Page 27 of Hazard a Guest
“No, not that.” She shook her head, squeezing at his hands so he’d look back at her. “This. And here I thought I couldn’t make you blush anymore.”
It only made his blush deepen and her grin widen.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a little sigh. “I don’t mean to tease you. I suppose it just makes me feel worthwhile. Important.”
“What does?” he asked, sounding truly baffled. “My predisposition to social ruin?”
She laughed again, coaxing a little smile out of him as well. “No! I suppose … I suppose it’s knowing that someone like you could ever be affected by someone like me. It’s a little thrill in thinking that I can get under your skin. I will stop.”
“Don’t stop,” he said, and there, at long last, was that full smile, the flash of even white teeth, the depth of his dimples. “I’d hate it if you stopped.”
“Would you?” she asked, her heart forgetting everything she’d just told it about ease and safety, thrumming against her ribs like they were a washboard. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” he said softly, looking down at their entwined hands and turning them over, sliding the pads of his thumbs up the backs of hers. He looked back up at her, holding her eye, and told her in that gentle, steady voice of his, “I like feeling you under my skin.”
CHAPTER 10
Joe would have happily stayed in that conservatory for the rest of his life, but once Ember had regained her steady footing, she’d smiled at him, squeezed his hands one more time, and promised him that she’d see him before dinner.
And of course, after she’d gone, the only person left to spend time with in that place was the patina-soaked copper sculpture of the first Lord Penrose, a fellow who, based on this likeness, likely made even Sir Walter Raleigh feel austere.
He did spend a few moments admiring all the finer details. His mother, whose entire business was in buttons and fastenings and seams, would probably love this sculpture—and make awful fun of it, of course. Then she’d likely lock herself in her study in a frenzy of sketching, refusing to acknowledge she’d been inspired.
And his father, without fail, would frown at the whole thing and say, “But Leah, you always loved my simple waistcoats.”
He smiled at the thought of it all the way back to his room.
He thought nothing would suit him better after this tumult of hours that had been the first half of his first day at Blackcove than a nap.
Unfortunately, that was not to be.
First: the door was not locked. It was not even properly closed. And all Cresson could think was that if someone had come to rob him, the joke was on them. He had nothing but wrinkled Portuguese clothing in his pack and a few items of sundry.
But it was the opposite of having been robbed.
The room was full of hanging clothing, a very diminutive little man bustling around with measuring tape, and Freddy and Lord Penrose deep in conversation over the state of a set of formal tails.
“Ah, Mr. Cresson!” cried Lord Penrose. “You return! Just in time, too—we were about to take measurements from your dirty trousers instead of you.”
“What?” was all Joe could say for a moment, followed more eloquently by “Why?”
“You didn’t bring tails,” said Penrose with a sniff. “Pack in a hurry, did you, lad? We’ve all done it. Once, I got all the way to France and realized I had only packed one shirt!”
“Yes,” said Freddy, grinning. “Of all your sets of tails, Joseph, you forgot to bring one.”
Joe gave a tired grimace of a smile. “You keep a tailor at your home, Lord Penrose?”
“Of course! You think I’d have a banker here and not other essential businessfolk?” Penrose said with a puff of his chest. “A Penrose is always prepared!”
The little man was already quietly measuring him, Joe realized, having appeared soundlessly at his side.
Joe didn’t have the heart to resist him.
It was true, he reasoned. He didn’t have tails.
The measuring and fussing and idle chatter ate up two solid hours, during which he learned several things about the Penrose family, from their (apparently) proud Tudor roots as privateers to their strong ties to the Anglican church—“brother’s a dean, uncle’s a bishop!”—to their aggressively Cornish legacy—“never marry a girl from beyond the border. Weaker blood, my father always said, and narrower hips to boot.”
It explained the house crest that Joe had observed on the sculpture earlier—Fideles et Parati.Faithful and Prepared.
