Page 57 of To Swoon and to Spar
In the meantime, Penvale had busied himself in his study with his steward at all hours of the day, sometimes late into the night. Jane had continued gathering books for the village library—she went into St. Anne’s twice a week now. She’d never set a firm schedule, but she’d begun bringing a basket on Tuesdays and Fridays, and the villagers had come to expect her visits. Now, when she was spotted with her basket, it was no time at all before someone was inviting her in to take a seat and perhaps have a cup of tea, what about a biscuit?, and before Janeknew it, she had seen her way into the parlors of half the cottages in the village.
And it was all rather… nice.
Jane could scarcely believe it when she realized that she was enjoying herself.She,Jane Spencer, actually making polite conversation, smiling—well, perhaps not alwayssmiling,but at the very least not scowling. She’d spent so much time dreading these sorts of interactions that she’d never realized they could be rather enjoyable. Any conversation could be enjoyable, she found, when she was discussing books.
And so she kept busy with this pet project of hers, and Penvale kept himself busy with the estate, and they passed their days at a polite distance, and Jane would have begun to wonder if she hadimaginedtheir kiss, and their argument, and everything that had passed between them, if not for a certain tension that seemed to spread between them whenever they were in the same room. Jane did not know how to describe it as anything other than an awareness—she had never felt so acutely conscious of the exact distance of another person’s body from her own. And she knew that he felt it, too—it was evident in every line of his body whenever she passed slightly too close to him in the hallway or brushed against his seat in passing.
She found herself watching Penvale carefully whenever they did occupy the same space—she wished she could crack his head open and read its contents like a book. It was far easier to understand the thoughts and motivations of characters in her novels when they were all laid out plainly on the page. An actual husband composed of flesh and blood and an at times maddeningly inscrutable face was another matter entirely.
And Janedidwish to understand him. It was rather lowering, after years of relying on no one but herself, to realize how much someone else intrigued her.
But now she had a more pressing concern: In a few days’ time, she would be expected to play hostess to Penvale’s set of polished London friends. Rather than contemplate this terrifying fact until she curled up on her side in despair, she was passing her afternoon safely out of the way of the servants’ preparations by quietly reading in her morning room, one hand holding up her book, the other maintaining a steady supply of ginger biscuits to her mouth. It was as she was reaching for her fourth—fifth? sixth?—biscuit that she happened to glance up and spot it: the largest spider she’d ever seen in her entire life, sitting approximately three inches away from the biscuit she was reaching for.
Jane dropped her book and her biscuit and let out a screech.
She had become somewhat practiced at various noises of late; moans, wails, even screams were all within her repertoire. Butthisnoise was something else entirely.
The sound of her heartbeat pounding in her chest drowned out everything else, which was why she did not hear the telltale sound of running footsteps and was therefore badly startled once again when the door to the room banged open with a crash.
Acting on some long-dormant instinct she hadn’t known she possessed, Jane seized her book, leaped to her feet, whirled around, flung it at her attacker—
And hit Penvale squarely in the forehead.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed out in relief, lifting her hand to her chest, where her heart was still racing.
“Jesus Christ!” he howled, rubbing the red mark on his foreheadthat the book had left. Jane leaned forward—good heavens, was a lump already forming?
“I think that might leave a bruise,” she said.
“I should bloody well think so,” he said indignantly.
“How was I supposed to know it was you?” she asked defensively. “You practically tore the door off its hinges—”
“Because I was in rather a hurry, you see,” he said, stalking toward her. “Which seemed a reasonable reaction to the scream I heard. It sounded like you were being murdered.”
Jane was beginning to feel a bit sheepish. “Well. Right. That was very considerate of you.”
Penvale paused, regarding her with great suspicion in the wake of this uncharacteristically conciliatory statement.
Jane nodded at the spider, which had begun making its way in a leisurely fashion across the ottoman atop which the biscuit plate was perched. “It just startled me, is all.”
Penvale’s eyes followed the direction of her nod, and he pressed his lips together as if trying not to smile. “Screaming about a spider, Jane? When you’ve lived among ghosts and bloody christening gowns without batting an eyelash?”
“You sound almost nostalgic. Are you missing the ghost already?” she asked him.
“Funnily enough, I’ve found I like getting a full night’s sleep,” he said, leaning closer to her as he spoke, using all his height to tower over her in a way that should have been irritating but which Jane found distressingly attractive. She took a couple of steps backward, attempting to put some much needed space between them. She found herself staring at his throat and the top of his chest, and it was all, frankly, quite distracting. (Werethroatsalluring now?)
“Since you’re feeling well rested, perhaps you’d like to kill the spider?” she suggested innocently.
His gaze didn’t leave hers. “I find I’d rather use my newfound energy for other pursuits.” He continued to step toward her, and she continued to back up until she felt the press of the wall. He reached an arm up to brace on the wall above her head and proceeded tolean.
Leaning! A truly dirty trick. Everyone knew that gentlemen were particularly alluring when they wereleaning.
“Though, if it’s going to terrify you to the point of screaming, perhaps I ought to dispose of it for you.” He ducked his head; this close, she could see faint purple shadows under his eyes, despite his claim of being well rested. Had he, too, she wondered, lost sleep over the past few nights, recalling the heat of his gaze on her breasts through her translucent chemise? Or the warmth of his palm against her lips? She felt her heart kick up a rapid pace in her chest.
“Or,” he said slowly, his head lowering as he spoke, “perhaps Ishouldn’tdo that. I think I’d like to hear you scream.” His breath was warm against her cheek.
At which Jane—who, while still mildly irritated and a number of other emotions, was, after all, only human—reached up and pulled his mouth down to hers.
