ack in his arms.
“That”—her voice shook, but, eyes locked with his, she went on—“is why I’m leaving for Wallingham in the morning.”
He couldn’t argue. The last ten minutes had amply demonstrated how desperately urgent and necessary it was that she quit his roof.
She wrenched away—had to—he couldn’t, yet, get his arms to willingly let her go. He had to battle just to let her step away, to force himself to lose the feel of her body against his and not react—not grab her and pull her back.
Watching him, still struggling to breathe, she seemed to sense his fraught state; she swung on her heel and walked, albeit unsteadily, away.
He watched her go, watched her turn into the corridor; unmoving in the shadows, he listened to her footsteps fade, then heard the distant thud of her bedchamber door. Only then did he manage to drag in a full breath, to fill his chest, to feel some semblance of sanity return.
Never before had he felt like that, not with any other woman, not even with her long ago.
Eventually, when the thunder in his veins had subsided enough for him to hear himself think, he stirred, his body once more his own. Nevertheless, his strongest impulse was to follow her to her room. To her bed, or anywhere else she wished.
With one soft, succinct curse, he turned and headed for his apartments.
Tomorrow she’d be at Wallingham.
Tomorrow, thank God, would be another day.
Despite her earnest expectations, Penny wasn’t ready to leave the Abbey until late the next morning.
She’d had difficulty falling asleep, then had slept in. She had breakfast on a tray in her room the better to avoid Charles.
Her behavior the previous night had been a revelation. Until she’d lost her temper and stopped holding everything back, she hadn’t appreciated just how much she’d been concealing, bottled up inside her. Until that moment, she hadn’t fully understood how much she still felt for him, or more specifically the nature of what she felt for him.
That last had been a revelation indeed.
It was more, far more in every way, than before, and now he was home, spending more time close to her than he ever had, her feelings only seemed to be growing, burgeoning and extending in ways she hadn’t foreseen.
On the one hand she was appalled, on the other…fascinated.
Just as well she was going back to Wallingham.
Crunching on her toast, she replayed that last interlude; she couldn’t tell whether he’d seen what she had. In the past, he hadn’t been at all perceptive where she was concerned; she hoped and suspected that would still be the case. For all she knew, women habitually threw themselves at him; if he hadn’t realized that with her, such an act meant a great deal more, well and good. Bringing her unexpected feelings to his attention was the last thing she needed. That his attention in a sexual sense had fixed on her anyway was no surprise. It always had; it seemed it always would.
Her thoughts circled to her principal reason for returning to Wallingham—Nicholas, the investigation, and now Gimby’s murder. Her determination to do her part was set in stone; sober, committed, she drained her teacup and rose to dress.
It was only as she left her room properly gowned in her riding habit that she recalled Charles had planned to go that morning to report Gimby’s death to Lord Culver, the nearest magistrate. If she hurried, she might get away before he returned.
She whisked through the gallery and was pattering down the stairs before she looked ahead.
Charles stood in the center of the hall watching her rapid descent. She slowed. He was dressed in riding jacket, breeches, and boots; his hair was windblown, as if he’d just come in. So much for an easy escape.
He dismissed Filchett, with whom he’d been talking, and came to meet her as she stepped off the stairs. “Come into the library.”
Together they walked the few steps to the library door. He held it for her, and she went in, walking to one of the chairs before the fire. She turned and coolly faced him. She doubted he’d mention their interlude last night. If he didn’t, she certainly wouldn’t; the less he dwelled on it, the better.
When he waved her to sit, she did. He took the chair opposite.
“I’ve seen Culver. He’ll do all that’s necessary, but the crux of the matter—the reason behind Gimby’s death—is the subject of my investigation, so beyond managing the formalities, Culver won’t be further involved.”
Charles locked gazes with Penny. “I’ve sent a messenger to London with a report of Gimby’s death and a request that the possibility of the traffic through here being incoming rather than outgoing be thoroughly checked.”
Something flickered behind her eyes. “You don’t believe it was.”
“I don’t at this stage know what to believe. I’ve been in this business too long to jump to conclusions that may not prove warranted.”