Page 9 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 9

P enny lay atop her bed, curled slightly on her side, the pale moonlight casting a silvery sheen across her coverlet. The night was quiet but for the distant creak of the house settling and the soft rustle of wind against the windowpane. She had been peeking out at the full moon for what must have been an hour, her eyes burning with unshed tears and exhaustion.

It had been a full day since Thomas had come home with Alexander's blood on his clothes, and still, she knew nothing more. She had pressed him again in the morning, her voice measured, her questions careful.

"How was Lord Bainbridge hurt?" she'd asked.

Thomas had scowled. "Why are you asking me this again?"

"Because you refused to say the first time," she had replied, trying to keep the sharpness from her tone.

"He's not your concern, Penelope."

The words had cut deeper than she'd expected. She had wanted to yell at him.

Not her concern? The man who had once kissed her as if she were made of starlight and fire? The man who had looked at her with a kind of longing that had made her feel brave?

Not her concern?

She had clenched her hands in her lap and asked if Thomas had seen him again. His lips had twisted in frustration before he'd muttered, "No. His butler turned me away. Said the earl's not receiving visitors."

Not receiving visitors. Not even Thomas .

Penny closed her eyes and exhaled shakily. Today, she'd been forced to smile through a picnic in Hyde Park with the Duke of Merrick, with her mother fluttering alongside them in carefully polite intervals. Penny had learned several facts: the duke was eight and forty; his eldest daughter was seventeen and soon to make her debut; his youngest son was nine and adored horses.

When Penny had, without thinking, remarked that she was only three years older than his daughter, her mother had given her a discreet but vicious pinch on the inside of her arm. The bruise bloomed there now, a dark purple mark on her fair skin. Penny traced the edges of it absently, wondering how something so small could ache so much.

The duke had only chuckled and gone on to discuss the weather.

Charming, yes.

Respectable, certainly.

But her heart remained numb, and the entire day had felt like she was walking through someone else's life—a life chosen for her, built by duty and held together by silence.

The soft patter of rain began to fall, whispering against the windows and tiles like a lullaby meant for someone else. Penny turned her face to the glass and whispered, "Are you well, Alexander?"

She didn't expect an answer. Only the steady rhythm of her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She touched the cold pane, her fingers ghosting over it like a caress.

Did he know that she still thought of him?

Did he dream of her the way she sometimes dreamed of him—his mouth at her ear, his hands on her skin, his voice low and wicked and tender?

Did he still hate her?

She let the tears fall then, silently, one by one, swallowed by the shadows of the night. She would cry only here, only now. And then she would rise tomorrow and smile prettily and nod when her mother spoke of wedding colors and marriage settlements.

But in the quiet between rain and moonlight, she clutched her pillow tighter and whispered his name again, softer this time.

"Alexander, please be well."

Penny only lasted a few hours.

The clock in the hallway had just struck midnight. It had taken her almost two hours to craft her plan, and she peered at her reflection in the mirror, thinking she looked like a perfectly respectable maid. She had tried to steal a maid's uniform and had been caught—then bribed the young girl with her entire week's allowance.

The dress was a dark, serviceable gown, plain and rather unflattering. Her hair was pinned in a neat chignon, and she wore a maid's cap and sturdy boots. Taking a deep breath, she walked silently through the house, her parasol gripped in her hand like a sword and slipped out the servant's entrance.

Almost thirty minutes later, she was in the side gardens of Alexander's townhouse, heart pounding as she searched for an open window. Relief swelled in her chest when one yielded beneath her touch. It appeared to be the music room. She eased herself inside, the soft thud of her boots on the carpet the only sound.

Her daring still felt inconceivable—but she pressed onward.

The house was silent, cloaked in darkness and slumber. She crept up the stairs, hazarding a guess about the location of the master bedroom based on the layout of her own home.

At last, she opened a door, her breath catching as she saw him. Alexander lay on the bed, still as death but breathing. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest undid something inside her. She had not realized how tightly she'd been holding herself together until that moment. Her knees almost buckled.

What would she say to him?

Even now, she could not explain the reckless desire that had pushed her to steal away from her home and come to see him.

"I can smell you," came his unexpectedly hoarse drawl. "Sun-ripe peach and a hint of lavender. So sharp and wonderful. I cannot tell if you are here or my fevered imagination."

"You are fevered," she cried, rushing forward, the low firelight flickering over his skin. He was naked beneath the sheets, the covers drawn only to his hips. Her cheeks burned, but she did not turn away.

"Ah, you are real," he murmured, his voice husky and gentle—but beneath that warmth, something cold lurked. Indifferent. Detached. "Why are you here, Penny?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her gaze locked on the bruises shadowing his chest and arms, the raw cut above his brow, and the swelling along his cheekbone. "Who did this?" she whispered fiercely.

He didn't answer. His gaze dropped to her clenched fists, then lifted to her face—flat, unreadable. "Leave."

She flinched as if he'd struck her. "No."

His jaw tightened. "You have one minute to remove yourself from this room," he said, his voice clipped and deadly. "Or I will toss you on your arse outside."

