The Betrayal of the Blood Lily

Chapter Thirty-Two

“Would you like to travel on to Mysore with us? A change of scene might do you good.” Charlotte perched on the end of a settee, her hands wrapped around a cup of chocolate. Unlike Penelope, Charlotte had remembered to wear her sun hat. In the light from the windows, her skin was as porcelain pure as it had been in a Norfolk winter. She looked at Penelope with evident concern. “Somewhere away.”

“You are probably right,” Penelope said wearily. “But — ”

Charlotte looked at her over the rim of her cup. “But?”

Penelope tilted her cup from side to side, watching as the congealed chocolate left a wash of dark sediment in its wake. She drank her chocolate without sugar, strong, dark, and bitter. But today, she didn’t really feel like drinking it. It was wasteful, she knew, cavalierly tossing aside so dearly bought a luxury. But she was good at tossing things aside. She had practically made a profession of it. Friends, husband, lover. Some clung anyway, despite her best efforts, like the tracks of grainy chocolate adhering to the bowl of the porcelain cup.

Alex hadn’t.

Since they had ridden back to the Residency with Cleave three days before, she had scarcely spoken to him. In the hullabaloo surrounding the so-called Marigold’s capture and death, Penelope had been discreetly pushed to the side. According to the official version, she had been prostrate in her bed at the Residency, overcome with grief like the good little widow that she was. It made Penelope want to gnash her teeth. Unfortunately, tooth gnashing was about the only outlet open to her. There was no way she could voice any of the highly sarcastic things she was dying to say without ruining the story Alex had gone to such trouble to concoct — a story that neatly wrote her out of the entire narrative.

She had never felt so insignificant or so powerless in her life, and that counted her days with Freddy. At least, then, she had been able to kick up a fuss, create a scandal, anything to draw attention to herself, however briefly. But, now, all her old weapons were blunted.

That was the problem with caring. One starting worrying about consequences and what people thought of one and all sorts of other irritating things. It made her feel uncertain. Shy, even. She, who had never felt shy in her life. Even as an infant, she had bawled louder than any other baby in the county.

Perhaps Charlotte was right. Perhaps she did need to get away. She could amuse herself in Mysore by scandalizing Charlotte and picking fights with her duke. There would be more officers with whom to flirt, gardens in which to conduct assignations, an endless round of the same old dissipation, without purpose or meaning.

Without Alex.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself, gulping down the remains of her tepid chocolate in one joyless gulp.

She was the one who had set the terms. She was the one who had kept him at a distance. She had done her best to push him aside in those dark days after Freddy’s death. And even before that, she had been the one who refused to speak of the future, to acknowledge anything other than the pleasures of the moment. She had made her bed, and she would have to lie on it.

Alone.

“I’m just not sure I’m ready to go,” she said brusquely, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. “And you and your duke are far too happy. It’s irritating. I don’t think I could endure that for six months at a time.”

Without bothering to put down her chocolate cup, Charlotte reached out to squeeze Penelope’s hand. Her hand was as small and soft as a child’s, with none of the calluses that marked Penelope’s palms. “You will be, too.” She sucked absentmindedly at the droplets of chocolate that had landed on the back of her other hand, adding, with typical Charlotte honesty, “Eventually.”

Penelope levered herself up from the settee, shaking her hand free from Charlotte’s. “I don’t think I can ever be as happy as you until I can become as good as you. And that,” she added definitively, turning away from the settee, “is never going to happen.”

“I don’t think you need to be good to be lovable,” said Charlotte, tilting her head thoughtfully to one side. “You just need to be you.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope dryly.

Charlotte colored. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was that you’re lovely just as you are.” Rallying, she added defiantly, “And Captain Reid clearly thinks so, too.”

“Who said anything about Captain Reid?” said Penelope, stretching languorously, as though she hadn’t a care in the world, when what she really wanted to do was grab Charlotte’s hand and demand to know whether Charlotte really thought he thought she was lovely and, if so, why. With details. In triplicate.

“You did,” said Charlotte, with inimitable Charlotte logic. “By not saying anything at all.”

