He never called her Penelope except on formal occasions; he used Penny when they were with family. When they’d been alone, he’d often teased her with a different moniker, Squib, a nickname that said it all; when it came to anything physical, he would always be the victor.
Yet this wasn’t physical, and when it wasn’t, he didn’t always win. She’d dealt with him in the past; she could do so again.
Holding his gaze, she stood. “I can’t tell you-not yet. I need to think.” Stepping around the table, she walked neither hurriedly nor slowly toward the door. It lay beyond him; she had to pass him to leave.
As she did, he shifted. She sensed his muscles bunch, tense, but he didn’t rise.
She reached the doorway, and silently exhaled.
“Mon ange…”
She froze. He’d called her that on only one occasion. His threat was there in his tone, unspoken yet unmistakable.
She waited a heartbeat; when he said nothing more, she looked back. He hadn’t moved; he was looking at the candle. He didn’t turn to face her.
He couldn’t face her…
A knot inside unraveled; tension flowed away. She smiled, softly, knowing he couldn’t see. “Don’t bother-there’s no point. I know you, remember? You’re not the sort of man who would.”
She hesitated for another second, then quietly said, “Good night.”
He didn’t reply, didn’t move. She turned and walked away down the corridor.
Charles listened to her footsteps retreating, and wondered what malevolent fate had decreed he’d face this. Not the sort of man to blackmail a lady? Much she knew. He’d been exactly such a man for more than a decade.