Page 18 of One Night with an Earl

“What are your interests, Lady Penelope?” Oliver asked.

Penelope glanced at him beneath lowered lashes. “I enjoy painting and the pianoforte, my lord.”

Both were appropriate activities for a titled lady. They were also bland and told Oliver very little about her, and he wondered if they were even true.

He inwardly sighed. The ride in Hyde Park was tedious. Lady Penelope seemed to have even less of an interest in him than he had in her.

It was a clear day, and not a cloud dotted the sky. Hyde Park was in bloom. The dreary London rain had ceased, and bushes flowered, and groves of shady trees and meandering walkways were lovely in May. A gentle breeze blew from the Serpentine river for a pleasant respite. The promenade hour was just beginning, and carriages, phaetons, and lords and ladies on horseback and on foot were out and about. The wheels of Oliver’s well-sprung carriage were smooth on the gravel drive.

He glanced at Lady Penelope. She was pretty with fair hair, porcelain skin, a small, shapely nose, and a slim build. But the girl was barely out of the schoolroom, eighteen summers at most, compared to his thirty-three years.

What was his grandmother thinking?

You know exactly what she’d been thinking. Many titled men married younger women for the simple reason that they could. Also, a young woman had many childbearing years before her. No doubt the Dowager had that in mind when she’d arranged for this outing with Penelope’s mother, the Marquess of Malvern.

He supposed the company could be worse. Penelope was soft spoken and had a pleasant smile.

She was also as different as night and day from Lady Scarlet.

His memories of Scarlet’s dark curls, tempting mouth, and lush curves evoked erotic fantasies of their shared night together. She was too worldly to be innocent yet had been a virgin. Her allure had tantalized him, teased him, and he’d been shocked at his own eager response to throw all caution aside and take what he’d believed was a courtesan to bed at a notorious brothel. For a man who’d never wanted to step foot in the Silver Chalice, he’d broken all his steadfast rules.

She’d entranced and bewitched him.

He felt none of these feelings for the girl beside him. He did not want to be here, thinking of polite conversation, going through the motions to please his grandmother. What he truly wanted was to find Lady Scarlet and experience another night like their last.

Damn. How could she have slipped through his fingers?

“The weather is pleasant, my lord,” Penelope said.

His attention returned to her. “Would you like to stop the carriage and walk?” he asked. His groom could jump down and hold the horses as they strolled.

“Yes.”

A small cough from the back seat of the carriage reminded him they weren’t alone. Her chaperone, Miss Gardner as he’d heard Lady Malvern address the woman, had accompanied them. Her presence wasn’t required in the park. With the promenade of lords and ladies who wanted to be seen rather than to enjoy the outdoors, it was a ridiculous notion that a man could take advantage of a young lady’s charms.

When he’d first noticed her in the drawing room, he had a fleeting feeling that he knew her from somewhere, had met her, but he pushed the thought aside. He had no interaction with chaperones of young ladies.

And Miss Gardner was as plain and rigid as they came with her gray gown, dour expression, and ramrod posture that could rival a general’s. She was like an overprotective mother hen.

He felt a pang of sympathy for Lady Penelope. He didn’t know who was worse, her mother or her chaperone.

“What activities do you prefer, my lord?” Penelope asked.

“I enjoy a good game of billiards. But I have little time for pleasure. I’m sure you are aware I recently inherited the title, and I spend much time poring over the ledgers and overseeing the earldom’s properties.”

“I see. You need a good chatelaine?”

“It would be helpful.”

“Which is your favorite estate?”

Oliver did not hesitate. “Rosedown in Hertfordshire. It’s not the grandest or largest, but it has magnificent stables and is lovely with its namesake hothouse roses.”

Another choked cough from the chaperone, louder this time.

Oliver turned to the woman. “Are you unwell, Miss?”

Her eyes were huge. For the first time, he’d noticed the hazel color. A stab of panic shone in her gaze, but she shook her head and lowered her lashes so quickly that he thought it might have been a quirk of the sunlight peeking through the shade of the trees.