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She spun on her heel and stormed from the room, anger and fear warring inside her. But she did not leave the townhouse. Penny marched down the stairs, navigating the unfamiliar halls until she found the servants' quarters. Light spilled from the doorway of the kitchen, voices murmuring low and tired. She stepped in, and chairs scraped against the stone floor as the butler and a few footmen surged to their feet, stunned.

"Who are you?" the butler asked, eyes wide.

"I am a friend of Lord Bainbridge. Has a physician seen your lord?" she asked crisply, her voice cutting through the stunned silence.

The butler hesitated. "No, my lady."

She saw it then—the curl of worry around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.

"Send for Dr. Grant at once," she commanded. "Tell him it is urgent. I expect him here within the hour." Penny quickly gave him her family's physician's address.

"Yes, my lady." He gave a swift bow and turned to dispatch the footman.

"I need clean linen and a basin of water."

"Yes, my lady," a maid said, still looking uncertain.

Penny turned and climbed the stairs again, fury propelling her forward. She paused at the threshold of Alexander's chamber. He sat on the edge of the bed now, his head bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his temple. Sweat glistened along the line of his shoulders.

Her breath caught again—this time not in shock but in heartbreak.

Scars. Dozens of them, some faint, others cruel and jagged, crisscrossed his back like a brutal map of pain. Old wounds. Not the kind earned in a fight—but something more personal. More savage.

He glanced over his shoulder and scowled. "Why are you still here?"

She closed the door behind her with a soft click . "The physician will be here soon."

"I told you to leave."

"And I refused," she said, lifting her chin. "You don't get to order me about like a servant."

His mouth curled in a small self-ridiculing smile. "I am half-naked, feverish, and in pain," he bit out. "And you are standing there in a damned maid's uniform, staring at me like you've forgotten how much you hate me."

She faltered. "I never hated you."

"You made your choice. You let me believe I meant nothing. That means you do not get to barge into my home and pretend to be someone important to me." His tone was sharp, but his voice was quieter now, rough with something unspoken.

"I did what I had to," she whispered. "For my family."

"You did what you chose," he said flatly. "Don't mistake it."

She crossed the room, each step deliberate, ignoring how her heart slammed against her ribs.

"You've been beaten," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to remain steady. "You're burning with fever. You've locked your doors and turned away everyone who cares. And yet you think I'm the one acting irrationally?"

His expression didn't change. He simply watched her, cold, exhausted and distant. But there was something—some flicker deep in those storm-gray eyes—that told her he wasn't as unaffected as he pretended.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

He didn't answer. Not with words. He simply looked away, the set of his jaw a silent, stubborn, prideful wall. A maid brought up the linen and basin, setting them down on a small table before hurrying away.

Penny moved to the washbasin, filled a cloth with cool water, and returned to his side. He didn't stop her as she knelt and pressed the cloth gently to his brow.

She said nothing more, and neither did he. And though his eyes closed, and his lips pressed into a firm line, Alexander did not tell her to leave again.

Penny dipped the cloth again and again, wringing out the cool water before trailing it gently along the heated skin of his chest, his arms, and his brow. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed it along the slope of his shoulder, over his collarbone, down the ridges of muscle that should not have borne so many bruises. Her breath caught when she encountered another gash—raw, newly formed.

She pressed the cloth to it, her throat tightening.

And then, the tears came. Quietly. Unwillingly. They slipped down her cheeks like traitors, warm and shaming.

"Why do you cry?" he demanded, his voice low and gruff, a tremor beneath the harshness.

"I'm not crying," she refuted softly, though tears continued to fall.

His lips curled in a mirthless smile. "You are." He inhaled sharply, the effort pained. "And for what? This was something I chose."

Penny froze, the cloth in her hand growing warm from his skin. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said tightly, eyes narrowing, "that I've been fighting in the boxing underworld of London for the last year. Bare-knuckle, brutal, illegal fights. The bruises, the cuts, the bloody mouths and cracked ribs—they come with the territory."

She stared at him in disbelief, her heart giving a painful twist.

"The choice was mine," he said coldly. "So stop your foolish sobbing. It's wasted on me."

Her hand trembled as she pressed the cloth to his side, then slowly drew it back. Her eyes drifted to his back again. To those jagged, old scars, faded but unmistakably cruel.

"And those?" she whispered. "Are they from fighting, too?"

His body stilled. The air in the room changed.

"No," he said after a long moment, his voice flat and clipped. His gaze turned to ice. "They are not."

Before she could speak again, a firm knock sounded at the door.

"Dr. Grant, my lord," came the butler's voice.

Penny stood abruptly, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin. "I'll wait outside," she said, her voice barely more than a breath.

She didn't wait for his answer. She stepped out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind her, and leaned against the wall. One hand went to her chest as if she could somehow still the furious aching of her heart.

Her body felt cold, her borrowed maid's dress suddenly suffocating. Tears pricked anew, but she blinked them back, tilting her head to rest against the wood paneling behind her. The faint murmur of the physician's voice reached her ears, too low to decipher, but she was grateful for the sound. Grateful that he was being tended.

And still, all she could think of was the look in his eyes when he spoke of pain—and the sharpness of his voice when he told her to stop crying.

She swallowed hard.

Why was it that wanting someone could feel so much like bleeding?