“I haven’t mentioned Bonaparte either,” said Penelope sarcastically. “Would you care to read anything into that?”

“Why not just tell him you love him?” suggested Charlotte.

“Bonaparte?”

Charlotte cast her a reproachful look. “Captain Reid.”

Penelope turned to give Charlotte her best derisive stare. And froze. Behind Charlotte, framed in the doorway, stood a man in ill-cut clothes with a suntanned face and close-cut black hair.

“Penelope?” There was a rustling noise as Charlotte twisted on the settee, followed by a faint “Oh.”

Penelope had heard the expression “speak of the devil” before, but she had never thought that it would work quite that literally. The bitter chocolate congealed in an undigested lump in the back of her throat, blocking any possibility of speech. That was probably a good thing. Penelope didn’t trust herself to speak judiciously. Not right now.

Of course, right now what she most wanted to do was murder Charlotte.

After eleven years of friendship, Charlotte had developed a very sound sense of self-preservation where Penelope was concerned.

“I’m just going to go for a walk now,” said Charlotte a little too loudly as she scurried towards the door. “A very long walk.”

Penelope was going to kill Charlotte. Slowly. Painfully. Just as soon as she got back from her very long walk. If Charlotte had any sense, it would be a very bloody long walk indeed. Preferably all the way to the Outer Hebrides. On foot.

Alex moved politely to the side to let her pass, somehow managing to nod in greeting without ever moving his eyes from Penelope. That unbroken stare was distinctly unnerving.

“Captain Reid.” Charlotte bobbed a hasty curtsy and whisked herself around the door frame.

A long, drawn-out “Bye-eee” trailed down the hallway after her.

If Charlotte didn’t watch out, that was going to be her very last bye-eee, thought Penelope grimly.

It was calming to concentrate on murdering Charlotte. It removed at least part of her mind from Alex, who might or might not have heard that very unfortunate little conversation about certain emotions that one might or might not be feeling.

“Penelope.” Alex took a slow step into the room.

Something had to be done. A diversion. A preemptive strike. Anything to diffuse the dreadful tension that suffused the room like strong tea.

“Hello,” Penelope croaked.

As a preemptive strike, it lacked a certain amount of force.

Alex continued his slow progress into the room, his face giving nothing away. He wasn’t terribly good at dissembling, but he did a brilliant imitation of a granite boulder.

Squaring her shoulders, Penelope took strength from the reminder that, Charlotte’s romanticism aside, anything that had been between them was long since over. They were sophisticated adults, prepared to deal with each other in a sophisticated way — and why was he staring at her feet?

Oh. There were drops of brown goo plopping slowly onto her slippers.

Penelope hastily set her empty chocolate cup down on a teak table and drew in a deep, bracing breath through her nose.

“Captain Reid,” she said forbiddingly. Had she said that already? She couldn’t remember. But it certainly staved off any discussion of love.

His lips twisted up on one side. “So formal?” he said.

Damn. He had heard, hadn’t he? Damn, damn, damn. “You might as well be a stranger,” she snapped. “I’ve scarcely seen you for days.”

That had been a tactical error. She sounded . . . jealous. Clingy. In short, like a woman in love.

But her former lover didn’t press his advantage. Instead, apropos of nothing, he announced, “I’ve been made District Commissioner for a parcel of the ceded territories.”

“Well, huzzah for you,” said Penelope rudely. And since that might have been a bit too churlish, even for her, she added grudgingly, “I’m sure no one could have deserved it more.”

“Thank you.” He was still watching her — like a worm on a hook, thought Penelope unpleasantly. Couldn’t he just squish her and put her out of her misery already? No, this was Alex. He would shy from squishing. He would try to do it humanely, and in the process hurt her far worse. She didn’t want to be disposed of humanely. She would rather be able to resent him after.

“So you’ll be leaving, then, I take it?” she said tartly. “You must be eager to brush the dust of Hyderabad off your heels.”

“Some dust more than others,” he said.

Here it came, thought Penelope. The thank-you-for-a-lovely-interlude. The you-were-highly-diverting-while-it-lasted. The it-was-wonderful-but-it’s-over. Drop me a letter once every three years, and have a nice life.

