Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel Page 5

  He regarded her. “I’d be a fool not to have,” he answered. He still had the dreams of death and battle and even the waking nightmares occasionally. “In fact, I have often wondered if that is where this lunacy got its start.”

  The dreams had brought on terror and confusion, but he’d take that every day of the year over the bouts of madness that had marked his past months. “But even were that the case, it has gone far beyond anything I suffered from the wars. And therefore beyond both your experience and your best intentions, I’m afraid.”

  “I will admit I’ve never seen a situation quite like yours,” she said tactfully. “But don’t underestimate me. I daresay my methods will be better than what you’ve endured thus far. Mr. Allen told me of the purges, the cold baths, the leeching.” An involuntary shiver shook her shoulders. “He said you even asked to be blistered?”

  This time the shiver was his. He’d never forget the agony of hot plasters being placed on his skin, raising blisters that were then lanced and drained.

  “That’s barbaric, Gabriel. Why would you let them do such a thing?”

  “Why do you think?” he shot back in clipped tones. This time it was he backing away from her, ashamed. Did she know everything of his time in this madhouse? “Because some bloody doctor told me it could heal me. Some blather about the overstimulation of my nerves and restoring my natural balance, and hence my sanity.”

  The worst part of it was that he’d thought it had worked. For a few hopeful weeks, he’d been episode free and begun to dream about returning home and picking up his life. But then he’d had another episode, one worse than any before it. “I’d have done anything to be the man I once was,” he finished in a low voice.

  Penelope surprised him by not allowing his retreat. She followed, placing herself so close he could detect her subtle scent. She tilted her head up slightly. She wasn’t a short woman, but neither was she tall. Rather, she was the perfect height to capture his gaze and his attention.

  “Then don’t send me away,” she said. “I may have started down this path unintentionally, but I have helped many men in the last two years—men who suffered terribly. I can help you, too.”

  He turned his head in slow denial. The very idea of laying himself bare to Penelope horrified him. However unbarbaric she might think her methods were, they would be sheer torture to him, just by virtue of who administered them. Even if he thought she could help, he couldn’t bear it. “No.”

  Her lips firmed into a stubborn line. “I gave my word.”

  “I don’t hold you to any promises you made my family.”

  “My promise wasn’t to them, Gabriel. It was to you.”

  “I never asked for your help,” he stated gruffly.

  “Oh, yes, you did.” A pink flush tinted her cheeks. As close as they were, he could see the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat. “Yesterday. When you—when we were on the floor, just there.” She tipped her head to the left.

  Ah, yes. When he’d apparently knocked her to her arse and then mauled her. All whilst he was wet and naked, if Allen were to be believed. And given Penelope’s flaming cheeks, he probably could be.

  “You may not remember, Gabriel, but I do. You recognized me. Even in the midst of your mania, you called my name. You hugged me to you and begged me for help. I won’t turn my back on that.”

  Ah, Christ. Gabriel scrubbed his hands over his face, wishing he could hide behind his palms forever. Or at least until she gave up and went home.

  But he couldn’t. He dropped his hands and strove for a calming breath. But it quickly turned into a snort of grim amusement. After years of imagining it, he’d finally had Penelope in his arms—with one of them in the buff, no less—and he couldn’t even remember it. That might be the cruelest part of all of this.

  The irreverent thought brought huffs of laughter. Not the joyful kind, but the near silent kind that takes over when one is faced with a situation where one must either laugh or cry.

  “Gabriel?”

  Penelope looked so startled that the laughter came in earnest then. It probably made him appear crazier to her, but he couldn’t help it. Damn, but it felt good to laugh.

  A tremulous smile tilted her lips, and for a moment it was as if they were back in the parlor of the Mantons’ London townhome, sharing a joke or a funny bit of gossip as they’d done many times during her marriage to his cousin. It made him feel like his old self, something he’d almost forgotten how to be.

  And he knew then that he couldn’t force her to leave tonight. Tomorrow, most likely, but not tonight. After all, it was a little late to close the stable door. The damage had already been done.

  “Truce, Pen.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Truce. We can sort it later.” He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair for her. “For now, I wish only to dine with you, as we did when we were friends.”

  Penelope looked to the chair Gabriel held out to her and debated but a second. Then she quickly stepped to it and settled herself before he could change his mind.

  She’d been certain there for a moment that he was going to have her tossed out. She doubted she could have stopped him, either, as she suspected Mr. Allen would be only too happy to comply with Gabriel’s wishes.

  She might then have had to ask Gabriel’s family to pressure him to see her, but she knew that coercing him would likely make him more resistant. The only way she could see being able to help him was if he welcomed it.

  That was crucial to her form of treatment. In her quest to understand mental maladies, she’d learned many conflicting theories of how to best treat the sufferer. Some suggested illnesses of the mind were an imbalance of body humors to be treated like a disease, while others insisted it was a defect of the soul. There were myriad theories in between.

  Penelope didn’t consider herself particularly learned, nor as intelligent or experienced as others in the field. She’d simply taken from the different disciplines the bits that made sense to her and applied them when she felt they’d be helpful.

