Page 35 of To Swoon and to Spar
“Hmmm,” she said with great skepticism, but before she could opine at length about his need for spectacles or something else similarly lowering, he continued.
“I can see perfectly well enough to close a window, Jane.”
“How did it open, then?” she asked, a trace of unease evident in her voice. Penvale was once again alert. He could not say what it was in her manner that raised his suspicions, beyond the fact that she was not a terribly good liar. She was skilled enough at hiding her true feelings behind her customary ill humor, that much was true, but proper lying—or, in this case, putting on a show of a woman frightened by a supernatural event—was another matter entirely.
“Who can say?” he said solemnly, then immediately regretted it as her eyes narrowed upon his in suspicion. He had to tread carefully here; he couldn’t very well go from being an avowed skeptic to seemingto believe in ghosts. He had to lull her into a false sense of security, and then, when her guard was lowered, he would strike.
He felt like he was trying to capture an extremely shy cat—although it must be noted that the cat he had the most recent firsthand experience with (an extremely scrawny, fluffy kitten that Emily and Belfry had adopted, and which seemed to be constantly lurking underfoot whenever he visited their home on Duke Street) was not the slightest bit shy.
“It just seems odd, is all,” he amended hastily. “I know I latched it properly. It’s… strange.”
There. He thought that would do—he didn’t sound so rattled that he would draw her attention to his uncharacteristic unease; perhaps just credulous enough that she would begin to think him an easy mark.
Happily, this strategy seemed to work, for her eyes widened once again and she nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Very strange,” she agreed.
“Perhaps, then,” he said slowly, leaning in closer to her; was he imagining it, or did her breath hitch slightly as he did so? For his part, he almost immediately realized that this was a mistake: This close, he could smell the citrus scent of her skin. It must be her soap, he thought distractedly; this, too, was a mistake, because he was immediately flooded with thoughts of Jane bathing, Jane not wearing any of those high-necked nightgowns—Jane not wearing anything at all, in fact. And these sorts of thoughts were not at all helpful at the moment.
“Yes?” she asked, the slightest breathless edge to her voice.
“Perhaps I should sleep in your room tonight,” he murmured.
“You—what?”
“I just worry, you see,” he explained, his tone calm and rational,“that the ghost may appear in your bedroom next, and I wouldn’t wish to leave you alone to face it.” He was so close to her now that her eyes occupied most of his field of vision. That meant he was too close—too close for anything other than kissing her.
And clearly, he wasn’t going to dothat.
But the thought was unexpectedly compelling. And while Penvale certainly wasn’t a monk, it had been a long time since he had found a woman truly compelling. He hadn’t had time or mental energy in the past few years, so focused on his pursuit of Trethwick Abbey that women had become something of an afterthought, an occasional pleasure but nothing he’d allowed himself to devote too much attention to. Diana had often asked him why he didn’t simply marry an heiress with a fortune large enough to allow him to purchase the estate—marriage to a wealthy man had been her method of escape from their aunt and uncle, after all—but he’d been stubbornly determined to do this himself, on his own terms.
And yet here he was, with a wife he’d been more or less forced to wed.
Jane was baffling, and maddening, and didn’t even seem tolikehim the majority of the time, and yet he found himself all at once… interested.
Which was why it was probably for the best that she said, “I don’t want you to sleep in my room.” He should, he knew, breathe a sigh of relief at this rebuttal, but before he could do so—and before he could interrogate why, exactly, he didn’t feel like doing so at all—she added, “But I’ll sleep in your room.”
“Will you?”
“I believe your bed is larger than mine,” Jane said with a sniff, “and I already know how dreadful you are to share a bed with.”
Well, that was sufficient to kill any semblance of romance or seduction about the proceedings. That was of little import; as long as he had her in his bed, he could keep an eye on her.
And if she knew anything about what the bloody hell was happening in this house, he would very soon find out.
Chapter Twelve
This was an unfortunate development, but Jane was determined not to allow it to ruin her plans.
Jane was a suspicious person by nature, and she could not help wondering at Penvale’s sudden solicitous concern for her fragile nerves. He’d never seemed terribly worried about her before—had she been that convincing earlier? She hadn’t wanted to protest too much at his suggestion, though—surely a young, innocent wife uninvolved in staging elaborate, supposedly supernatural mishaps at a manor house would indeed be frightened by these strange events and would welcome the calm, soothing presence of her husband in her bed at night, and his ability to exert his manly strength and frighten away any spirits.
Or something.
So it was that Jane found herself tucked into Penvale’s enormous bed, which smelled of him in a disconcertingly pleasant way (whatsoapdid he use? Did all men smell like this?) and which was almost irritatingly comfortable. More comfortable than her own bed, in fact. How was this possible? The staff didn’t evenlikehim.
Did they?
She eyed the bedspread with suspicion. Was it fluffier than hers? She gave it a furtive pat and wondered if she would sound truly deranged should she inquire as to where the bed linens had come from so that she might procure a set from the same shop. She then realized that Penvale surely did not have the faintest notion of the origin of his sheets.
In any case, here she was, preparing to share a bed with her husband, all in order to keep his suspicions at bay. At least she’d had the sense to quickly suggest that they share his bed rather than hers, since his presence in his own bedchamber was a key element to the success of the plans Jane had hastily enacted for tonight. The window blowing open had gone perfectly—Snood, Penvale’s valet, must have been impressively sneaky if he’d managed to unlatch it without Penvale noticing.
