He slanted a look at her over his shoulder, and why had the Almighty made Vergilius Summers equally attractive when viewed from any perspective? A raging injustice, that.
“Why did you make up a taradiddle, my lady?”
Because I could not tell you honestly that I was leaving you. “Easier, I suppose, than explaining why I’d want to be alone.” At this time of year.
“It’s still hard, isn’t it?” He considered the sea as he posed his question. “I expect it always will be.”
“But not as terrible a grief as it once was.” These things happen. Penelope had nearly voiced the platitude that had driven her to thundering her way through Beethoven finales at the piano and poring over seating arrangements by the hour.
“You don’t believe that.” Summerton spoke quietly, and Penelope joined him at the window, the better to see his expression.
She resisted a wayward urge to slip an arm around his waist. She’d tried making overtures. Hugging Vergilius when he was all remote and broody was like hugging an obelisk. Granite was more inclined to cuddle than his lordship if he was preoccupied with his own concerns.
“I don’t believe it,” Penelope said, rather than argue for form’s sake. They’d passed through an arguing phase many years ago. She hadn’t cared for it at all. “I can leave you in peace to finish your nap. I will resume my constitutional and inquire at the inn about getting you a room for the night.”
“I’ve slept enough for now. Might I join you on this constitutional?”
What was he up to? “I am truly here alone, my lord. The last thing I’d seek in this location is an adulterous assignation.” The last thing she’d seek, period.
“Likewise, I’m sure. Let me get my boots, and we can take this discussion to the out of doors.”
Penelope did not want to take this discussion anywhere, but perhaps fate had served her a good turn after all this time. Sneaking off to the coast under false colors had been intended to avoid an honest explanation to Summerton of her plans.
To avoid a final confrontation, even when confrontation was the more honorable course. Maybe here, at the Siren’s Retreat, Penelope could find the courage to speak truthfully to her husband. They could not go on as they had been, and the time had come for them both to admit that.
His lordship pulled on his boots and donned his jacket. “I am not in the first stare, I know, but part of what I like about this place is its sense of informality. One feels welcome here, not on display for the benefit of the gossips.”
“One does. You have dust…” Penelope swatted gently at his cravat, though the result was far from pristine. Too late she realized that her fussing was wifely, and she’d lost the habit of being wifely with his lordship.
This cottage, and the memories it held, were to blame for her lapse.
His lordship caught her hand, placed it on his arm, and swept a gesture toward the door. “The splendors of the sea await us, my lady. Let’s hunt for pretty shells and get our toes wet.”
He smiled as he extended that invitation, and when he smiled, Lord Summerton was powerfully attractive—also when he did not smile. Penelope decided to enjoy that attractiveness for just a little while on the beach, because tonight at supper was soon enough to inform her husband that their marriage—long over in truth—was past due to be officially interred.
I want us to start afresh. Gill mentally tried on those words as he and Penelope wound down the trail to the beach. Except that starting afresh implied erasing the past ten years, reducing them to a wrong turn on an unfamiliar bridle path.
I want us to try harder. Seeing the fatigue in Penelope’s eyes and the sadness, Gill knew she’d been trying as hard as he had to keep their dealings civil. They were to have supper together, after all, something that hadn’t happened outside of formal entertainments for years.
Inspiration struck as they gained the wide sandy beach. “I want to find you a pretty shell,” Gill said. “Another ormer to go with the one I found last time.”
“You were lucky last time,” Penelope said, opening her parasol. “Though it was a very pretty shell.”
“You no longer have it?” That hurt, more than it should.
“I do, somewhere. Bella suggested I give it to the jewelers to fashion all that nacre into a little box. I put the shell away rather than leave it out to tempt her.”
“Because Bella might think to surprise you by taking the initiative with the jewelers. She excels at taking the initiative.” Probably a matter of survival for a mother of seven, but not one of the lady’s more likable qualities.
The tide was out, which was perfect for shell hunting. Gill perched on a handy rock and pulled off his boots, then his stockings. Penelope watched him, her expression pensive.
“Does the sight of my bare feet offend?” Gill asked, draping his stockings over his boots and adding his jacket to the pile. Because he was wearing his riding breeches, his ankles and calves were also on display.
Penelope looked away, far out to sea. “The sight of your bare feet tempts me, though sand on the toes has a way of ending up everywhere.”
“You did not come all this way merely to gaze upon the ocean, my lady. Come wading with me. You were about to indulge in that very pleasure when you spotted me on the path.”
“The water will be frigid at this time of year.”
How many reasons could she concoct to avoid even the smallest detour from strict propriety?
“Not frigid,” Gill said. “Refreshing. Hand me your parasol, and I promise not to peek.”
As a new husband, he’d peeked. He’d casually strolled in and out of his wife’s boudoir, handled her clothing, and handled her. She’d handled him, too, but they’d lost the knack. In recent years, Tommie had advised Gill to just set up a mistress and be done with it.
But Gill hadn’t set up a mistress. He hadn’t marched into Penelope’s bedroom, and Penelope hadn’t marched into Gill’s bedroom either.
Penelope surrendered her parasol and dealt with her half boots and stockings. “The sand is warm,” she said, wiggling bare toes. “But the water will be shockingly cold.”
She hiked her skirts a few inches, left the dry sand, and let that water wash around her ankles. “And to think people immerse themselves entirely,” she said. “It’s a wonder they don’t catch an ague on the spot.”
“They sea-bathe later in the year,” Gill replied, wading past her. “God, this feels good.” Revitalizing, and not simply because the water was cold. The ocean had energy, movement, power… He’d forgotten that. Forgotten the pleasure of communing with the reality of living water.
Penelope stood in the shallows, the brim of her straw hat flapping in the breeze, while she held her bunched hems around her calves. She might have been her much younger self, except for the way she watched him.
“Find me a shell, my lady. A pretty shell to commemorate this lovely day.”
To his surprise, Penelope began searching the damp sand, and soon they were comparing finds—a dog whelk was colorful but chipped, and several tellins were judged too small. Penelope decided to keep a painted top of a rosy hue, while Gill tossed every candidate back into the foaming surf.