Page 34 of A Tryst By the Sea
Was there a scold in that observation? An invitation? A reassurance? Penelope could not tell, but she did know that she had things to say to the man she was still married to. She preceded him into the Hall and kept right on going, up to the suite reserved for the lord and lady of the manor.
Vergilius followed her, his mood impossible to read.
When Penelope reached the sitting room that connected the lord’s bedroom and the lady’s, she could barely contain herself until her husband closed the door.
“We were besieged, weren’t we?” she said. “Bella was the one who told me that you were dallying with Marie Chalfont, though my dear sister-in-law was careful to never make outright accusations. She hinted, she dangled innuendo, and when she saw how upset I became, she started a regular habit of speculation about your amorous recreations.”
“Until you put your foot down and stopped her from bearing more tales.”
Penelope stomped across the carpet, for the first time in her life tempted to smash any handy breakables. “Your mother took up the campaign in the general case. ‘A wife must not be tiresomely demanding. She must overlook her husband’s passing fancies. She must hold her head up at all times.’”
“Tommie took the same tack,” Vergilius said slowly. “He started with, ‘Penelope is a high-strung filly,’ and when I nearly gelded him for comparing you to a nervous horse, he switched to random musings on the patience a husband owes a difficult wife.”
“I have been difficult,” Penelope said. “I am sorry for that, my lord, but I am not sorry you tossed those women from our home.”
Vergilius cocked his head, his expression wary. “Ourhome, Penelope?”
Penelope had put that caution in his eyes, that guarded, weary self-possession, though her folly had been aided by a trio of worthless bounders and some very bad marital luck.
“I found the green ormer. It’s gorgeous.” She’d spent many a passing mile holding the seashell in one hand and the letters in the other.
“Our week by the sea deserved a memento.”
“Our marriage deserved a chance, Vergilius. Our love deserved a chance.”
He came a few steps closer, but remained out of hugging range. “No argument there, my lady. I am still too angry to write to my brother. Tommie might not have hatched up the mischief that was unleashed against us, but neither did he stop it.”
“I think I am calmed down,” Penelope said, “then I recall another comment Bella made, about what a comfort it must be to you to know that the succession is secure. About how ladies cannot resist a handsome man with wealth and a title. I vow I will plant her a facer if ever I should meet her again.”
This was not what Penelope had come here to say, and yet, she wasso angry.
“Say something, Vergilius. I am spouting off like a temperance preacher amid a flock of gin drunks, and you are back to being your silent, lordly self. I already miss the man who joined me for a week by the sea, and I am very much afraid I will miss him for the rest of my life.”
Penelope’s husband studied her for a long, silent moment, then held out his hand. “I’ve missed you too. Let’s repair to the balcony, shall we? Spring can be such a pretty time here at the Hall. I’d forgotten that.”
Penelope let him lead her to the balcony. For the first year of their marriage, they’d practically lived on that balcony. Taken morning tea out there, watched the moon rise, chosen names for the baby…
Penelope took the wicker chair on the shady end, while Vergilius remained standing. He faced her, his hips braced against the railing. He was a strikingly handsome man, but the setting sun also revealed him to be tired.
“I’m glad you came, Penelope, but why are you here?”
This was not the reception of a man who’d made one last, dramatic bid to save his marriage and who was overjoyed to see his errant wife on his doorstep. This was an honest question, and it deserved an honest answer. In the past week, Penelope had learned that such discussions, while painful, could also heal and nourish the spirit.
“I am here because I love you, and because… because I hope you still love me.”
Summerton sank into the other chair. “I do love you, Penelope. I absolutely do. I love you, I admire you, and I will pray for your wellbeing every night so long as there is breath in my body.”
“Is there a ‘but,’ my lord?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Somewhere in the vast wood that flanked the far side of the deer park, a nightingale was anticipating nightfall. A doe grazed along the tree line, and in the flower beds lining the path to the stable, tulips were putting on a colorful display.
The scene was lovely and peaceful, and Penelope would miss it for the rest of her life. “Tell me, Vergilius. We’ve come far in the past week. Please just tell me the truth.”
Gill’s heart beat a slow tattoo, and the moment—just another pretty spring evening in the English countryside—took on solemn significance. Despite having spent hours in a rocking coach, despite being in a long-overdue temper, Penelope looked as serene and sweet as ever. The sunshine turned her hair coppery. An errant breeze teased at wisps that had escaped her chignon.
She was beautiful, but was shehis? “Do you recall telling me that you were afraid, Penelope?”
She nodded. “Of making the biggest mistake of my life.”
