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The frigid dismissal of her from his life.
This time there was no justification she could convince herself of as to why he had abandoned her. He wasn’t doing it to save her. No. This time was real. And it was all her fault.
Her steps through the garden quickened. Time alone was cruel, even if it came with the scent of gardenias.
With wooden legs, Pen entered the rear door of the Flagtons’ house, setting down on a side table thebasket of bread that Mrs. Flagton had sent her to the bakeroff of Wells Streetto fetch.Never mind that Cook made perfectly passable bread and that Pen had passed four other bake shops on the way. The Wells Street baker was the best. And if she went right before he closed the shop for the day, she could get the bread three-for-one. Mrs. Flagton had been quite pleased with that bargain.
Pen tugged off her gloves, setting them down by the basket, fighting back tears that conspired to overwhelm her. Her head tilted back, her eyes closed as she tried to drain away the building soup in her eyes. Of all things, she knew she couldn’t let one tear fall in this household.
Only by the graces of the fates had she managed to hide her trip to Bedfordshire and she couldn’t do anything now to bring suspicion to her days away from the townhouse.
“Bloody ballocks, Penelope, what are you doing?”
Her eyes flew open, her look finding Percival standing in front of her in the shadows of the hallway. Had he been waiting in the dark for her arrival? How long had he been standing there?
“My neck had a crick in it.” She rubbed her right fingers on the back of her neck.
“A crick?” His eyebrows lifted high. “Plausible, but we both know you’re partial to lying now, don’t we?”
The hairs under her fingers on her neck spiked. Percival was in the mood to skewer her—she’d suffered under his railings far too many times to not recognize the manic look in his left eye. “What are you speaking of, Percival?”
He crept a step closer to her, his top lip sneering. “Where were you?”
She pointed to the basket of bread on the side table. “To the baker. Your mother sent me. The footman accompanied me as usual.” Her hands clasped together in front of her belly, her forefinger working quickly through the scab that hadn’t fully healed from the night before when she’d sat with Percival and his mother and had to listen to Percival berate her again for how long it took her to deliver the package to Mrs. Flagton’s cousin in Hampshire.
“As usual?” He snorted to himself. “And when wasn’t it usual, recently?”
“When? What?”
He leaned in toward her, his voice rising. “When wasn’t it, you little whore? Usual? When were you alone?”
Her head shook as she leaned backward to avoid the putrescence of his breath. Best to not retreat a step just yet, or she’d have nowhere to escape. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“You don’t?” His head bobbed up and down,his long blond hair flopping over his right eyeas his lip turned into a snarl. “Of course you don’t, you little tramp. Lying won’t get you out of this—lying is just going to make me hurt you.”
“What are you talking about, Percival? What did I do?”
“I know—I know you didn’t deliver the package to our Cousin Ida. And if you didn’t deliver the package, then who did?”
“I—”
“No, shut your mouth, you slut. I don’t give a damn who delivered the package—all I care about is where were you when it was delivered? Whose bed were you in? I’ve seen the looks you give those men.”
“Men?” Her head shook. “What men? I don’t know any men.”
“The butcher. The fishmonger.The hatter.All of them—I’ve seen it. I’ve seen how you smile at them—taunt them. Tell me whose bed you were in.”
“None—I’ve been in—”
Quick as a snake, his hand wrapped around her neck, shoving her backward until she slammed into the wall next to the door. “Who?” he screamed, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. “Who?”
“None—none.” She grabbed his wrist, wrenching it away from her throat, her own voice lifting. “I smile at them because your mother insists that I barter with them and it’s easier if I smile.”
“Of course, you little witch. Of course, you use your wicked ways—just like you use them on me. Tempting me. Tempting me all the time and never delivering anything to me. You want me and then you don’t and then you do and you damn well like to play with me.”
“Percival—I don’t—”
“You do!” His face went into hers, spit landing on her cheek as his nose rammed into her skin. “You do, and now you’ve gone off and given away what was mine—what I have been waiting for all these dammed years.”