  But in order for her to discern what would be most helpful, she’d need Gabriel to be a willing participant, and for that she’d need his trust.

  She smiled at him as he took his place across from her at the table. He smiled back, but the gesture was forced and tight. They apparently had a long way to go on that front.

  Penelope squared her shoulders and kept her smile in place. Every journey started with a first step, didn’t it?

  But where to step first?

  She was granted a reprieve as servants placed platters of roasted meats, buttered potatoes and what looked and smelled to be a savory pudding made from pastry, vegetables and meat drippings. Her stomach let out a loud growl. Her eyes flew wide, and she clapped her hands over her middle in embarrassment.

  Thankfully, Gabriel let the moment pass without comment, other than to say, “Tuck in,” as the servants withdrew.

  She did. As she chewed a bite of perfectly spiced venison, she discarded topic after topic as a conversation starter. Given his earlier confession, even the most innocuous salvo had the potential to be taken wrong. The last thing she wished was to cause Gabriel more discomfort.

  Penelope swallowed her food around a tight throat. Why was this so hard? People talked every day. And yet, when she next opened her mouth, all she seemed capable of doing was to pop a perfectly buttered potato into it.

  Before the next bite, she commented, “Dinner is quite excellent.” There. It might have been lame, but food was always a safe topic.

  “Yes. My family insisted on sending a chef to Vickering Place with me,” he answered dryly. “Apparently it is quite all right to lock your relative away, so long as you ensure he eats well.”

  Penelope stopped chewing. So much for that. An awkward silence stretched out between them as she tried to think of something else to say.

  “’Twas an impossible hope, I see.” Gabriel took a sip from his water goblet.

  She looked expectantly at him,
her fork poised to spear another potato.

  “Thinking we could spend an evening as friends,” he murmured so softly she had to strain to hear him. He set his goblet down with a loud click. “In this place.”

  An ache tugged at her chest, and she realized why this was so much harder than it had been with others she’d helped. With strangers, she had nothing more invested than simple human kindness. With Gabriel . . . they had been friends.

  Coconspirators, even. He’d been in the market for a wife then, and many a female acquaintance had pestered her for an introduction to her handsome new cousin. She’d had great fun playing Cupid.

  She’d had great fun with him in general, truthfully. She had also been grateful for Gabriel’s company. Not long into her marriage, it had become clear that Michael had too much energy even for her. Her husband’s exuberance was charming, but it also exhausted her. Some evenings, she found herself content to let Michael go gadding about the ballrooms, and he was just as content to leave her in the escort of his cousin.

  But all that had ended with Michael’s death. In her grief, she’d cut everyone—including Gabriel—from her life and turned inward. She had not considered that she might have hurt him. She’d been unable to consider anything but her own pain.

  She should have been a better friend.

  Well, she couldn’t change the past, but she would do her best to be the friend he needed now. Penelope reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. “Nothing I’ve seen or heard has made me think any less of you, Gabriel.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile, even as he pulled his hand from beneath hers. “Then you must have had a very low opinion of me, indeed.”

  Her heart twinged. Nothing could be further from the truth. But she doubted Gabriel would believe her if she said as much. No, the best way to convince him would be to rebuild the easy relationship they once had.

  She cocked a brow at him. “Only in your whist playing skills,” she said archly. “You were a deplorable partner, you know. Cost me more pin money than I care to remember.”

  His eyes widened. Then he barked a laugh, precisely as she’d hoped. She smiled back and felt the tension ease a bit between them.

  “I was awful,” he admitted with a shake of his head. But a smile played at his lips. “I always wondered why you continued to partner me.”

  “Someone had to,” she said, laughing. “Michael flatly refused, and I couldn’t very well let you sit across from any of the eligible ladies. If you’d have lost their pin money, they would have been quite vexed with you. Not the wisest wooing strategy, I’m afraid.”

  He snorted. “Ah. Well, thank you for sacrificing for the cause.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said pertly. “By the way, you owe me five hundred seventy-eight pounds and nine shilling. Interest, you know.”

  And with that, conversation came more easily between them. As they ate, they talked of everything and yet nothing at all. She was careful not to mention much of the past two years, and so was he. It was like a conversation out of time, but such a pleasant one. They laughed quite a bit. And Gabriel visibly relaxed, which lightened her heart.

  By the time they’d polished off a delectable walnut cake stuffed with raisins and almonds, Penelope’s cheeks ached from smiling, and her hopes were high that they’d made significant progress. Tomorrow would be even better.

  But it was becoming difficult to keep her eyes open, thanks to the combination of her satiated appetite and the sleepless night before.

  “Thank you for the superb company,” she said, rising from the table. “However, it is a good half-hour ride back to my rooms at the White Horse, so I must be going. But I shall return promptly in the morning. Shall we say right after breakfast?”

  Gabriel rose as well, but his smile faded, to be replaced by the guarded expression of earlier in the evening. Penelope’s good humor seeped away as he came around to stand before her.

  He reached out and took her hand. His skin was warm against hers and his grip tight. He brought it to his lips, closing his eyes as he pressed a firm kiss just above her knuckles. A long kiss. A kiss that rang of finality.