“Dust is dust,” said Penelope brusquely. “The same the world over. If you’ve come to say good-bye, say it.”

But he didn’t.

“Your friend seemed to think you have something to tell me,” he said.

So he had heard that. Damn, damn, damn. Damn bloody Charlotte with her irksome habit of blurting out the first thing to come to her lips. Damn her for putting herself in this position in the first place. But she hadn’t entirely. She hadn’t spoken of love. She had never spoken of love. That was all Charlotte.

Even if Charlotte did happen to be right.

“Why should I?” Penelope said shrilly, feeling like a drowning man clutching for a rope.

Or her pride, as the case might be.

She had been far calmer when she had been within inches of drowning in the Krishna. That had been as nothing compared to this, compared to the clutching, clawing panic she felt now.

Penelope abruptly turned her back on him, feigning interest in the window, although she couldn’t have said with any assurance what lay beyond the glass.

“I have nothing to say,” she said in a tight little voice. “If you have, I wish you would just say it and get it over with. I’m sure we both have other things to do this afternoon.”

Alex’s hands grasped her by the shoulders and turned her bodily around to face him. Up close, his face wasn’t expressionless at all. The expression on display appeared to be intense irritation.

“Damn it, Penelope,” he said harshly. “Don’t play games. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

Alex just looked at her. He didn’t need to say anything. Just the look was enough.

Penelope jerked her head back defiantly. “What is it to you?”

Alex choked on an incredulous laugh. “Don’t you know by now?” he demanded. “If you don’t, you’re the only one who doesn’t.”

“Now who’s playing games?” shot back Penelope, but it came out decidedly less vigorous than she had intended it.

Alex met her gaze without hesitation. “No games,” he said. “No evasions. If you don’t know by now that I have a severe case of being-in-love with you, you’re the only damn one in the compound.”

“‘A severe case,’ ” Penelope mocked, a rash surge of hope lending venom to her tongue. “Like the measles?”

“An apt comparison,” he agreed, but Penelope could see the little twitch at the corners of his lips, and felt her heart lift absurdly at the sight of it. “The symptoms are roughly the same. Distraction, irritability, rash . . .”

Penelope pushed at his chest with both hands. But she didn’t push very hard. “I suppose I should be grateful that you’re not comparing me to bubonic plague!”

“Are you planning to prove fatal?”

Penelope looked at him levelly. “I have done. I did do. For Freddy.”

“I’m not Freddy,” he said.

“No,” agreed Penelope. “You’re not.”

She meant it as a compliment. Or, at least, as much of a compliment as she was capable of paying.

Alex’s eyelids flickered, and his gaze shifted away from her. Grimly, he said, “I know I have less to offer you than he did. I have no title. I have no prospects other than those I earn for myself.”

Penelope looked at him in surprise. “Did you think I would scorn you for that?”

“Not scorn. No.” For once, the oh-so-competent Captain Reid appeared to be at a loss. He looked at her wordlessly for a moment, weighing his words. Haltingly, he said, “But it’s not what you’re used to.”

“I didn’t like what I was used to,” said Penelope bluntly. “I was hopeless in London. Etiquette irritates me, cards bore me, and being told what to do makes me want to go out and do exactly the opposite.”

“I had rather noticed that,” Alex said, with such tenderness that Penelope found it necessary to look away. “I seem to have made that mistake myself once or twice.”

“At least you learned,” said Penelope huskily. “Some people never do.”

“Not enough,” he said, watching her in a way that made her stomach do a curious little flip. “A lifetime would hardly be long enough to learn everything I want to know about you.”

“A lifetime,” managed Penelope, wondering if she had just heard correctly, “is an awfully long time.”

Alex’s eyes were very warm. “I don’t think I would be bored. Do you?”

Penelope tried to swallow, and found that her throat didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

That had sounded remarkably like a proposal. Not that she had terribly much to measure it against. Wryly, Penelope recalled the circumstances of her last proposal. After an hour closeted with the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale, Freddy had staggered out of the Duchess’s lair, looking rather more ruffled than when he had entered, shrugged, and said, “Looks like we’re to make a match of it.”

