Miss Penrose’s spoon dropped to the table; her eyes rapidly blinked.
“Tamsyn?” Sir Jago called with a frown, leaning forward whilst Miss Treherne made to stand.
“I can’t… No…” Her words rasped and faltered as Jack had observed in the carriage to the ball, and he twisted, swiftly gathering a serviette from the centre of the table.
“Breathe, Miss Penrose,” he whispered, remembering Miss Treherne’s instruction that evening. And as he withdrew the serviette, he brushed her trembling hand with his own – a momentary press, but her attention focused upon him and not the past.
Jack smiled into those cornflower eyes, couldn’t seem to stop staring, noticed a faint paleness around her hairline where the bonnet must shade her skin, saw that her locks did in fact hold a slight reddish tinge. Her breathing smoothed, and Miss Treherne placed a glass in her palm, the liquid fragranced with honey and herbs.
Sir Jago murmured a growl and Jack hurriedly drew back to fiddle with his cuffs, having been caught gawping again. “I’m sure we could rearrange our picnic to the Downs,” he offered. “Perhaps we could ride there rather than take the carriage?”
Those eyes blinked, a loose strand of hair cascading to her shoulder. This evening, she wore another concealing pale-grey gown, and he speculated if her modesty had anything to do with the injury she’d received fromLa Chauve-Souris. Temper simmered, his fingers curling to fists.
“Thank you, Lord Winterbourne,” she finally replied, voice scratched yet shoulders straightening, “but I…I believe Lowarn Cove would be ideal.”
Sir Jago stood and crossed to his daughter’s chair, bringing his hands to rest on her shoulders. “Only if you wish it, my dear.”
She peeked up. “Yes, Papa. I believe I do.” And she patted his hand.
Such a bond they had, and a sense of envy arose. He wished he’d been born into a family such as this – close and caring. Not the cold approval of Father or his mother’s distracted affection but understanding and warmth.
As though hearing his pensive thoughts, Miss Penrose glanced to him, gratitude shining in her eyes, a tender smile curving her lips. He’d placed that there and not with his nimble tongue or roguish grin but through honest concern.
He longed to watch it form over and over. Have her smile up at him as he reassured her, as he stroked that mass of hair, as he kissed–
Thrusting out a hand, he knocked over the claret.
What the hell was the matter with him?
Desiring innocents contravened all his rules. He would break her heart, his affection never constant, emotions quicksilver. Vincent had been the gentle, loyal one like mother, but he took after Father – a quick temper, a fierce ardour and a cold winter’s heart.
He must not get tangled within this family, this place or this woman.
This was a Crown mission and he would inveigle the required information by fair means or foul, and an invitation to use a marquess’s given name would charm the stockings off any country miss.
After wetting his whistle with the newly poured claret, he cast a suave smile toward Miss Penrose. “You must call me Jack.”
He lounged in his chair, dropped an intimate wink and waited.
Tamsyn’s smile faltered as the considerate gentleman of a moment ago submerged beneath the scoundrel, gaze fixed upon her like an eagle to a dormouse.
Was ever a man more vexing?
The marquess possessed two faces under one hat, as Benjamin would say, and it wasn’t a mask, she realised, merely different sides to the same man – a true Janus garbed in coquelicot silk and burgundy superfine, but she speculated as to why he felt the need to turn his face quite so often.
She hadn’t realised the picnic was to be held at Lowarn Cove, but with friends around her, she would brave the place she once loved so much.
Lord Winterbourne’s suggestion of an alternative venue had been both appreciated and frightening all at once.
Appreciated because he’d seen her dread and sought to alleviate it.
Frightening because it revealed he must know of the cove, know something of her ordeal. It could be the only reason. But how?
Why was he here? Did he think her totty-headed?
She felt so dratted confused, questions racing. Why invite her to use his given name in such a manner? He must be a rascal, just as the ladies of Helston had gossiped.
“I believe I will retire,LordWinterbourne. I do not wish to be overtired forHugh’spicnic tomorrow.”
