He blanched.

“Was-was that not right?”

He seemed at a loss for words.

“Surely it cannot be so very bad. I had hoped it might even be-pleasant. When you kissed me-” She stopped, blushing. A lady did not speak of such things.

“When it’s done properly, it’s very pleasant.”

“For women too?” she blurted out.

He nodded. “For women too. Only-perhaps not the first time, as your mother said.” He licked his lips. Penelope’s gaze was riveted on his tongue. “I think we ought to wait until we know each other a little better. Then perhaps you will be more comfortable helping me find out what you like.”

Penelope could not tell if she was disappointed or relieved. It hardly mattered; such decisions naturally belonged to him. “If you think it best.” Her voice sounded small.

She had not realized how tense he was, until he relaxed. “I do think it best.” He looked at her for a moment, and then he came and sat on the edge of the bed, grinning at her. “This is deuced awkward, isn’t it?”

Some of her own tension eased. She nodded.

“That is why it will be better to wait. Now turn around like a good girl while I put my nightshirt on.”

It was a little chilly; she didn’t want to get out from under the blankets. Instead she snuggled down on her side of the bed, facing the wall and closing her eyes. She heard one boot hit the floor, then the other. Then a chair rattled-she conjectured that he had thrown his jacket over it. After that there was nothing definitive, only a series of rustlings and footsteps.

She tried not to think about it, but her imagination was out of her control. Candlelight would glint on his naked shoulders, his torso, his-but here her mind skittered away. She had seen paintings and statues of naked men before, of course-Greek athletes and etchings of Michelangelo’s David. But a wide gulf lay between that and what she would see if she turned around, and she was not capable of bridging it.

The bed bounced as he jumped into it. The darkness behind her eyelids became darker; he had extinguished the candle. There was silence for a moment. “Good night, Penelope.”

“Good night, Nev. ”

The mattress shifted as he lay down and pulled the blankets over him. Penelope lay perfectly still, not daring to move. But soon enough everything faded into exhausted sleep.

Now that Nev had done the generous-or was it cowardly?-thing and given his bride time to accustom herself to him, he couldn’t think about anything but bedding her. She sat across from him in the carriage, not a shining brown hair out of place, turning the pages of some appallingly proper novel-and he was imagining ripping the book from her hands, getting her out of that depressing black, and exercising his conjugal rights in all the deliciously improper ways the cramped confines of the carriage would necessitate.

Of course, there was nothing else to think about, except what awaited him at Loweston, and Nev did not want to think about that. Unlike his bride, he had not brought a book. He was bored, bored, bored. He longed to be out in the open air, spelling the coachman with the horses-but that would be rude to his wife, and besides, he could not drive the horses as fast as he would like, because they weren’t changing them at the next stage. Every time his restless mind began to search for a new topic, it brought up unwelcome, all-too-pleasant images of Amy or his friends or even a damned game of solitaire. Nev had sworn off cards along with liquor and horse racing and women of easy virtue, and so all that was left was mentally undressing his wife, over and over again.

To make matters worse, the interior of the carriage, even with the windows open to their fullest extent, had become unbearably hot. The day before had been cloudy, but this afternoon there was no such shelter from the elements. Nev ’s black coat, pantaloons, and boots were suffocating him, and even Penelope in her short-sleeved carriage dress was starting to wilt. July was a poor time for long journeys in full mourning. Nev was well aware that in a few minutes he would be indulging in thoughts of the most unfilial kind-viz, if only Papa had had the decency to die in the winter, when it was not so damned hot!

Then, as he watched, a trickle of sweat ran down Penelope’s collarbone and into the space between her breasts, and Nev had had enough. “What are you reading?”

She laid down the book readily enough. “ Mansfield Park, by Miss Austen.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

She looked away. “Not quite as much as I did the first time. I don’t think-” She licked her lip. “I don’t think she likes music very much,” she finished awkwardly.

He could have sworn that wasn’t what she’d been planning to say. “She doesn’t?”

“Well…” She flipped through the book. “In this scene she talks of Miss Crawford playing-here it is-‘with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming.’ Not pleasing or inspiring, becoming. And it is not even her playing that ensnares Edmund, but rather the elegant picture she makes with the harp.”

Suddenly Nev found he was in complete harmony with her. “Plenty of young ladies make a dashed elegant picture with their harp! But most of them don’t practice sufficiently, or haven’t the feeling for it. Even if they are proficient enough, one grows bored after a very few minutes. One certainly doesn’t fall in love with them.”

She gave him an approving smile; he tried not to feel as proud as if he’d slain a dragon for her.

“This is too bad,” he said. “I’d been planning to read Miss Austen’s work, for Sir Walter Scott gave one of her books a most favorable review in the Quarterly-”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “You have been planning it a long time, then. That review was three years ago.” Her eyes glinted with amusement.

“I’ve been busy. Besides, now I am thinking of changing my mind.

‘The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;

The motions of his spirit are dull as night

And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted.’”

“Merchant of Venice,” she said. Damn her, she looked startled. It wasn’t even an obscure quote.

“I’m not quite a dullard, even if I can’t audit a banker’s books.”

“I’m sorry. I should have known better. You took a first at Cambridge, didn’t you?”

It was his turn to be startled. “How the dev-how on earth did you know that?”

She bit her lip and gave him a mirthful sidelong glance. “My mother looked you up in Debrett’s.”

“Really,” he said, fascinated. “What else do you know about me?”

She considered, a smile playing around her mouth. “I think I shall keep the strategic advantage best by not telling you. I don’t think that quote is quite fair, anyway. Edward is tone-deaf, and he-” She stopped, looking stricken.

“Ah, yes, Edward,” Nev said cautiously. “He is like a brother to you, is he not? You correspond.” Then why did she look guilty as sin every time his name came up?

“Not very often.”

“Well, that is only to be expected, isn’t it?” Nev was startled at the undercurrent of anger in his own voice, but he couldn’t stop. “Brothers are notoriously bad correspondents. But sisters are rather different creatures. And you, presumably, are like a sister to Edward-”

She shot him a furious, cornered glance. “Stop it! We quarreled, all right?”

Well, he had wanted to know, and now he did. Penelope and Edward had quarreled between Penelope’s betrothal and her wedding. What else could it be about? He wanted desperately to inquire further, but something stopped him. It’s none of my affair, he thought. Well, that was patently ridiculous. Of course it was his affair; Penelope was his wife. But he felt, nonetheless, that he had no right to demand confidences. She had married him; he was sure she would not betray him. That would have to suffice.