Page 65 of To Swoon and to Spar
“He’s always present—he loves his friends dearly, and he loves his sister, too, despite how often they attempt to provoke each other.” Sophie’s mouth curved up slightly, and Jane gave her a small smile of her own. “And they undoubtedly love him, too.”
Jane wondered what it was like to speak of love so confidently, so assured of its existence. Love had never felt like that to her. To her, it was a rare, precious commodity—one that she had convinced herself she didn’t care about. Only now was she coming to realize how obvious its absence was in her life.
“But,” Sophie continued, “I can’t help thinking that he’s always held himself somewhat… apart.”
“Because he was not married?” Jane asked, though she realized immediately that this couldn’t be it; after all, until the previous autumn, there had been only one married couple among Penvale’s set.
“Because he cared about this house more than he cared about anything else,” Sophie corrected. “It makes for a lonely existence, I suspect.”
Jane glanced across the room at her husband, who was lounging on a settee next to Emily and Lord Julian with that peculiar lazy grace of his. He looked relaxed and happy; he’d discarded his jacket at some point, and Jane’s gaze lingered on the breadth of his shoulders. At that moment, he laughed at something Lord Julian had said, his entire face lighting up. He did not look like a man who had much experience with loneliness—even a month earlier, Jane might have been fooled. But she had come to know him better now, and she realized, with a faint rushof surprise, that she knew a side of him that his friends did not. And she knew that Sophie was correct.
She glanced back at Sophie. “You’re very observant,” she said carefully.
Sophie gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve been widowed for a few years now. You find yourself spending a lot of time… watching.” Her voice held a melancholy note. Jane felt a rush of sympathy; she had never been widowed, but she knew all too well the feeling of hiding herself away from the world, reading of it in the pages of her books rather than experiencing it for herself.
But that had changed, she thought. Because of Penvale, and marriage, and all the complicated feelings that had arisen between them, her life had taken a new, nearly unrecognizable shape. And she wasgladof it.
Sophie was still gazing at her with a faint smile, and Jane could not help but think that Diana, perhaps, was not the person she ought to worry about watching her after all.
On the fourth day of the house party, the weather was particularly fine, and they determined that they would all enjoy a picnic and some lawn games.
Jane, being a sensible creature, was naturally horrified by this prospect.
“Lawn games?”she demanded, bursting into Penvale’s dressing room. It was just after breakfast, and everyone had retreated to change into clothing more appropriate for sporting. Jane stopped in her tracks upon discovering Penvale in the process of yanking a shirt over hishead. “Have you started swimming again?” she asked, noticing a hint of sunburn on his shoulders.
Penvale turned to face her, handing his discarded shirt to Snood, who maintained a carefully neutral expression, as if indignant wives with questions about athletic activities burst into his employer’s dressing room on a daily basis.
“I have,” Penvale said distractedly, reaching for the fresh shirt Snood provided and pulling it on. She saw that he’d already changed into the buckskin breeches he usually wore for riding. “What has you upset now?”
What did have her upset? It was difficult to recall, following the sight of a shirtless husband in tight breeches.
“Lawn games!” she said after a distressingly long moment. “I can’t play lawn games!”
Penvale paused in the act of buttoning his waistcoat. “Jane, children can play lawn games.”
“Children can swim, too, as you so helpfully pointed out. I don’t know why you’re so fixated on what fearless, noisy small persons can do, as if that has any bearing on my own abilities.”
Penvale flashed a grin at her. “Is that a request for me to continue our swimming lessons?”
“I did enjoy the view,” she said boldly, “but no.”
Penvale glanced at his valet. “Snood, I can handle the rest myself.” Snood bowed and made a hasty, discreet retreat. When they were alone, Penvale walked slowly toward Jane. She was conscious of the fact that they hadn’t spent much time alone together since his friends had arrived—in the wake of their interlude in her morning room, Penvale had taken to tapping on her bedchamber door most evenings (and Jane, naturally, had greeted him most enthusiastically), but oncethe house party had commenced, they’d been staying up later with their company, often retiring to bed at different times.
He reached out a hand to draw her closer to him. “What’s this about, then?”
Jane opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp reply, but he ducked his head to kiss her before she could say anything. Her arms twined around his neck of their own volition. By the time he pulled back, she was blinking dazedly. “Were you about to say something?” he inquired solicitously.
Jane mustered the wherewithal to glare at him; perversely, this made him smile.
She loved his smiles.
After a moment, her scowl faded, and she did something that, a few months earlier, she never would have considered: She answered him honestly. “I’m going to make a fool of myself,” she said softly, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
“You won’t.” He ducked his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “You’ve been doing splendidly so far.”
“Ha.”
“I’m serious,” he said, and when she met his eyes, she saw that he was. “You and Diana have yet to spill any blood—”
