A Gentleman Never Tells (6 page)

He stepped backward. “Of course I do! I shall marry you, Lilibet. I shall stand by you always, take the most tender care of you. I’ll be the most faithful of husbands, a loyal old hound . . .”

“Faithful!” she snapped. Her fingers resumed their buttoning in agile jerks. “This from a man who finds a new mistress every week! Who trades women with his Prince over a game of cards! Whose reputation for uselessness and moral laxity is the stuff of legend, even in London!”

His mouth opened and closed. What could he say?
Oh, that. All a sham, you see. A front. To cover up my true activities as an intelligence agent for Her Majesty’s government.

No, really. All in the name of duty.

She watched him steadily, her gaze like a needle into his soul. Her fingers alone remained active, inserting each button into its proper hole, closing off her body from his sight and touch. From down the length of the stable came the sound of a horse whuffling, moving restlessly about his stall.
Yes, Penhallow
, it seemed to say.
Tell us. We’re absolutely with child to hear you talk your way out of this one. Good old slick-tongued Penhallow
.

Lilibet shook her head at his silence and glanced downward. Her coat was buttoned, her collar straightened. She plucked a strand of hay from the dark wool. “You don’t know what faithful means, Lord Roland,” she said. “You’re a child, a boy. You don’t know.”

“I know that I love you.” His voice was hoarse, petulant. “I know that you love me. That you loved me once, at least, with the kind of love I
thought
”—he allowed the faintest trace of bitter emphasis—“would live an eternity.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know.”

“Then why
this
?” He gestured angrily at the ground. “Why the bloody hell spread your legs for me on the floor of an Italian
stable
? Just an ordinary roll in the hay for you, was it? Virtuous Lady Somerton! If only London knew . . .”

Her hand moved like lightning, stinging across his face in a loud slap. “How dare you!” she hissed. “You alone know what this meant to me. What it cost me. And you must ruin it, mustn’t you? Soil the most precious memory of my life with your vile . . . with . . .” Her voice choked; she turned away.

“Oh, Lilibet. Darling, no . . .” He reached for her, but she was already walking down the row, toward the door. “Wait, love! Don’t leave yet!”

She broke into a run.

“Wait! Stop!” He ran after her and caught her by the arm.

“Let me go! I’ve nothing to say to you!” She struggled against his grip and kicked against his shin. Her eyes glittered in the muffled light from the dark lanterns nearby.

What had she just said?
The most precious memory of my life.

He grinned with sudden confidence. “Stop it, you little hellcat. It isn’t that.”

“What, then?” She angled her head away.

“It’s just that . . . well, I’d suggest you let me help you with this hay.”

“Hay?”

“Yes. Hay. It’s all down the back of your coat.” He brushed her bottom to illustrate.

“Oh! You!” She knocked his hand away and began brushing herself, twisting left and right.

“Hold still.” He plucked and brushed with ruthless efficiency while she stood, frozen with pride, staring at the door. “All done,” he said at last, straightening.

“Thank you.” She started forward.

He caught her arm again, more gently this time, and leaned into her ear. “I
will
marry you, Lilibet Somerton. Mark my words.”

She shrugged off his hand and spoke in her loftiest accent. “The only chance of your marrying me, Penhallow, is if you manage to have yourself ordained to perform the office. At which point hell itself”—she stabbed his chest with her forefinger—“will have frozen over in mourning for its lost soul.”

She bolted through the door and into the rain-soaked night. He gazed at the empty space she left behind and brushed his fingertips across his cheek. Her handprint had lost its sting, leaving only warmth behind.

*  *  *

A
dulteress
.

Lilibet hoped the rain would wash away the word, which she could almost feel on her forehead, written in bold scarlet letters, like that poor lady in the book.

What had she done?

She hadn’t. She couldn’t possibly have just spread her legs for Lord Roland Penhallow on the floor of an Italian stable. She couldn’t have held his body inside hers, couldn’t have felt the heat of his skin and his mouth on her breast.

She couldn’t have. Because if she had, everything she knew about herself—her strength, her honor, her implacable sense of duty—was wrong.

But—oh God!—how could she regret it? She loved him so. For more than six long years she’d hidden that love inside her bones, denying its existence even to herself. And the reality of it, of drawing that love from the darkness and into the sunlight at last, had been more perfect and infinite than her most secret imagination. His touch still echoed on her flesh, would echo forever. On her deathbed, she would remember it.

You’ve done—we’ve done—what we were meant to do all along
.

No. A beautiful fiction, but only that: a fiction. God had meant her to marry the Earl of Somerton, to bear him a son and heir; to endure all that she could and then to retire and raise that son to manhood.

