Eventually, Smythe murmured, “You’re right. No sense risking the whole, and I’ve no wish to be caught with the little beggars, either.” He refocused on Grimsby. “That said, I’m not inclined to let a prime job like this lapse—and I’ll warrant you’re not, either, not with Alert’s interest in you.”
Grimsby scowled. “You got that right. He’ll hold me to it no matter what. But with lads only partially trained, you’re bound to lose some—well, that’s why we have so many to begin with, but still.” He nodded at the notice in Smythe’s hand. “I’m thinking you should show him that, just so he can’t later say he didn’t know, or didn’t understand what it means, that we can’t fully train the boys as expected.”
Smythe studied the notice again, then rose. “I’ll do that.” Tucking the notice into his pocket, he looked at Grimsby. “Who knows? Alert may have some idea—or some way of learning—who set the rozzers onto his game.”
Grimsby shrugged; he didn’t get up as Smythe walked out. He listened to Smythe’s heavy footsteps descend the stairs, then heard the shop door shut.
Blowing out a breath, Grimsby wondered if he’d imagined it—Smythe’s unvoiced suggestion that if Alert learned who was stirring up the rozzers, interfering with his game, he would make that person regret it.
Then Grimsby thought of Alert—and decided he wasn’t imagining at all.
An hour later, Penelope settled down to sleep. She closed her eyes. She was in her own bed, in her own room in Calverton House in Mount Street, the same room in which she’d fallen asleep for fully half her life. Yet tonight she felt something was missing.
Something warm, hard, and masculine curving along her back.
She sighed. In lieu of his presence, she let her mind drift back over her blissful—bliss-filled—afternoon. Spending the entire afternoon in bed with Barnaby Adair had proved a very satisfying experience.
A horizon-expanding experience; she’d certainly learned more about desire, about how he evoked hers, about how she responded. And how he responded to her.
Lips spontaneously curving, she reflected that she was learning in leaps and bounds. And what she’d learned…was starting, to her surprise, to reshape her view of life.
She hadn’t anticipated any such thing. Hadn’t considered it possible that desire, the pursuit of it, the study of it, would lead to any fundamental rethinking on her part. Her views had been set in stone, immutable—or so she’d thought. Now…
Despite the stubborn streak that made it difficult to admit a change of mind, inside, in her mind, she had far fewer reservations over considering changing her stance—considering if her life might be better if she did. After her blissful afternoon, it was difficult not to question whether she’d been overhasty in thinking she didn’t, and never would, want some relationship with a man—even a long-term one. She knew she didn’tneedsuch a relationship to be happy and satisfied with her lot, but the question wasn’t whether she needed it, but whether she wanted it. Whether such a relationship might offer benefits sufficient to tempt her to risk it.
Benefits such as the deep-seated contentment that still rode her veins. That was something she’d never felt before, but the glow was so rich, so warming, so addictive, she knew that if the chance offered, she’d opt to keep it in her life.
She didn’t entirely understand its source; it was part physical intimacy, part a different level of sharing, part the joy of being close—that closely joined—with another being with a mind so like her own. A male who understood her far better than her own sex ever had.
He understood her wants and needs—understood her desires, both the physical and intellectual, better than she did. And he seemed to truly revel in exploring those desires, his complementary ones, and her body.
All of which contributed to the pleasure he conjured, the pleasure she felt when she lay in his arms.
All of which was so very much greater than she’d ever imagined could be.
Her initial notion of indulging until she learned all, then calmly walking away, no longer fitted.
She had to reevaluate.
To reconsider her plan and change it. But change it to what? That was the bigger question. How far in altering her position should she go—was it safe, in her best interests, to go?
Did she even have a choice—long-term liaison or marriage?
There were numerous long-term liaisons in the ton, but none involved ladies of her age and social standing. Given who she was, and who he was, any attempt at a long-standing affair was going to be seriously messy, at least until she reached an age where society deemed her truly on the shelf. In her case, that would be at least twenty-eight—four years more.
She tried to imagine breaking their liaison and then waiting four years before resuming it…the notion was risible, on more than one count.
Which left her with one option. Marrying him.
Considering the prospect, she still couldn’t see that marriage per se had anything to recommend it, not to her; the potential risks far outweighed the likely benefits. The reasons for her long-standing rejection remained sound.
However, when she added Barnaby Adair to the scales, the result was far less clear.
Marriage to Barnaby Adair. Could that be her destiny?
For long minutes she stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine, to pose and answer questions, to see how such a marriage might work. They were both considered eccentric already; while a union between them was guaranteed not to conform to the customary pattern, the ton wouldn’t expect it to.
Marriage to Barnaby Adair mightpossiblybe a union she could live within; beinghiswife would most likely not impinge heavily on her freedoms, as being the wife of any other gentleman would.
