Chapter Five
Jack of all trades.
The pink of the London ton sat in Father’s library, newspapers spread over his lap and a glass of brandy clutched close, muttering to himself…
“Never have I read such scandalous lies.” Lord Winterbourne shook his head irritably. “I did not seduce Lady P in the hothouse at the Cholmondeley’s soiree.”
Whilst Tamsyn felt mortified he’d found the stash of old newspapers that she and Lowdy had scoured for gossip on the rogue, he perhaps wasn’t as sinful as the rags proclaimed if his indignance was anything to go by.
Tamsyn faffed with her shawl as she observed him through the ajar door. Maybe she’d been unfairly prejudiced toward him. Maybe he wasn’t such a–
“It was her sister…” he mumbled, “…and in the library of all places.”
Oh.
Twisting the silk fringe to knots, Tamsyn debated her options as he bemoaned the lack of journalistic integrity in this day and age.
For propriety’s sake, she ought to await her family for the introduction, but Papa and his manservant were struggling with some new dashing cravat style for the ball, Lowdy was rouging her pale cheeks and Aunt Sarah was partaking of a medicinal sweet sherry in her chambers.
“Lord Winterbourne, welcome. I am Miss Penrose.” The words fell in a rasped rush, startling him, brandy spilling over his gorse-green waistcoat. “Beg pardon,” she whispered, “I didn’t…”
But his lips curled sinfully, eyes widening, and he elegantly rose. “Miss Penrose.” The deep bow was…perfect, a flourishing long-fingered sweep, and although he bent at the waist, he still managed to leisurely peruse her form with that flashing ebony gaze.
Damnable rogue.
Travel attire had looked well upon him, but evening dress embellished the exquisite. Tight coal-black breeches, sapphire tailcoat and a hitherto pristine waistcoat. No wonder the maids were all atwitter.
He held her fingers, a light press, and lips briefly swept over the top, causing a shiver of distaste…surely.
“And I apologise for my manner on Goonhilly Downs,” he declared, voice a rumble. “Presented with your beauty, my wits quite abandoned me, and then to realise the…charming and adept lady on horseback was to be my hostess.”
Tamsyn scrunched her nose. That was doing it a bit brown. She’d almost trampled him to death and her aspect must have resembled a grey and dusty pigeon.
“I…” Limpid seas, calm skies, she fought to picture…anything but breath caught nonetheless, tightness clasping her throat. Damn it, she thought this debilitating weakness was conquered but in trying circumstances, it reasserted itself as though to mock her notions of strength.
“And I’d be glad to change this waistcoat anyway,” he rambled on. “’Tis quite the most humdrum item I’ve ever worn but my valet thought it bucolic.”
She laughed – how could she not? – the coil of tension untying. He was such a fribble. Why had she ever thought him a man of Whitehall?
“It is difficult to stay so…perfect in the country,” she managed.
“Oh, I don’t mind getting…dishevelled on occasion, Miss Penrose. In fact, there are times when it’s most essential.”
Tamsyn opened her mouth and then closed it again. Was he being bawdy? Surely not.
“A jaunt through Hyde Park in my spanking new phaeton, for instance,” he continued innocently, “can cause a slight heat to break upon one’s brow. I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” He peeped behind her to the half-open door, lids hooded. “…I’m forced to bathe every two hours in London.”
She banished the image of his naked wet limbs from whence it came.
At once.
“I only bathe on a full moon,” she blithefully retorted. Perhaps he’d desist in his silly flattery now.
A curious look flared in his eyes, before he abruptly leaned forward, lips within an inch of her neck. The marquess inhaled deeply, disturbing tendrils of hair, and after a low murmur, withdrew. Her turncoat heart produced a cavernous thud, skin goosing despite the heat.
“In that case, September’s full moon must be upon us, Miss Penrose, as you smell divine. Of almonds and honey and all things sweet.”
Oh, he was good. His voice smooth and seductive, motion graceful and controlled.
It did absolutely nothing for her except produce another shiver…of distaste.
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve always believed in that old adage of cleanliness being next to Godliness, my lord, but after reading of your exploits, it seems I may need to reassess.”
Gosh, where had that come from? No constriction had assailed her throat, and she hadn’t spoken with such verve for years.
But then again, she’d not encountered such a superficial rake in years either.
Digging oneself deeper into a pit of Cornish clay wasn’t advisable, Jack knew that, but devil’s ballocks, he was enjoying himself immensely.
Miss Penrose was unexpected, witty and as for those eyes… The palest, bluest gaze he had ever encountered – a sunny day with fog. Not the most Byronic description but apt none the less and framed by her tanned skin and coiled walnut hair, they shone like robin’s eggs – without the speckly bits.
Her gown was grey again, although this one fitted better and was at least silk; a drab rainy-Tuesday hue with a fichu sewn in that completely veiled her décolletage.
Not that his imagination lacked.
Rogues sometimes had a preferred type. This one didn’t. Slender to plump. Dark to fair. Curvy to not curvy – he adored them all, and Miss Penrose fitted snugly in the middle.
Focus.
The mission was merely to woo, not seduce. To extract the information in that snippy noggin of hers and ignore the way those eyes caused an upheaval in his guts – although that could be the currants from the hevva cake as they sat like lumps of coal refusing to be digested.
And Miss Penrose was snippy. Snippy and brave.
Certainly, he’d noted her difficulty speaking, her deliberate slow and rasping breath, so he’d prattled to put her at ease, her laugh causing his concern to lift. How had she regained her voice? Sheer perseverance?
“You admit to reading about me then?” he countered. “I am flattered.”
“They say you are a scoundrel.”
“Moi?” He held hand to barren heart. “You misquote, Miss Penrose. I believe the description was ‘affable scoundrel’.”
“And now you are here on business? With my Father?”
“Indeed, I hold Sir Jago in the highest regard.”
“Hmm. And which process of clay purification interests you most?”
The vixen.
“Well, where to begin, Miss Penrose, but let us not place business before–”
“Oh, I do apologise. Am I intruding?”
Jack thanked his lucky breeches for house guests stumbling in at opportune moments. No doubt he could have wittered his way out of the clay pit, but one should always kiss providence if it intervened…
Although maybe not on this occasion.
A winter’s day of a chap loitered in the doorway, short and dark with a pair of huge spectacles saddling his nose. Eyes gazed myopically, causing them to appear like huge brown beetles, and he wore a sadly creased baggy black jacket with a dung-coloured waistcoat.
He resembled death’s head on a mopstick.
Jack peered intently.
The man peered back.
“This is Mr Sewell, the professor’s assistant,” introduced Miss Penrose, and the two men shook hands, before embarking on the usual twaddle: weather, isn’t it hot; London, what a long way; roads, aren’t they bad; tonight’s ball, aren’t you early by one day?
“Well,” Jack proclaimed, “I must change before we leave as I cannot possibly put about my person with a brandy-stained waistcoat. I beg your leave, Miss Penrose. I trust we can continue our fascinating discussion anon.”
Those plush lips tightened, and it appeared the full unabridged rogue’s rules would be required in the taming of Miss Penrose.
As fortune would have it, a carriage to the ball awaited.