I’m sure he’ll give you a divorce, when I’ve explained.

Lilibet choked back a laugh and quickened her steps. Oh, priceless. Priceless, the expression on Somerton’s face if he were told that he, who had committed infidelities without number—infidelities of the most shocking sort, as her own eyes had witnessed—was now himself a cuckold.

Perhaps, when his rage had cooled, he might divorce her. Perhaps he wouldn’t. It hardly mattered: Either way, he would remove Philip from her care, from her sight. If he knew where she stood at this instant, he would send someone to take her son away. And though the separation would rend her apart, it was for Philip she feared most. If she had to, she could endure a lifetime of hollow existence, of the shame of divorce and abandonment, without her boy; but she could never condemn Philip to be reared according to his father’s notions of manhood.

The rear hallway was deserted, the common room silent and snoring. Lilibet slipped upstairs to her room and removed her hat, her coat, her jacket, her shirtwaist, her skirt, the snug embrace of her stays. Each article of clothing rasped like sandpaper against her flushed skin and sent ripples of sensation through her stunned body.

In the quiet chamber, the steady tread of breathing surrounded her: the dark shapes of Alexandra and Abigail in the large bed, Philip by himself in the other. The fire was banked; the chill penetrated her shift, making her shiver. Slowly, taking great care to disturb the bed as little as possible, she crawled under the covers next to her son’s sleeping body, not quite touching him, the rough sheets heavy upon her limbs. Between her legs, a raw, tender ache throbbed upward to reproach her.

She would never forget those stolen moments with Lord Roland Penhallow.

And, thank God, she would never see him again.

FIVE

S
o, my dear brother,” said the Duke of Wallingford. “How are you enjoying your year of chastity thus far?”

Roland, overtaken by a fit of coughing, took a moment to reply. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said at last, and coughed again into his gloved fist. “It’s only just begun, after all.” He peered up the rocky track before them, hung with dolorous gray mist. Yesterday’s heavy rain had moved on, but the air remained cold and damp, penetrating his clothing to numb his fingers and toes.

Wallingford lifted one hand from the reins to rub his upper lip. “No doubt you had it all out of your system before we left.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Endless orgies and whatnot.”

“Excellent. I should hate for you to prove the weak link in our chain. I’ve no doubt that Lady Morley will hold us strictly to our wager.” His tone was dark.

“Wager? What wager?” Roland glanced upward at the unpromising sky and was rewarded with a fat, cold drop of rain in his eye. He wasn’t surprised: The weather fit his mood precisely. He’d gone to bed last night full of happy plans for winning Lilibet over, starting with a full-on advance of the legendary Penhallow charm at breakfast the next day. Morning and the innkeeper, however, had brought the information that the ladies had already left, just after dawn, and no,
signore
, the innkeeper did not know in which direction they’d gone.

“Good God, Penhallow.” Wallingford let out an exasperated groan. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already. Last night at dinner, after the younger ladies retired with the boy. The wager with Lady Morley.”

Roland’s brain sifted through the memories of the night before, until light dawned. “Oh, right-ho. Something to do with keeping to our studies.”

The sound of Burke’s laughter barked out from the duke’s other side. “I stand corrected, Wallingford. You’re quite right. His head really is lodged between his legs at the moment.”

“Not between his
own
legs, I suspect,” growled Wallingford.

“See here . . .”

“The wager, if you’ll recall,” Burke said kindly, “came about after Lady Morley told us that the women are embarked on the same sort of project as we are. A year of study for the two of you, while I work on my automobile design, away from the distractions of London.”

“And the opposite sex,” added Wallingford.

“Sex of any kind, really,” said Burke. “In any case, the winner’s the party that . . .”

“I remember, I remember,” Roland said, drawing in a deep gust of raw air. The metallic scent of wet rocks washed through his head. “The winner’s the one that holds out the longest. And I was quite certain it would be the other side.”

“Can’t imagine why,” said Burke.

Wallingford shrugged. “But they’re women. They can’t possibly hold out. It’s a matter of strength of character. I expect Lady Somerton will have no trouble abstaining . . .”

Roland coughed again.

“. . . but Lady Morley is certain to give up after a week of solitude. And as for that provoking little sister of hers . . .”

“Damned odd, you know,” said Burke, “that they’re doing the same thing we are. At the same time.”

“Damned odd,” agreed Wallingford. “I don’t like it at all. I hope we shall win our wager in short order. In fact, I hope they’ll give up the endeavor and clear out of Italy altogether, and we shan’t have to concern ourselves with them further.”

“Except for the advertisement,” said Roland.

“The advertisement?”

“The advertisement in the
Times
. The loser’s forfeit, do you remember? I recall
that
little detail quite clearly.” Roland winked at Burke.

