meant to call her “Pen” in public, and certainly not in front of Cameron.
Perhaps he needed to be drunk around her for proper conversation. He drained his glass in a convulsive swallow. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make again.
“Well, chin up,” James said, finishing the rest of his glass as well and then turning toward the door. “You’ll have another chance to humiliate yourself soon enough. Time to join the fairer sex in the drawing room.”
“Aye,” Cameron snickered as they made their way into the room filled with feminine laughter. “Perhaps you should offer to show her your fairy kittens, next.”
“Fairy k-kittens?” Pen said, looking up with sharp interest from the settee.
William’s attention arrowed in on her as though loosened from a bow. The sight of her felt as though someone had kicked him, and not in entirely pleasant places. Tonight she looked a proper lady, blond hair piled high, a gown of lovely blue silk highlighting her delicate curves. Curves he’d recently held against him.
And dear God, she had little Lizzie on her lap.
Though the dinner had been formal, the tone in the drawing room was decidedly less so. William’s mother, the countess, had insisted on seeing her granddaughter, and so James’s daughter had been fetched down from the nursery and was being passed around the drawing room and properly fussed over. At five months old, Lizzie was a sweet thing, with blue eyes and pink cheeks she’d inherited from Georgette, and a pair of healthy lungs that she’d no doubt acquired from James.
There were times when William could not help but battle a bit of envy at his brother’s good fortune. Seeing this child he loved sitting on Pen’s lap made that envy shift into something more defined.
Want. He wanted what his brother had. A wife, a child. Happiness.
Looking around, he realized he was the only male in the room who didn’t have those essential things. James had found Georgette. Even David Cameron—who probably didn’t deserve anything beyond a swift kick in the bollocks—had found love, the gentle swell of his wife’s belly demonstrating his own state of contentedness.
And with a startled bit of insight, William realized as he looked at Penelope Tolbertson holding this small, blond-haired baby on her lap, he might find those things with this woman. It wasn’t even an outrageous thought. He was thirty-five years old. The expectations of his future title demanded he marry, after all, and Moraig wasn’t exactly brimming with potential mates.
Why not Penelope Tolbertson? She was beautiful. She was intelligent.
She was here .
And there was no denying she made his heart race, quite happily so.
She was also still waiting for his answer. He cleared his throat, hoping the port had worked its magic. “Er . . . ’tis just a story about kittens. For wee Lizzie.” He gestured to his niece, who began to bounce happily on Pen’s lap at the sound of her name. “She’s too small for cattle, aye?”
Pen smiled up at him, her blue eyes crinkling about the edges, and he wanted to dive into that smile and never let go. No one he’d met in Moraig or beyond had ever stirred his fancy in quite this way. But as he mulled over this startling, tempting new idea, he was also struck by an almost painful awareness of how impossible it was.
She lived in London and was clearly committed to her position as a reporter. He was devoted to Moraig and had organized the games because he wanted to ensure the prosperity of the town where he intended to spend his life.
He needed her to return to London with a story to convince others to come.
Otherwise, it was all for naught.
A s the men took their seats, Pen stole a surreptitious look at the one man among them whose appearance made her heart thump faster.
She’d been seated opposite MacKenzie at dinner, so she’d been able to look all she wanted—and she was coming to understand she wanted a good deal. But once again, though
Perhaps he needed to be drunk around her for proper conversation. He drained his glass in a convulsive swallow. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make again.
“Well, chin up,” James said, finishing the rest of his glass as well and then turning toward the door. “You’ll have another chance to humiliate yourself soon enough. Time to join the fairer sex in the drawing room.”
“Aye,” Cameron snickered as they made their way into the room filled with feminine laughter. “Perhaps you should offer to show her your fairy kittens, next.”
“Fairy k-kittens?” Pen said, looking up with sharp interest from the settee.
William’s attention arrowed in on her as though loosened from a bow. The sight of her felt as though someone had kicked him, and not in entirely pleasant places. Tonight she looked a proper lady, blond hair piled high, a gown of lovely blue silk highlighting her delicate curves. Curves he’d recently held against him.
And dear God, she had little Lizzie on her lap.
Though the dinner had been formal, the tone in the drawing room was decidedly less so. William’s mother, the countess, had insisted on seeing her granddaughter, and so James’s daughter had been fetched down from the nursery and was being passed around the drawing room and properly fussed over. At five months old, Lizzie was a sweet thing, with blue eyes and pink cheeks she’d inherited from Georgette, and a pair of healthy lungs that she’d no doubt acquired from James.
There were times when William could not help but battle a bit of envy at his brother’s good fortune. Seeing this child he loved sitting on Pen’s lap made that envy shift into something more defined.
Want. He wanted what his brother had. A wife, a child. Happiness.
Looking around, he realized he was the only male in the room who didn’t have those essential things. James had found Georgette. Even David Cameron—who probably didn’t deserve anything beyond a swift kick in the bollocks—had found love, the gentle swell of his wife’s belly demonstrating his own state of contentedness.
And with a startled bit of insight, William realized as he looked at Penelope Tolbertson holding this small, blond-haired baby on her lap, he might find those things with this woman. It wasn’t even an outrageous thought. He was thirty-five years old. The expectations of his future title demanded he marry, after all, and Moraig wasn’t exactly brimming with potential mates.
Why not Penelope Tolbertson? She was beautiful. She was intelligent.
She was here .
And there was no denying she made his heart race, quite happily so.
She was also still waiting for his answer. He cleared his throat, hoping the port had worked its magic. “Er . . . ’tis just a story about kittens. For wee Lizzie.” He gestured to his niece, who began to bounce happily on Pen’s lap at the sound of her name. “She’s too small for cattle, aye?”
Pen smiled up at him, her blue eyes crinkling about the edges, and he wanted to dive into that smile and never let go. No one he’d met in Moraig or beyond had ever stirred his fancy in quite this way. But as he mulled over this startling, tempting new idea, he was also struck by an almost painful awareness of how impossible it was.
She lived in London and was clearly committed to her position as a reporter. He was devoted to Moraig and had organized the games because he wanted to ensure the prosperity of the town where he intended to spend his life.
He needed her to return to London with a story to convince others to come.
Otherwise, it was all for naught.
A s the men took their seats, Pen stole a surreptitious look at the one man among them whose appearance made her heart thump faster.
She’d been seated opposite MacKenzie at dinner, so she’d been able to look all she wanted—and she was coming to understand she wanted a good deal. But once again, though
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