A Tryst by the Sea
The Siren’s Retreat Novella Quartet—Book One
Grace Burrowes
Grace Burrowes Publishing
A Tryst by the Sea
The Siren’s Retreat Novella Quartet — Book One
Copyright © 2022 by Grace Burrowes
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
To my dear readers
An Affair by the Sea—Excerpt
Never a Duke—Excerpt
Dedication
To those who fear the flame has died
Chapter One
Vergilius George Santander Zeus Summers, Viscount Summerton, rose at dawn two weeks before the hated date. He dressed with his usual care—and without the aid of a valet—and made his way to the breakfast parlor.
He’d observed the same ritual every morning for most of the past nine years, and when spring perennially trudged into view, he told himself, This year will be different. Earlier in the marriage, his litany had been: Today will be different.
By the third year of wedded torment, he’d taken to assuring himself, Next month will be different. In the subsequent seasons as husband to his viscountess, Gill had learned patience, self-restraint, steadfastness, and a half dozen other manly virtues—belatedly, he admitted—but he had not yet learned to stop hoping.
He strode into the breakfast parlor, doing his best to exude purpose and confidence. Her ladyship, exuding gracious indifference to her spouse, sat at the far end of the table.
Gill’s viscountess, his wife, and hostess presided over her end of the table looking as serene and lovely as any Greek goddess. Penelope had been a pretty girl, a diamond, an Incomparable, et cetera and so forth. She had matured from pretty to alluring in the ten bewildering years of their marriage.
An irony, that. When Gill had agreed to court her, he’d thought her an uncomplicated young lady, easy to look upon and easy to like, though in need of some self-confidence. She barely glanced at him now.
On the three occasions when Gill had made courting calls on his then-fiancée—meaning he’d sat in the garden with Penelope while an army of aunties had chaperoned from the nearby terrace—she’d worn her hair in a fussy concoction of ringlets and braids. He’d spent most of his brief visits wondering how her hair stayed up.
Such were the intellectual depths he’d plumbed as a very young man.
After speaking her vows, Penelope had gradually put aside the fancy styles and the fancy gowns. The result was feminine perfection planed down to the essentials. A tidy golden chignon, blue eyes full of intelligence rather than uncertainty, and a way of moving that was so quietly graceful, Gill was riveted simply watching his wife cross a room.
Her ladyship no longer tittered or giggled. She smiled graciously, and impecunious bachelors started composing bad poetry.
She no longer fretted over seating arrangements. She issued her invitations, and they were invariably accepted.
She no longer issued Gill invitations to her bedroom, though he knew he could present himself there at any point and receive a civil if puzzled welcome.
Penelope also no longer cried, as far as Gill knew, and neither did he.
“My lord, good morning.”
He bowed over her proffered hand. “Good day to you, my lady. Might I have the business pages?”
She passed him the requisite section of the newspaper, which Gill tucked under his arm.
No footman stood sentry duty by the buffet. Penelope had issued that decree three years ago, and Gill had been relieved to no longer have a witness to the morning drill. He helped himself to eggs and bacon—a rack of toast already waited at the head of the table—and took his seat eight feet and three universes of marital civility from his wife.
“Any news worth repeating?” he asked, which was his way of inviting conversation on Saturdays. Friday’s question had to do with what Penelope’s friends might be getting up to. Monday’s question dealt with social events at which Penelope would need Gill to appear.
She had escorts, flirts, and gallants by the dozen, a state of affairs toward which Gill had learned to manufacture benevolent indifference. Penelope would never play him false, of that he was certain. They had neither heir nor spare in their nursery—nor, at the present rate, would they ever—and thus the viscountess’s behavior remained above reproach.
In the past several years, Gill’s behavior had become rather monkish as well. He was plagued with desire, of course. What man in his prime was immune to animal spirits? But that desire focused on one, unattainable objective, and professional substitutes, no matter how skilled, would simply make the whole situation more complicated and sad.
Which ought not to have been possible.
Penelope resumed studying her newspaper. She had the ability to memorize the contents of the Society pages in five minutes, so Gill flattered himself that she used the paper as an excuse to linger over her morning tea.
Hope springs eternal, and all that.
“Town is filling up,” she said. “A bit early this year, perhaps because of the mild weather. Did the kitchen give you enough butter?”
That was, as best Gill had established the pattern, her Thursday question to him, though today was Saturday.
“Quite enough, thank you. What do we hear from my dear mama? Will she be gracing us with her presence soon?” An exploratory volley, because Gill was growing not desperate, but rather, determined.
Penelope took a sip of tea while perusing the Times. “I suspect she will, and thus I thought I’d fortify myself with a week or so at Summerton Hall before the whirlwind commences. Lady Stanthorpe is lending me her carriage so the traveling coach can remain with you here in Town.”
What the bloody hell? Gill buttered his toast with every appearance of calm. “Shall I escort you to the Hall?”
“No need to trouble yourself. I should be back in Town in a fortnight or so.”
“We have no social engagements to tend to in the next two weeks?”
The hated date lay two weeks hence, and as troubled as their marriage was, as empty and hollow as it had become, they had at least faced that date together.
Penelope turned a page. “I thought a respite was in order before the Season officially arrives. Do you mind, my lord?”