He watched her until she’d merged with that circle, then went off to join one of his own, allowing the other men present to pose the questions they wished to ask on the current state of the police force. His father was in town, but attending a cabinet dinner tonight; he would drop by later, but until then, Barnaby was in large measure his surrogate. If he wanted to slip away with Penelope and keep his absence unnoticed, he needed to satisfy all queries first.
While he moved from group to group, applying himself to that task, another part of his mind tried to think ahead, to plan how tonight’s engagement should go.
Unfortunately, while his goal—to marry her—was now clear, and his route to achieving that—convincing her that marrying him would have more benefits than risks—obvious, that very route dictated that, in large measure, he had to let her direct their interaction.
He needed her, of her own accord, to reach the conclusion that she had nothing to fear in marrying him, that as her husband he wouldn’t curtail her independence, let alone seek to control her. If he was lucky, once she’d made up her mind she would act and propose; that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Given she’d instigated their liaison, it seemed only fair that she be the one to bring it to its appropriate end.
To attain that ultimate prize, however, he had to show himself willing to indulge her in allowing her to take the dominant role. Once again, he had to let her lead, and relegate himself to following.
The concept wasn’t one that, until her, he’d ever contemplated, and not even his sophisticated self approved of it, much less that more primitive side that, when it came to her, dominated in his mind.
However…as they went into dinner, and he found himself seated on the opposite side of the table to her, he realized he was simply going to have to grit his teeth and bear it.
Grit his teeth and remind himself of the ultimate benefits.
The dinner was an extended one, with much conversation during courses, but eventually the last was removed. As was common at such gatherings, the men did not remain at the table but followed the ladies back to the drawing room, where port and brandy were served to lubricate the vocal cords for further discussion.
Shaking his head at a footman offering him brandy, Barnaby made his way to Penelope’s side. By the time he reached her, she’d dismissed the gentleman who’d partnered her at the table. As was customary, the lamps had been turned low, allowing shadows to cloak sections of the room; often the discussions held in this later stage were sensitive, and those undertaking them preferred to keep their expressions masked from potential observers.
The shadow Penelope had chosen for her own hid the expectant anticipation glowing in her eyes from all but him.
For which he was grateful. Lady Carnegie was a close friend of his mother’s and very far from blind.
Taking Penelope’s hand, he set it on his sleeve. “Where’s this parlor?”
Penelope gestured to a side door. “We can reach it through there.”
He steered her the few paces to the door, concealed by the angle of a minor wall in the irregularly shaped room. Opening the door, he ushered her through, then followed, shutting it behind him.
The corridor was unlit, but enough moonlight seeped in through uncurtained windows to allow them to see. As she led the way down it, Penelope’s instincts prodded, increasingly insistent; something wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t quite believable.
Halfway down the corridor, she halted and turned to face the looming presence at her heels.
Through the soft gloom, she studied his face, confirming, affirming, defining what, exactly, didn’t add up.
Studying her face in return, he arched one brow in arrogant query.
Underscoring her instincts’ accuracy.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being far too…amenableover this. You are not the sort to follow meekly at any lady’s heels.”
A second ticked by, then he said, “When the lady is heading in the direction I wish to go, there’s little point in arguing over who’s in the lead.”
She frowned. After a moment, she asked, “Does that mean that if I choose to go in a direction you don’t wish to, you won’t follow?”
The line of his lips subtly altered, more a warning than a smile. “No—it means that if you attempt to go in a direction that has no value, I’ll…redirect you.”
Brows rising, she held his gaze. “Redirectme?”
He met her gaze steadily, and made no reply. Leaving her no longer so certain she was, as she’d assumed, in charge of their affair, controlling it by defining when they would meet, and what aspects she was interested in pursuing.
If heallowedher to be in charge…did that count as being in charge? Especially if he could, at any time, rescind his follower status and take control?
She blinked, no longer so sure where they stood—her or him—in relation to each other.
After a moment more of searching his blue eyes, and gaining no further insight, she waved down the corridor. “And tonight?”
His lips curved a fraction more; graceful yet intent, he inclined his head. “Lead on.”
