The Perfect Gentleman (The Love and Temptation Series Book 7) Read online

  “Goodnight,” echoed Penelope, and darting inside, she shut the door in his face.

  He went to his room next door and slowly washed and changed into his nightgown. He could sense her through the walls. The longing and desire would not go away. He had drunk a great deal, but his brain seem to be clear and wide-awake. He went to the window and raised the sash. There was a full moon riding above the trees. A dog barked in the distance, someone laughed somewhere down in the courtyard, and then there was silence.

  He turned and leaned his back against the windowsill and crossed his arms. What was he to do with Penelope Mortimer?

  He crossed the room and, seizing his quilted dressing gown, shrugged himself into it and marched next door. Penelope was lying in bed, reading a book, her steel spectacles on the end of her small nose.

  “Do you ever knock?” she asked, peering at him over the tops of her glasses, too startled at his sudden appearance to remember to take them off and hide them. Her lorgnette lay in the bottom of her luggage. She wished she had unpacked it, but then, she had not expected a night visit from him.

  “My apologies,” he said stiffly. “They have forgot to give me soap. May I take some of yours?”

  “By all means,” said Penelope, waving a hand in the direction of the toilet table.

  He picked up a cake of Joppa soap and tossed it up and down in his hand. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  “Well… goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Lord Andrew.”

  He went back to his own room and moodily threw the cake of soap on his toilet table, where it joined the three tablets already there.

  Damn!

  He sat down on the bed and rested his chin on his hand.

  After a few moments he sighed and took off his dressing gown and got into bed, sulkily pulling his nightcap down over his ears.

  There came a scratching at the door as he was leaning forward to blow out his bed candle.

  “Enter,” he called.

  Penelope came in wearing a nightgown and wrapper and a frivolous lace nightcap on her head. She did not look at him. “I find I have forgot my tooth powder,” she said.

  “I have plenty. You are more than welcome to take it,” he said eagerly, swinging his long legs out of bed. “See, here is an unused tin of Biddle’s.” He handed it to her. She was so close to him, he could feel the heat from her body, smell the rose water on her skin.

  “Thank you,” said Penelope. “Well… er… goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Miss Mortimer.”

  Fetters of convention kept those arms of his, which wanted to seize her, firmly to his side.

  He sadly watched her go. He jumped back into bed, blew out the candle, tore off his nightcap, and threw it across the room, and then lay flat on his back staring up into the darkness.

  Then all of a sudden, he had a clear picture of her toilet table next door. Among a few scattered bottles of washes and creams there had been a new tin of tooth powder. Could Penelope possibly be suffering as much as he?

  His heart hammering against his ribs, he slowly got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and went next door.

  She was standing by the window, looking out.

  “You already have a can of tooth powder,” he said softly.

  Without turning round, Penelope answered, “And you, my lord, have cakes and cakes of soap.”

  “I want you,” he said raggedly, and held open his arms.

  Penelope rushed into them, and burning, aching body clung tight to burning, aching body. He kissed and caressed her, feeling his passion rise to fever heat. He carried her to the bed and laid her down and then stretched out beside her and gathered her close. There was so many places to kiss: her eyes, her hair, her mouth, her breasts, her mouth again.

  “No,” he began to mumble like a drunk. “No, no, no. Must marry me. Now.”

  “I can’t. You can’t. It’s the middle of the night. Oh, Andrew, kiss me again.”

  “No,” he said more firmly. “This is torture. I bed you as my wife or nothing else. We have to get away from here, where you are known as my ward. We must go and find a preacher.”

  “We need a special license.”

  “Nonsense. I shall bribe some cleric to do the necessary and then marry you again in London.”

  “But Miss Worthy.”

  “A pox on Miss Worthy.”

  “Your mother…?”

  “Her, too. Come along. Clothes on.”

  “I am so tired.”

  “Penelope, if I kiss you again, I cannot answer for the consequences. We cannot live apart. If I do not quench this fever in my blood soon, I shall strangle you.”

  “But what if we are not suited?”

  “You must be mad!”

  “What if it is only lust?”

  “If it is, then I swear there’s enough to last a lifetime. Why are you always arguing and quibbling?”

  “I am not quibbling,” said Penelope crossly.

  “Either you dress yourself or I shall dress you.”

  “No, I shall manage.”

  Lord Andrew rushed next door and started to pull on his clothes. He was worried she might take fright and run away. But she was just fastening the lid of her imperial when he erupted into her room again.

  The landlord was distressed and thought he must have displeased his noble guest in some way, for Lord Andrew woke him up to pay his shot and shout for his carriage.

  Soon they were bumping along the country roads. After a time, Penelope fell asleep with her head against his shoulder. He drove on as dawn rose over the fields and the sun began to climb up above the fields and woods.

