Free When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) by Elisa Braden Page B

pointedly at her two gloved hands.
    She followed his gaze, waggling her fingers experimentally. Her flush deepened. “Not my glove. A—a friend went out to the terrace for a bit of air after dinner. She was donning her gloves when the wind took one of them and landed it upon the limb. The tree overhangs the balustrade …” She swallowed upon seeing his expression. “Yes, you probably know. Naturally, we attempted to retrieve the glove, but to no avail.”
    “Miss Darling.”
    “Yes?”
    “What precisely does Miss Viola wish me to do?”
    Penelope’s mouth formed an O.
    It was not her fault. Viola was a gale-force wind when she’d set her mind to something. Now, he decided, it was time to inform her in no uncertain terms that her pursuit had grown tiresome and, further, that she was wasting her time because, most emphatically, he would never marry her.
    “She—she wants you to speak with her alone. She is w-waiting beneath the tree. Downstairs. Outside. In the garden.”
    “Very well,” he gritted. “Come. You shall accompany me.”
    “Oh, but I was told my part would be finished—”
    He gently placed her hand upon his arm and waved her forward. “Nonsense. We shall need you there to ensure there are no improprieties.”
    “My mother—”
    He nodded to a chair in the corner. “Is sleeping.”
    “Oh.”
    In the end, Penelope conceded. Considering she was unmarried, he ran a risk in choosing her as their chaperone. But despite the girl’s dull wit, she would not taint her family’s reputation by allowing Viola to generate a scandal, for Lord Mochrie would cry off their match before the moon had set on this night.
    They entered the garden from the Pennywhistle parlor on the ground floor. The wind was still gusting as it had earlier, rustling the new leaves of a small ash tree. The trunk rose from a garden bed surrounded by a low stone wall.
    He looked at the sky, cursing the dark clouds that always seemed to shroud London. What he wouldn’t give to return to Derbyshire, to look up and see stars rather than smoke. Squinting up through the branches, he saw that Viola had, indeed, managed to toss her glove onto a limb. She’d chosen carefully, making it too far from the edge of the upper terrace to reach and too high to retrieve from the ground.
    Clever, bloody-minded, conniving, vexing chit.
    Penelope’s hand fell away from his arm.
    He leaned into her with his most intimidating posture. “Stay.”
    She might have squeaked. He did not care. He needed to locate Viola, and he bloody well could not see anything beyond the first eight feet or so. Slowly, he approached the base of the tree, watching for any signs of a raven-haired sprite. He climbed onto the stone wall, braced one palm against the rough bark, stretched his other arm high, and plucked the scrap of white silk from its verdant prison. Rubbing the thing absently between his finger and thumb, he shook his head.
    She really was the most extraordinary creature.
    Shoving away from the tree, he dropped down onto the flagstones and took a single step back before facing Penelope. The girl was rubbing her arms and tightening her shawl about her shoulders.
    “Where is she?” he called.
    Eyes wide, Penelope slowly raised her hand to point directly behind him.
    “Looking for me, Lord Tannenbrook?”
    He closed his eyes briefly before turning to face her.
    She stood on the low wall, putting her eyes nearly level with his.
    The impact knocked the breath from him, even in the low light.
    “I see you retrieved my glove. Thank you ever so kindly.” Her grin lit him like a torch. “My valiant champion.”
    Without ceremony, he dropped the scrap of silk into her outstretched palm. “What is this about, Miss Darling? I weary of your games.”
    “I wished to speak with you. Alone.” Graceful as a dancer, she stretched out an arm and donned her glove, the silk soughing against skin, tiny fingers fluttering to fit.
    The sight of that little wriggle—like a