A Wedding In Springtime(45)

“Nonsense, I appreciate your candor. I would rather deal with whatever business is at hand in a straightforward manner.” Penelope smoothed her skirts as if brushing away the disturbing revelations.

Marchford smiled. “You are not what I expected, and I rarely am surprised by people.”

Penelope took this as a compliment. “Thank you, I am glad I exceeded your expectations.” Though she guessed they were dreadfully low from the start.

“So why not take the money? Ten thousand pounds would be a fortune to you.”

“There are few for whom it would not be a fortune.”

“True. So why not take it?” asked Marchford.

“My grandmama told me, if something was too good to be true, find another way to get what you want.”

“I have heard that saying a little differently.”

“My grandmother would not be considered good ton, but she was always amusing. And educational.”

Marchford stood and poured himself a drink of some amber liquid from a carafe on a side table. “I think I’m going to need a drink. Shall I call for some Madeira for you?”

“No, thank you. I generally limit myself to tea and lemonade.”

“Another piece of grandmama’s advice?”

Penelope smiled. “Grandma Moira drank naught but whiskey.”

Marchford raised his eyebrows.

“She was a Scot.”

“Say no more. So let me see, where were we? Oh yes, you were about to tell me what it is you want.”

“Was I?” asked Pen. She knew what she wanted, but it would only work if he came to the conclusion himself.

“I am almost certain of it. Perhaps you have passed up one opportunity with the eye to another?” Marchford took a sip without breaking his gaze on her.

“Would another opportunity be forthcoming? I seem to be at liberty to hear proposals today.” Penelope folded her hands in her lap.

“I appreciate the information you provided today. I do, at times, employ people to keep their eyes and ears open and tell me what they see and hear.”

“I do pride myself on being observant; however, I work for your grandmother. I would not like to have any conflicts with my loyalty to her.”

“Perhaps my interest in your observations is limited to situations that do not involve my grandmother. I doubt I would like to know what schemes she is concocting; in fact, I know I do not.”

“I feel sure you are right.”

“So she is plotting revenge?” Marchford’s tone revealed more anxiety at that prospect than he had shown all day.

“I defer to your better knowledge in regards to your relations,” said Pen, dodging the question.

Marchford chuckled and took a sip of his drink. “You are a worthy adversary, Miss Rose. I shall see to it that your wages will reflect our new arrangement. Now, all that is left is to settle on the price.”

“Oh no, sir,” said Pen, rising from her seat. “A lady never haggles with a gentleman over price. Quite unseemly. You decide what you think is appropriate, and I will know how greatly you value my contribution to your work by the amount of your decision.”

Marchford rose and gave her a small bow. “Please do not take this the wrong way, but if you were a man, I’d hire you as my personal secretary immediately.”

“Alas, there is nothing I can do about the disappointment of my gender, but I will try to serve you in some small way.”

“Miss Rose, there is nothing about you that I find a disappointment.” He gazed at her intently, his dark eyes unreadable.

Up until this moment, Penelope had felt perfectly comfortable, but now heat slithered up the back of her neck and she swallowed compulsively. She acknowledged his comment with a quick curtsy and fled the room for safer ground.





Fifteen





Genie could not stop smiling. She had worn a smile since she returned home from her walk. She had smiled through her bath, smiled through dinner, smiled through cards, and even when her aunt chastised her for smiling, she smiled back her apology. She awoke to a sunny spring day with the smile still on her face.

Everything around her was like a dream; the only thing real was Grant. He liked her. He held her. He kissed her. He really did—he kissed her. She had dreamed of being kissed someday. She did not count Ernie Walters, a precocious ten-year-old who caught her under the mistletoe.

Mr. Grant definitely counted. The way he held her, caressing her back, shot strange sensations through her. He was strong; she could feel the muscles beneath his perfectly tailored coat. But the best part about him was the way he smelled. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It drew her to him—she wanted him, needed him. He smelled like pine and musk mixed with cheroot and whiskey, which Genie recognized sounded wretched, but on him was intoxicating.