  The large, bustling county town of Ardglover was reached by nine o’clock. It boasted an even more luxurious posting inn. This time Lord Andrew, having woken the sleeping Penelope, took the ring from her chain and put it on her finger before booking one room for Lord and Lady Andrew Childe.

  Leaving Penelope to enjoy a solitary breakfast, he went off to explore the churches. He talked to several vicars before making his choice. The Reverend James Ponsonby was vicar of a run-down back-street church called St. Jude’s. Even at that early hour of the day, he smelled strongly of spirits. He took Lord Andrew into the vestry and there enjoyed a pleasurable hour of haggling before settling on the price of a rushed wedding.

  Penelope was asleep when he returned to the inn. He made a hasty breakfast, sent for the barber to shave him, and, attired in his best morning dress, went to rouse Penelope and tell her roughly she was about to be married. Still exhausted, Penelope struggled into a white muslin gown with a pink sprig.

  The church was damp and smelly and cold, and Penelope shivered her way through the marriage service with the vicar’s spinster sister as bridesmaid while Lord Andrew had the ancient sidesman as bridesman.

  For a time it seemed as if the wedding ceremony would drag on forever, but the vicar, getting thirsty, brought his sermon to an abrupt end, and they found themselves outside the church again, this time as man and wife.

  They walked along in silence. Penelope felt awful. She had drunk too much the night before, and her head ached. Flashes of memory began to dart through her brain. Village girls talking and giggling about their wedding nights. “I declare, it hurt so bad, I thought I was like to die.” “They never tell you you’ll have to put up with that.” “There was blood all over the sheets.”

  Passion withered and died.

  Lord Andrew wondered if there was madness in his family. Here he was after a squalid ceremony, married to a lady of whom he knew little apart from the tartness of her tongue and the independence of her mind. The wave of feverish passion that had consumed him all the night before receded, leaving him escorting this little stranger along the street of a market town. He looked down at Penelope’s beauty, and all he could think of was how she had looked with her spectacles on the end of her nose. Her eyes had been too sharp and intelligent for a woman.

  “What
shall we do now?” asked Penelope in a little voice.

  “Go back to the inn, I suppose,” he said in dull, flat tones. “I need some sleep before my journey on.”

  “Journey where?”

  “To my home, Baxley Manor, in Shropshire.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you have other plans?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No,” said Penelope dismally. “I shall probably never see my little cottage again.”

  “You can see that hovel of yours any time you want.”

  “There is no need to be so rude about it. I think you are a bully and you have a very low opinion of women. Perhaps you should have married someone stupid.”

  “It appears I did.”

  Penelope looked at him, at the shadows under his eyes and the bitter, disappointed twist to his mouth. Something had to be done. Instead of shouting at him, she said candidly, “What on earth possessed us to get married? We are quarreling already, and you are wondering what came over you.”

  She linked her hands over his arm and looked anxiously up into his face. “Did you have to pay that vicar an awful lot of money?”

  “No, not terribly much. Not as much as I expected.”

  Penelope’s face cleared and she gave a little skip and jump. “There you are then. It is all very simple. All you have to do is go back and bribe him again and get the marriage lines torn up!”

  “I said I would marry you, and I have married you, so let that be an end of it.”

  “No, I won’t!” said Penelope, stopping in the middle of the busy main street and facing him. “I won’t be married to someone who looks as if he has just received a prison sentence.”

  “My dear child, there is no need for these dramatics.”

  “Every need, my dear lummox. I do not hide behind social lies and correct social behavior. I am not going to be tied for life to someone who despises me and talks down to me!”

  He passed a weary hand over his face. “I shall sleep first,” he said, “and talk to you afterwards.”

  “But, Andrew, you must listen to sense!”

  He took her arm and roughly hustled her along, lecturing her on her behavior as he went. He was still nagging as they went upstairs to their room, where he at last stopped railing at her. He threw himself facedown on the bed and, in a minute, he was asleep. Penelope glared at him. Then gradually her face softened. Poor Perfect Gentleman, used to being flattered and fawned on all his life. Loved for his money, loved for his title, loved by all except his own mother and father. Penelope leaned down and gently stroked the heavy black hair which was tumbled over his forehead. She loved him still, and she knew she could not bear to be married to him if he did not love her with equal force. His passion for her would return after he had rested, but she would know it was merely a transient lust without respect.

  In the years to come, he would thank her for what she was about to do.

  She knew he kept the bulk of his money in a drawer in his traveling toilet case. She gently slid a hand into his pocket and dew out his keys, trying one after the other until she found the one that fitted the money drawer. She extracted a thick wedge of five-pound notes and peeled off six. What monstrous great white things they were, thought Penelope, who, like most of the population, hardly ever saw a five-pound note. Like pocket handkerchiefs!