To which Penelope had replied, in tones of deepest sarcasm, “Oh, goody.”

Then Freddy had taken a long, restorative swig from the flask in his waistcoat pocket.

Penelope remembered resenting that he hadn’t offered to share.

There was no need for any extraneous inebriate in this circumstance; the way Alex was looking at her was dizzying enough. It was dizzying to think that someone — not just someone, but Alex — could want her for real, for always, even knowing all the things he knew. He had seen her hasty, judgmental, imperious, and even dripping with river water. There wasn’t much of each other they hadn’t seen. A month-long journey tended to create interesting conditions of proximity. It might be possible to hide one’s true nature in a drawing room courtship, but never in a roadside camp’s, riding together day in and day out, through rain and mud and ludicrous heat. He had seen everything that Freddy deplored in her, and he wanted her anyway.

It was too good to be true. Therefore, it couldn’t be true.

Could it?

“If you feel that way,” Penelope said carefully, “why have you been hiding all week? I may not be an expert on the topic, but avoidance and undying devotion seldom go hand in hand.”

A slight tinge of color rose under Alex’s tan. “How could I possibly say anything to you as matters stood then? Between Fiske and Jack, I was skirting the edge of outlawry. Even once the charges were dropped, what did I have to offer? But then, when the word about the District Commission came through this morning . . .”

He trailed off as Penelope lifted a hand to gently touch his cheek.

“Idiot,” said Penelope lovingly. “I would have gone with you without. I rather fancied life as an outlaw.”

“Not if you’d tried it you wouldn’t,” said Alex, but there was a smile fighting to push its way through. “Two weeks and you’d be longing for a proper bed.”

“As I recall,” said Penelope, letting her eyes drop languidly to his lips, “we did very well without a proper bed once before. I didn’t feel the lack of it. Did you?”

Memory sizzled between them, as tangible as touch. It didn’t take terribly much to remember just what that touch had felt like, nearly a week’s worth of touches, without a single bed in sight. The way he looked at her made her clothes feel several sizes too tight.

There might not be a bed in the room, but there was a very roomy settee. . . .

Blinking, Penelope looked away first.

“I’m not as good a liar as that,” said Alex, with a wry grin that encompassed a whole host of very memorable memories. “But this wouldn’t be a week. This would be — ”

“A lifetime?”

Alex tilted his head in acknowledgment of the point. “At least a few years.”

Penelope trailed her fingers along his shirtfront. Now that she knew where they stood, she felt considerably more like herself. Enough like herself to take great pleasure in tormenting him. “So much for forever,” she said sadly.

“A few years in that particular district,” Alex clarified, catching her hand. He ruined it entirely, however, by twining his fingers through hers, a gesture that entirely belied the substance of what he was trying to say. “Those few years could start to feel like a very long time. The station will be out in the middle of nowhere. There won’t be any other ladies there — ”

“Good!” said Penelope heartily, startling a laugh out of Alex.

Sobering, he cautioned, “It will be difficult.”

Penelope looked him in the eye. “So am I.”

With a lopsided grin, Alex lifted his free hand to smooth back the hair from her brow. “Not to me,” he said. But then he spoiled it by adding, “But I can’t lie to you. It will be isolated. And lonely.”

Penelope raised both eyebrows. “Keep this up and I’ll begin to doubt that you really want me there.”

“I do,” said Alex. “More than I can say. I would go down on one knee if I thought it would make any difference. But I wouldn’t want to lure you away with me under false pretenses.”

“Isolation, outlawry, and lack of prospects.” Penelope ticked each off on her fingers. “If this is your version of luring, you’re sadly out of practice.”

“I haven’t much experience at it,” he admitted.

Penelope grinned a rogue’s grin. “Fortunately,” she said dulcetly, “I have.”

Linking her arms around his neck, she proceeded to provide a stunning sample of her usual luring technique, although after the first few minutes, it became entirely unclear who was luring whom.

“Does that mean you’re coming with me?” he asked breathlessly.

Penelope considered it. “Lure me again,” she demanded.

And he did.