Page 25 of Kiss Me Lady One More Time
A small frame caught her eye. It didn’t hold a painting, but what looked to be an old penny, sealed between two panes of glass. Curious, she turned it over, but could not discern anything special about the coin.
Setting it back, she took up a sketch. It showed two men in tunics, brandishing sticks upon which were mounted massive sets of spreading horns. They faced each other, slightly bent at the waist, as if mimicking the clash of two great bucks.
Placing it carefully back, she noted ink and quills and broken bits of wax and untidy piles of parchment, all indications of a lively correspondence, as well as a stack of earmarked books, scribbled notes and what must be a draft of a scholarly article. She didn’t pry into any of it, though, determined to give him the same privacy he had given her when he found her notebook.
Another painting hung next to the desk. This one was a seascape, a beautiful depiction of coastal cliffs, ocean and sky. She went to stand before it, drinking in the details of the lovely scene.
Walking on, she peeked into a bedroom done up in heavy, masculine furniture and heavy brocades. Trying to avoid lingering at the sight of the bed, she noted another door. Dressing room? Servant’s quarters?
She did not enter to find out. Instead, she went to sit in the chair near the sofa. Hope hadn’t stirred. She leaned over to examine the books stacked close at hand and lifted the one on top. It was a volume of Shakespeare. She touched the well-worn cover and let it fall open in her lap.
The Merchant of Venice. Act II, Scene II. Someone had run a dark circle around one line.
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
Penelope rested a hand upon the page, looking around. This was Sterne’s retreat. The place where he came to be . . . himself. It felt warm and full of color and rife with intriguing hints hidden in the flotsam and jetsam of his life. Tilting her head back, she drank it all in, absorbing the atmosphere and thinking about the man who had created it.
When she straightened, Hope was awake and watching her.
“Did you bring me here purposefully?”
Hope curled into her blanket. “I was truly sick,” she objected. “But I confess, when I realized where we were, I made a concerted effort to hang on until we could get here.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “I’ve been so lucky. But not everyone finds the one that fits.”
“Fits?”
“Yes. The right person is like an interlocking piece of a puzzle. All of your edges and oddities and indentations blend perfectly with his. It’s . . . extraordinary. I’d like to see you find someone like that.”
Penelope just closed her eyes and nodded. It sounded . . . like something every woman would wish for.
“Unfortunately, men are contrary,” Hope said, sitting up a little. “And for some reason, the good ones are often a great deal of trouble. You said you didn’t know what you wanted from Sterne. I thought you should take a moment to contemplate it—and this seemed the perfect place for it.” She cleared her throat. “You might also have a good think about whathewants.” She looked around. “The rooms are cozy, but Sterne is complicated. You’ll have to work at it. And you’ll have to decide—Is he worth it, do you think?”
The outer door was flung abruptly open. Tensford rushed in and went straight to his wife. “Are you well? Has the doctor been summoned?”
She began to reassure him, but Penelope’s attention was all on Sterne, who had followed the earl in. He looked first to Hope, then he quickly turned to her.
His worried gaze ran over her. Seeing that she was fine, he broke into a wide smile of relief. It faded after a moment and his gaze darted about, taking in the picture of her, here in his private space. It came back to her then, and in his stance and expression she could see a bit of awkward awareness, and a great blaze of warmth, tenderness and want that triggered an answering twinge of heat, deep inside her.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I do think so, indeed.”
* * *
Yes.Just there. Stay. Don’t move.
They were the words foremost in his mind as he stared at Miss Munroe, sitting in his favorite chair. At the same time, he stepped forward, his fingers itching to pull her up and propel herout.
The scientific part of his mind was extremely interested in this odd confluence of emotion. The feeling half of him knew he had to put an end to this before he became enamored of the extraordinary rightness of her being here, in his sanctuary.
She stood, setting his Shakespeare aside, as Tensford’s tone lowered and grew more urgent. Sterne watched her approach. The light burrowed into her dark hair even as his heart thundered with each step that brought her closer.
“Let’s give them a bit of privacy,” she whispered as she drew close. He stared down at her until she nudged him. “Mr. Sterne? Can we take a stroll in the passage outside, perhaps?”
“What? Oh, yes.” He glanced toward Tensford, who was leaning perilously close to his wife, and wrenched the door open. Closing it in a gentler fashion, he offered Miss Monroe his arm and steered her away from the stairwell and towards the tall window at the end of the corridor.
The view was of the street below. He peered down. “Has the carriage arrived? We left it behind when it was blocked by an accident in the street. There was no keeping Tensford inside, sitting still.”