“Yes, of course. Our stakes.” Wallingford cast a sidelong glance of his own at Phineas Burke, who rode along with a grim expression beneath his woolen cap. “Your fault, Burke. Whatever were you thinking? ‘
I see no reason why the loser should not publish in the Times an advertisement of no less than a half sheet, acknowledging the superiority of the winning side.
’” He said the words in a singsong falsetto. “Just to make sure that all of London knows what we’re up to, of course.”

“There’s no reason the advertisement can’t be done anonymously,” Burke said reasonably. “In any case, you can’t have a wager without
some
sort of stake, and one can hardly wager money with ladies.” He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his bright ginger hair, peering up the road through a sudden gust of drizzle. His eyes narrowed. “What the devil,” he muttered, and he urged his horse into a trot.

“Dashed coincidence,” agreed Wallingford, into Burke’s diminishing back.

“Perhaps they have other reasons,” said Roland.
Like prying poor Lilibet from the clutches of that damned scoundrel husband of hers.

“In any case,” Wallingford went on, watching Burke move into a canter, “they’re long gone, and in the opposite direction if we’ve any luck at all. By the end of the day we’ll be through the gates of this castle Burke’s found us, and quite safe from temptation. Eventually, I suppose, your legendary Tuscan sunshine will appear, and . . . Hello! What’s Burke up to? What’s this?”

Roland looked up the road. He saw them at once: a party of bedraggled travelers, stranded in the mud, unloading trunks from a wagon. Women, from the looks of it. In fact, he could almost swear that . . .

Good God.

He clapped heels to the sides of his horse.

For him, the sunshine had just come out.

*  *  *

T
he clouds blackened over Lilibet’s head.

Or so it seemed, anyway. Surely there could be no darker omen than Lord Roland Penhallow riding up the road to offer his most chivalrous assistance to their wretched mud-bound convoy.

God’s retribution, of course. She’d done her best, strained every nerve to get Abigail and Alexandra (both of them sleepy and befuddled to a most inconvenient degree) and her son (clearheaded and energetic, also to a most inconvenient degree) on the road early, before the men were awake. She’d had stale bread and cold water for breakfast. She’d bent her head into the cold and damp. She’d tightened her arms about Philip and fixed her brain on the goal ahead: the castle Alexandra had found for them; the sanctuary, safe from threatening husbands and irresistible lovers alike.

But almighty vengeance had found her anyway, even sooner than she’d expected. Though vengeance, she had to admit, had never taken so fair a form as Roland Penhallow. He swung his broad-shouldered body from his horse with athletic grace and creased his beautiful brow with solicitude. Below his hat, a curling fringe of his golden brown hair soaked up all the meager light in Tuscany.

Oh, that hair, wound around her fingers.

Those curving lips, trailing down her breast.

That lean, taut body, stroking against hers . . .

Stop. No
. She shoved the images out of her mind. She frowned ferociously as Roland reached into the cart and began removing the trunks, lightening the load so the horses could pull the vehicle out of the mud.

Philip struggled from her lap. “Mama, I want to help,” he said.

“Don’t be silly. Let the gentlemen work in peace.”

But he was too quick for her. His light body skimmed over the muddy ground to the cart, right next to Roland’s tall riding boots. She staggered after him, mud sucking at her heels, but he was already scrambling up the wheel well and into the cart.

“Stop that, Philip! Get out of that cart at once!” She stretched her arms in his direction.

His little fingers curled around the handle of his own leather-bound chest. “But I’m helping, Mama!”

“His lordship does not require your help, Philip. Come here at once.”

“Just the one trunk, Mama!”

“Philip, I said . . .”

“Look here, old chap,” said Roland kindly, “why don’t you hop back down, there’s a lad.”

“I can help!”

“Oh, I daresay, but there are chores better left to those with a bit more strength in their sinews, eh what?” He reached one long arm across the cart and took the trunk handle from the boy’s hand.

A weighty silence dropped. Lilibet just glimpsed the flash of tears in Philip’s eyes, before the boy turned his head away.

“Come here, darling,” Lilibet said, and Philip ran toward her and flung himself at her chest. “Shh, love. His lordship is quite right. When you’re older and bigger.”

She didn’t look at him. She let no hint of reproach invade her face, no sign at all that a tiny piece of her heart had just chipped away. But she felt the weight of everyone’s attention: Wallingford and Mr. Burke looked studiously away and occupied themselves with the trunks, Alexandra and Abigail examined the mud on their boots. Philip’s body burrowed into hers, like a squirrel into its den, stiff with repressed sobs.