  She put on her bonnet and pelisse and made her way back to the church. There was no sign of the vicar, but the verger, who was sweeping out the pews, told her she could find him at the vicarage, which was round the back.

  Penelope picked her way along an unsavory lane and round to a low door in a brick wall on which “Vicarage” had been chalked in a shaky hand. There was no bell or knocker. She banged on the door with her fists.

  No reply.

  She looked about her and found an empty gin bottle a little way away and proceeded to apply it energetically to the door until it shattered and nearly cut her. She was about to scream with frustration when the door opened and the vicar stood swaying in front of her.

  “Ish the bride,” he said. He executed a great leg with a long scrape, fell forward, and clutched at her for support.

  “Come inside, Mr. Ponsonby,” said Penelope sternly. “I have business with you.”

  It took her an hour of pleading and raging and threats of legal action to get Mr. Ponsonby to strike the record of the marriage off the parish books. Thrifty Penelope, satisfied that she had achieved her ends without paying a single penny of Lord Andrew’s money to get them, returned to the inn and quietly entered the bedroom. The marriage lines were lying on the desk by the window. She tore them up, drew forward a letter, explained she had canceled the marriage, wished Lord Andrew well, and left both letter and torn marriage lines on the desk along with five of the five-pound notes.

  She quietly packed her own case and, thankful it was a small one, picked it up and made her way out of the room and out of the inn. She asked directions to the nearest livery stable and, offering the five-pound note, hired a post chaise to take her back to Lower Bexham.

  Triumph at having overcome all difficulties so quickly buoyed her up for part of the journey, but all the aches and pains of love soon returned. She looked out at the countryside, eyes hot and dry with unshed tears. Then she took out her spectacles and put them on her nose.

  Miss Penelope Mortimer had decided to renounce men for life.

  Chapter Ten

  The Duke of Parkworth read a very long and complicated notice in the newspaper which stated, as far as he could gather, that Miss Ann Worthy was engaged to the Duke of Harford and that her previous engagement to Lord Andrew Childe was to be considered null and void.

  He scratched his head, took a sip of hot chocolate, and turned to more interesting news. His desire to aid his wife in her campaign against Penelope had withered and died. He was as fond of his duchess as he could be of anyone, but even he was beginning to find her scenes wearisome. He even found it in his heart to envy Lord Andrew, who was well away from the storms and upheavals. He assumed his son must have set that Mortimer girl up as his mistress by now and vaguely wished him well.

  But when he eventually collected the morning papers and wandered into the morning, it was to find his wife looking much her old self. She appeared calm and rational and began to discuss the idea of turning one of the bedrooms into a bathroom with running water.

  “Are you sure?” asked the duke. “All this washing all over is newfangled nonsense. Do you know some fanatics even soap themselves all over! It’s a wonder their skin don’t fall off.”

  “It’s a matter of keeping up with the times,” said the duchess practically. “The Dempseys have a very pretty one. The bath is shaped like a cockleshell, and it has a machine at one end to heat the water.”

  “Waste of money,” said her husband. “Why keep a lot of servants who are perfectly well able to carry hot water up from the kitchens and then heat the stuff yourself?”

  “It’s a fashion,” said the duchess patiently, “like Mr. Brummell’s starched cravats.”

  “Oh.” The duke’s face cleared. “Well, so long as you don’t expect me to use it. It’s sweat, you know, that keeps a man clean.”

  “Good. I shall call in an architect and have the plans drawn up.”

  “Seem like your old self again,” said the duke. “Forgotten about the Mortimer girl, hey?”

  “Oh, yes. I feared, you know, that Andrew might be stupid enough to marry her. But he always does the right thing. He will simply set her up as his mistress until he tires of her. She teaches music, you know, so when he is wearied of her, he will be able to buy her a little seminary in Bath.”

  “All this matchmaking is a bore,” yawned the duke, “whatever side of the blanket it’s on. How on earth do you think Harford managed to propose to Miss Worthy, or do you think she proposed to him?”

  “WHAT?” The duchess turned a dangerous color.

  “It’s in the paper,” said her husband, who had not been looking at her and therefo
re did not see the danger signals. “She’s finished with Andrew and is getting herself hitched to Harford.”

  “No she is not!” screamed the duchess. “No one… do you hear me… no one jilts a member of my family.”

  “Come now. You said yourself you had brought down a mother’s curse on Andrew’s head and all that. You can’t curse people,” said the duke practically, “and then start ranting and raving if they have a bad time of it, though if you ask me, Andrew’ll probably be glad to get free of that frosty-faced antidote. Never liked her.”

  “Miss Worthy is a perfect lady. Entirely suitable. Good family, good fortune. It’s that Penelope Mortimer. She ruined everything with her blowsy blond looks. Oh, that I had never seen her!”