  Her breath caught.

  “Thank you, Pen, for your graciousness,” he said fiercely as he released her. “You’ve given me more tonight than you can know. But I meant what I said. I don’t want you to come back.”

  She watched in stunned silence as he turned on his heel and retreated toward his bedchamber.

  “Gabriel, wait!” she cried. “Please,” she implored more loudly when he did not slow. “There is something else you should know.”

  He stopped and turned back. She hated how tightly he held himself, as if it pained him to look at her. She hated more that she was about to add to his distress, but he had to know what was at stake.

  She licked her lips, trying to think how to soften the news. In the end, all she could do was say it outright. “Your family is preparing to swear an affidavit to the Lord Chancellor to have you declared non compos.”

  The blood drained from his face, but other than that, he gave no sign that he even heard her. Did he know precisely what that meant?

  “Once an affidavit is sworn, a petition will be made and a public commission appointed to determine your sanity. On the testimony of the staff of Vickering Place alone—”

  “They will most assuredly find me a lunatic,” he finished, no emotion in his voice. “They will judge me incapable of conducting my own affairs and strip me of the responsibilities of my title and estates.”

  She nodded, trying very diligently not to let her own emotions show on her face.

  His fists clenched at his sides, which was the only warning she had before he exploded. “Even of my own person. Christ! And they sent you with this news?” He raked a hand through his closely shorn locks. “My own damned family, and they couldn’t tell me this themselves?” He began to pace in an agitated swath.

  “I convinced them to stay the affidavit.”

  He stopped midstride and turned to pin her with his gaze. “You did what?”

  “At least until after I’d had the chance to see you,” she hurried to explain as she crossed to where he stood. “I told them that if your lunacy is related to your time in the wars, there was a good chance you could be cured.”

  Gabriel huffed, even as he pinched the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, he dropped his hand to his side. “And after what you’ve seen, Penelope? Do you really think I can be cured?”

  “I don’t know,” she was forced to admit.

  He lowered his head. “And if I do not cooperate?”

  “Then they intend to visit the Master extraordinary next week,” she had to tell him.

  The air between them crackled with frustration. His. Hers. He refused to look at her. She knew he hated this—maybe even hated her for bringing such ill tidings. She knew his pride was in tatters.

  She also knew she was his last hope.

  She studied him in the silence. He was leaner than he had been two years ago, and there were strands of gray near his temples that had not been there before. His brown eyes had always been shuttered, but they were stonier now. Still, he was the same man. Troubled, certainly, but the same.

  Penelope reached out and curved her fingers under his chin, lifting his face to hers. “I want you to listen to me,” she said, and her pulse shot up as his eyes locked with hers. She released him now that she had his full attention. “From the day we first met, I’d always thought you to be an exemplary man. In fact, I would not have believed my opinion of you could rise any higher.”

  He broke eye contact, clearly disbelieving her. She was losing him.

  So she reached down and snatched his hands, squeezing them. “But I would have been wrong, Gabriel,” she insisted.

  His gaze snapped back to hers.

  “I cannot imagine anything more terrifying than what you are living through. And yet you haven’t given up. You are a fighter. I can see it in your eyes.”


  And she could. Anger lurked in their golden brown depths, as did fear and sorrow. But so did determination. It lit them from within.

  “I cannot know what it is like to suffer as you do. I cannot know if we’ll meet success. But I do know that as long as you are still fighting, I won’t give up either. I swear it,” she vowed.

  They stood there, holding hands, locked in a silent communication that she doubted either of them consciously understood. But she sensed his resistance crumbling.

  “It’s not polite for ladies to swear,” he said softly.

  “Dash politeness.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Indeed.” He extracted his hands from her grip. “And dash my family and the Lord Chancellor, as well, I suppose.”

  “Double dash them,” she agreed.

  He nodded. “All right, Pen. You win.”

  Not an overly optimistic agreement, but she would take it. Because for some absurd reason, enough hope soared in her chest for the both of them.

  She only prayed those hopes weren’t what ended up dashed.

  Chapter Four

  The click of a key echoed loudly in the room, followed by the metallic churning of tumblers giving way and the muffled clang of bars swinging open just outside his door. Gabriel came to his feet as his eyes fixed on the rectangle of paneled wood, the last barrier that separated his “parlor” from the rest of Vickering Place.

  His heart kicked in his chest in what could only be anticipation. He’d spent half the night alternately praying for Penelope to come to her senses and not show this morning and the other half willing her to keep her vow. Now he would find out which contrary wish had been granted.

  She sailed through the opening door and Gabriel’s shoulders relaxed as he released a breath. She’d come. Foolish chit. And yet Penelope smiled so widely that even he couldn’t help but feel optimistic in the glow of it.

  “Good morning, Gabriel.” She stopped a scant two feet in front of him, the hem of her dark cloak swirling slightly around her legs. The crisp scent of a winter morning reached his nose, carried in on her fur-collared manteau. He breathed in automatically, as if his senses craved the sharp contrast from the stuffy staleness of his rooms.