Page 21 of Claimed by Her Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #6)

Chapter Twenty-One

“P enelope, you adore your books,” Daphne said some days later as they wandered through one of London’s largest bookshops.

Penelope merely nodded, her gaze sweeping over the shop below her as she leaned on the railing on the mezzanine of the second floor. Behind her, more books towered, and all she could think about was the very first time Edmund had touched her. A library, and a bookcase against her back, and the salacious thrill of being caught hastening their kisses.

“I care because you cannot see everything that I see… I meant every word I said on that balcony, Penelope. I see you, and nothing else exists. I see you, and you are all I can think about. I see you, and it drives me to insanity every minute… and I fight to hold myself back from claiming you in some form .”

Edmund’s words from that day so long ago drifted back to her with a hard clench of her heart. She turned her face away from the shop below, towards the window, but the smell of books was everywhere, reminding her of him, of that first moment of giving in to one another.

Did she regret it?

Her chest was hollow even as her heart beat uselessly.

“Pen?” Daphne pushed. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Penelope answered.

But even to her own ears, she sounded very not all right. She was not, and she had not found the words to tell her friend that they had been right to caution her. Except they had cautioned against his violence and danger, not the heartbreak he had wrought upon her.

“You do not seem?—”

Penelope straightened up, smiling too brightly. “I am well, and everything is fine, Daph. Do not worry yourself. Come on, we ought to join the others.”

“Lady Arabella will be joining us,” Daphne said.

Penelope’s heart gave a horrible lurch, and she nodded. She could only hope that the young lady did not mention Edmund.

“Are you sure you do not want to buy a book? I know it cheers you up.”

“I do not need cheering up,” she lied. “I am well.”

“So you have said… quite a bit.”

Penelope blanched, but she couldn’t maintain her smile, so she turned her face away, giving in to the numbness as it spread and spread, drowning her. It kept her under even as she and Daphne made their way to The Golden Handle, a renowned, lovely tea shop that Mary had discovered with Stephen.

But as soon as she saw her friends—as soon as she saw Cecilia’s knowing smirk, knowing she would hunt for gossip, and Mary’s slow smile as if she, too, expected gossip—her stomach lurched. And then there was Arabella, her hair dark like Edmund’s, and her face kind and soft, as Penelope always hoped her own face was.

Penelope could not get rid of the image of the little girl she had pictured several days ago. The strong desire that she could be more than what she was—a spinster who was not even wanted by the man who had taken her maidenhood, who had made a bed know her shape with how often they coupled and touched and writhed together.

Her feelings drowned in that numbness, and she let them, and she forced herself to greet her friends as though nothing was wrong, for she could not find the words. They all clogged her throat, but she knew that Daphne knew.

Daphne knew something was amiss, and she would tell them soon—tell them that there was an ache in her chest that didn’t go away no matter how many times she tried to soothe it with her hand. That there was a crack running through her that had formed the moment Edmund’s voice turned colder. That she thought she knew what heartbreak felt like without ever being officially involved with Edmund.

“You sought pleasure, as did I. That is all we can and will have.”

Penelope busied herself with stirring her tea that she didn’t recall ordering. Cecilia’s keen eyes watched her, but for once her friend did not make a spectacle. Her pressed lips indicated that Penelope would not be able to stay silent for very long.

Their tea passed in a blur, one where Penelope stared down at the floral print on her teacup, and when they were done, she found herself approaching Arabella.

Or perhaps Arabella approached her. Everything was hollow, blurry.

“He has not told me the details,” Arabella murmured as their three friends went ahead. “But he has informed me that whatever you two had was over.”

Penelope collected herself and forced a smile that ached. “Yes, well, we had nothing. E-Edmund made it quite clear that there was nothing.”

“I do not believe that,” Arabella whispered. “Not from what I saw?—”

Penelope shook her head. She couldn’t bear to hear that.

In a tight voice, she said, “We ought to catch up to them.” And then she hurried after their friends, with Arabella slowly following.

* * *

“Benjamin, either say what you came to say or get out.”

Edmund’s voice cut across his study, and he spoke without ever looking up as he tore through the report about Laurel Kerry’s death. Haddon had ignored his request to speak with him. Edmund should have simply tracked him down, but he had other pressing matters—mainly discovering Reed’s whereabouts to plan his confrontation. He should have done it already. He should already be out there, storming the Poseidon warehouse, demanding?—

“I will not get out,” Benjamin snapped. “I have come to check on you because your sister is scared and worried sick, and you have shut her out as well as me. What good was it to escape from the Caribbean and return to her if you do not?—”

“ Get out! ” Edmund shouted, slamming his palm on his desk. He jabbed his quill at Benjamin. “Leave me be. Do not come here to accuse me.”

“Arabella sought me out this morning and begged me to talk some sense into you. You have not been sleeping? She hears you throughout the night. She says you make the walls restless with your lack of sleep. And Heavens, when did you last have a meal? You look worse than when you returned?—”

“Say another word about my return or my escape and I will throw you out myself.”

“Edmund, I come to you as a concerned cousin, that is all. I am not here to make accusations or judge you. Arabella suspects this has something to do with Lady Penelope and how dour she has been looking this past week.”

At the mention of Penelope’s name, Edmund saw red. He had to forget about her, and he had been doing a damn good job of it.

“Do not test me, Cousin, for I will not hold myself back. I am in a foul mood.”

“Go on, then,” Benjamin dared. “Strike me. Attack me. Do whatever it is to drag yourself out of lunacy. Let’s go to the boxing club in the city. Let’s spar if it means you will allow yourself to recognize that support is right here.”

Edmund said nothing, only going back to his writing.

Benjamin let out a harsh, frustrated breath and stormed up to his desk. He tore the page from Edmund’s grasp and waved it in the air.

“There is more to life than this, Cousin!” he shouted.

“I am sure there is for men who were not kidnapped, held against their will, and forced to kill and fight their way to survival.” Edmund’s voice dripped with pure ice, and he knew he did not hate his cousin nor resent him for his concern, but he could not handle it right now.

Not with Penelope’s plea for him to let her in ringing in his ears. The exhaustion numbed him, and he craved that. The fatigue and hunger wore him down from the memory of how he had responded that day, wounded and knowing he was unworthy of all that she was.

“And you think that depriving yourself of food or rest is the way to go about it? It may have honed you once, but that was to the point of torture, when you were forced to be a man who did James Logan’s bidding. Do not fall into those old patterns, for you are not that man anymore. You are a brother, a cousin, a lover to?—”

“Do not speak her name.” Edmund stood up, not caring for a plan anymore.

“Talk to me about what happened, for I know something did.”

But Edmund didn’t. He just crossed the study to the door. He needed to move—to keep going, keep walking, keep thinking, stay awake.

“Do not follow me tonight, unless you want to meet an early death.”

“Is that a threat?” Benjamin sounded hurt.

Edmund spared him a moment and shook his head. “It is a warning against who I will meet. I will not have you within his sight.”

With that, he left the study and snapped at a footman to ready Altair within five minutes.

“But Your Grace, Altair has already been pushed?—”

“ Now ,” he snapped, his patience too thin to endure anything but moving , for if he stopped, he would see the tears Penelope held back, hear the crack in her voice as she asked him if he wanted more—if they could be more. He would see her walking away, and he would think how he had been a fool for not chasing after her.

Outside, he snatched Altair’s reins and hoisted himself up into the saddle. He rode hard to the docks. He would wait all day and night if that was what it took. Anything to forget Penelope Clarkin.