“I say . . .” Roland said softly. “I didn’t mean . . .”

She shrugged. She couldn’t reply. She couldn’t think, just now, of Roland’s discomfiture. Of her own disappointment, of the failure of human reality to match some unconscious hope she hadn’t even realized, until now, she’d held in her heart. She could only wrap her arms around Philip and soak him with her love. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she murmured into his hair. “My eager little love. His lordship is quite right. The sooner the trunks are unloaded, the sooner we can be on our way. Isn’t it kind of the gentlemen to help us like this?”

A hot sigh penetrated her wool coat.

“Now be my brave boy and thank his lordship for his help.”

Philip moved his head against her, wiping his eyes. She didn’t press him further, only let him gather his composure, his body still and heavy within the circle of her arms.

At last he turned his head. His voice was firm. “Thank you, your lordship.”

“Not at all, my boy,” said Roland. “And perhaps, on second thought . . .”

“Philip,” broke in Abigail, “do you know, I’ve just heard the most extraordinary thing. You’ll never credit it.”

Philip straightened in her arms and craned in Abigail’s direction. “What’s that, Cousin Abigail?”

“No. No, you won’t believe me. Never mind.”

“Oh, please! I will so! Oh, tell me!” His body pitched with eagerness, all disappointment shrugged off like a coat.

She shook her head. “No. No, I’m sure you won’t.”

“Oh, please, Cousin Abigail!” He drew away from Lilibet and stretched his arms to Abigail. “Please tell me!”

“Well . . .” Abigail stretched the word with doubt. She reached for Philip and swung him from the cart and into her arms. “It’s about this horse, you see. He just told me . . .”

“Horses don’t talk!”

Abigail groaned. “You see? I knew you wouldn’t believe me!”

“No, I will! I will! What did the horse say?”

“He said to me, in the most doleful way—cart horses are so universally doleful, you understand—he said that he was awfully, terribly,
excruciatingly . . .”

“What?
What?
”

“Hungry,” said Abigail.

Lilibet watched the two of them move to the horse’s bobbing head. Philip held out his hand to stroke its white-streaked forehead, and Abigail produced a miraculous carrot from her pocket.

A few yards away, Roland resumed unloading the trunks. “Dreadfully sorry about all that,” he said, in a low voice, reaching in front of her for another chest. “I expect I’ve lost all credit with him.”

“It’s all right,” she said coldly. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? After all, he’ll likely never see you again.”

She turned and walked away to where Abigail and Philip were feeding the horse his carrot. In a few hours, she told herself, she would be safe inside the castle.

In a few hours, Roland’s voice would be gone forever from her ears.

*  *  *

A few hours later

W
ell, this
is
splendid!” said Roland, in his most affable voice. “Old friends traveling together and all that. An inspired idea; I amaze myself, sometimes.”

“Vastly amusing,” said Lilibet.
Her
voice sounded distinctly frosty. She tightened her arm around Philip’s body, which squirmed before her in the saddle. “I can’t remember a more pleasant journey.”

The little boy patted the horse’s neck, making hardly a sound with his thick mittens. “I think it’s splendid! Riding horses is much better than riding in carts.”

“I quite agree,” said Roland. He spared Philip a benevolent glance. Not that much of the poor little fellow remained visible; he was covered from head to foot against the cold, as if bound in an endless woolen bandage by a particularly thorough nurse. What bits of him did emerge, however, glowed with unquenchable glee, and had been doing just that ever since he’d been set atop the noble steed of the Duke of Wallingford a few hours ago.

Philip’s mother, however, appeared considerably less gleeful. Her thickly lashed eyes stared straight ahead and showed not the slightest inclination to spare Roland a glance of any kind, let alone a benevolent one. “It was kind of the gentlemen to offer us their horses, of course,” she said, in the same cold tone as before. “Though quite unnecessary. The baggage cart would have come unstuck eventually.”

But Roland had faced far less charming challenges before, and with far less hope of success. “My dear Lady Somerton, have pity,” he said with a laugh. “We enter our monastic seclusion in a few short hours. Don’t deprive us of a last taste of female company.”

“You’ve already had more than you ought,” Lilibet snapped.

He laughed again. He welcomed her snappishness: At least she felt
something
. “Dearest Lady Somerton, a single taste is
never
enough.”

Waves of anger seemed to ripple forth from her body and rattle the air between them. Her back, already ramrod straight, stiffened even further. “You must endeavor to reconcile yourself to reality, Lord Roland. Our lodging will be coming into view at any moment, and you’ll be quite relieved of the nuisance of our company.”

“Ah, don’t speak of it.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “When I’ve only just had the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Perhaps it might have occurred to you that I was avoiding the encounter.”