He shoved his hair away from his face, wincing as his hand bounced against his head wound. “Tell her I’ll join her directly.”
“Dorothea Pennington?” Miranda said, aghast. “What in the world has that mean-hearted piece of work got to do with anything? I thought you were…were involved with Lady Carstairs.”
He wanted to whirl around and snap like an angry cur, but he kept his temper in check, saying the one thing he knew would horrify her. “Your sources are nowhere near as reliable as you seem to think. I intend to marry Miss Pennington, of course.”
29
By the time he managed a hasty wash and changed his ruined clothes Benedick had kept Miss Pennington waiting a goodly amount of time. Miranda had flatly refused to entertain her while he made himself halfway presentable, so he’d sent Richmond in with sugar cakes and tea while he stripped, washed, changed and took one horrified look at himself in the mirror.
The cut above his eyebrow was absurdly small to have caused so much blood, and it did little to distract from his bloodshot eyes and the circles beneath them. He needed to be shaved as well, but there was hardly enough time to manage that. Richmond usually did the honors, and if he attempted it himself, he’d probably cut his throat.
Which, in retrospect, wouldn’t be a bad thing.
Well, if they were to be married, she’d be seeing him unshaven, across the sheets of the marriage bed. He shuddered, instinctively, and paused outside the door to the blue salon. He shouldn’t have had Richmond put her in there. He’d spent too much time with Charity Carstairs in that room.
Though presumably he’d be sharing his bedroom, his bed with Miss Pennington. The same room and bed he’d shared with Melisande. If anything would lay her ghost it would be Dorothea’s pinched face.
Straightening himself, he opened the door.
Miss Pennington was sitting by the fire, ramrod straight, her gloved hands folded perfectly in her lap, her face set in impatient lines. It was a handsome face, he realized with surprise. Good bones, clear skin, symmetrical, with wide-set eyes and a Cupid’s bow of a mouth. If she were a little softer, she might have been considered a beauty. Perhaps he could soften her.
She turned to look at him, rising, and there was disapproval in those flinty eyes. “You hardly look ready to receive guests, Rohan,” she observed.
“Indeed, I must ask your pardon. I decided I had kept you waiting for too long and hoped you would forgive me my dishabille.”
She didn’t look like she was about to forgive anything, but then she smiled, mechanically. “Of course, dear sir.” She sank back down, allowing him to take the chair he so badly needed.
“And to what do I owe the extreme and unexpected honor of your visit, Miss Pennington?” He had no idea whether it was his hangover or the blow on his head, but he could fathom no reason at all why she’d be here.
“It’s dreadfully forward of me, I know, but I hadn’t seen you in a while, and I was concerned. I wanted to assure myself that you were quite well.”
He hoped the hunted feeling didn’t show on his face. She was like a prize spaniel in search of its prey. Except that he liked spaniels.
“Quite well, Miss Pennington. I beg your pardon—I’ve been dealing with a pressing family matter.” He glanced around, desperate to change the topic. “But you haven’t touched your tea. Allow me to ring for fresh…”
“No, thank you, Rohan. I have a strong dislike of sweets and consider afternoon tea to be a weakness of the constitution.”
He couldn’t help it. The plate was piled high with the sweet cakes that Melisande adored. Left alone with them, she probably wouldn’t have left a crumb. There was something so…reassuring about a woman with an honest appetite.
He wiped the thought from his mind. Dorothea Pennington wasn’t improving his headache, and the sooner she departed the better. “So true,” he said vaguely, knowing he would give his right arm for a cup of even lukewarm tea. “And how may I assist you, Miss Pennington?”
Her posture was so rigidly correct that he would have said it impossible, but she seemed to draw herself up even more. “May I be frank, Lord Rohan?”
“I wish you would, my dear Miss Pennington.”
“I think we should be married.”
It was a good thing he wasn’t drinking tea—he would have choked. As it was he kept his expression