and realised he’d quite like to feel them beneath his. Why he wasn’t sure, as she seemed to hold a positive dislike for him.
Was his roguish nature finally so jaded that an innocent appealed? The thrill of the chase?
Lud, was he becoming like Father? Nausea loomed.
“And how do you spend your time, Miss Penrose? Do you enjoy reading? Walking?”
“Why are you here?” She turned to him and he noted a troubled cloud in those sky-blue eyes. He’d always considered himself adept at discerning concealed emotions, but he realised he’d misjudged hers. It wasn’t dislike but…unease.
“I am here to discuss various matters with your father.”
“Is that al–”
Fate skipped to his side in the guise of a Mrs Tripconey and conversation soothed to the weather as was usual. He didn’t wish to lie outright; in fact, he always sought to avoid it.
Lies snared and twisted until the truth became a matter of opinion.
The merry widow departed, having not very discreetly pressed her card into his fob pocket, and he made sure the subject of his business in Cornwall did not arise again.
“Cornish surnames are most unusual, are they not?” he observed.
She stared directly into his eyes.
Blowsy end-of-summer roses adorned the crown of Miss Penrose’s taut chignon. He could tell the chocolate mass strained to be free as strands wisped her cheeks, that sweet almond scent blossoming. She yielded an aura of silky abandon despite the austere and obscuring grey gown.
Seductive yet innocent.
“Not at all,” she murmured, lashes lowering. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to discuss stud matters with Sir Abel Trebilcock.”
Had she…
No, surely not.
