by Nina Mason
Penelope wondered why, when it was freezing outside, the ices would not keep, but knew better than to contradict her mother. Subterfuge was a far more effective tactic than open defiance in a world where young ladies were expected to be seen and not heard.
Dinner seemed to go on forever, but at last she made her escape to her room. Finding Anna within, waiting to help her get ready for bed, Penelope went to her and turned around to have her frock unbuttoned. When she was down to her petticoat, she said, “I’m not going to bed, Anna. I’m going out the window—to take a sleigh ride with Mr. Gillingham. So I will need to wear something warm.”
“Goodness gracious.” The girl made no effort to disguise her shock. “I know not what to say, Miss Penelope.”
Spinning toward her, Penelope fixed the servant with a steely gaze. “Say you will help me find something suitable to wear. Say you will hold my cape and throw it down to me when I reach the bottom. Say you will leave the window unlocked so I can climb back in when I return. And, most importantly, say you will cover for me if either of my parents should inquire after me.”
“Of course,” Anna submissively replied, “but do you think it wise to encourage Mr. Gillingham when you are engaged to Mr. Blackmore?”
“I’m not encouraging him,” Penelope said, believing it herself. “I’m simply going on a friendly sleigh ride with him.”
The maid regarded her mistress warily. “In the middle of the night … without a chaperone … or your parents’ permission?”
Penelope’s courage withered somewhat, although not enough to stop her. “If there was the smallest chance they would give their approval, I might have sought it. But I know very well that my parents, like most others in Stow-on-the-Wold, still hold his father’s sins against Mr. Gillingham. Most unjustly, I might add. And, since he has no one else in the world, I feel the least I can do is be a friend to him over the holidays.”
Wearing a skeptical expression, Anna went to the wardrobe and began to sort through the myriad garments hanging therein. “Do you think it wise, given your feelings for Mr. Gillingham?”
Competing qualms of guilt and resentment tormented Penelope. Yes, her fondness for Rollo made keeping her promise to him dangerous, but she had every intention of playing the dutiful daughter come Christmas Day. In the meantime, she intended to spend as much time as she could with her former beau.
“Perhaps not,” she said. “Though I feel I owe him at least that much after so bitterly disappointing him.”
Anna continued rifling through the garments in the wardrobe. “What could he expect after leaving you in suspense for so long without a single letter to assure you of his constancy?”
True. He had indeed left her twisting in the wind for too long, but he’d also kept his promise to return when he could afford to marry her.
Penelope took a deep breath and went to supervise the maid’s selections. She chose a long-sleeved green-velvet dress, her sturdiest pair of demi-boots, and her cloak with the ermine trim. She’d agreed to meet Rollo in Winterberry’s woods, which was far enough from the house to avoid being seen or heard, yet near enough for her to reach on foot without getting too cold.
When she was dressed, Penelope went to the window and threw open the sash. Frosty air rushed in to greet her. For a moment, she had second thoughts, but quickly dismissed them. Steeling her nerve, she climbed out onto the eave and, stooping to keep her center of gravity low, she cautiously made her way to the trellis.
By the time she reached the ground, her toes and fingers ached from the cold and her teeth were chattering.
She looked up to see her cloak fly out the window like a great white bird. It cleared the roof, but got caught on the trellis. Grabbing a corner, she tugged until it came free. As she draped it across her shoulders, she looked up at the night sky. The moon was only half-full, but cast radiance enough across the snow-covered garden to show her the way.
She pulled up her hood and watched where she stepped to avoid slipping. As she made her way, she regretted having left her muff and pattens behind. She had not brought her pistol along, either, sure she would need no more protection than Rollo could provide. He was big and strong, after all, and had fought in a war.
She cringed at the thought. While she was proud of his service and bravery, she couldn’t bear to think of the horrors he must have witnessed in America. Yes, she resented the inequalities between men and women’s rights, but soldiering was not a privilege she envied for her sex.
As she trudged on, she tried not to build her expectations too high … or to think on the many passionate kisses they’d shared in the past—this morning’s included. She should not have kissed him back before pulling away. She should not have agreed to meet him alone in the first place. She should not have agreed to meet him again tonight. She should not be going there now.
The trouble was, she couldn’t seem to help herself. Rollo was like opium to her. He eased her inner ache, took away her inhibitions, and made her feel more alive.
She kept going, growing more chilled with every step. By the time she reached the meeting place, her face, fingers, and toes burned from the cold. While Rollo was not there, the distant sound of sleigh bells told her he would be very soon.
Shivering with cold and excitement, Penelope watched for the sleigh. When it came through the trees, a little thrill threaded through her. Memories of other sleigh rides flashed through her mind. Oh, what wickedness they got up to when left to their own devices! Rollo would put his tongue in her mouth and his hands in places a gentleman’s hands ought not to go on a woman who was not his wife. And, shockingly, she would let him … because it felt so heavenly to be touched in that way by the boy she adored.
Yes, she’d granted him liberties she shouldn’t have, but she drew the line at amorous congress. Tempted though she’d been to give herself to him, she was determined to save that sweet delight for their wedding night. And now, the idea that Frank would claim what should have been Rollo’s plagued her heart out.
The sleigh came to a stop a few feet away. The horse, a shaggy black one in a bell-covered harness, snorted a cloud of white breath and tossed its head. Rollo, wearing a great coat, knitted scarf, and fur gloves, stood at the curved front of the sleigh, reins in hand. His nose and cheeks were nearly as red as the sleigh, but she still found him heart-meltingly handsome.
Ever the gentleman, he removed his hat and bowed to her. “There is room for one more, m’lady, if you would care to come aboard.”
She did care to. Very much indeed.
Hurrying forward, she took his outstretched hand. As he helped her into the sleigh, she saw the blanket on the seat and the coal-heated foot warmer on the floor.
Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she took her place and, when she was settled, he squeezed in beside her and spread the blanket over their laps. It was a tighter fit than she remembered, but she welcomed the press of his body—for the added heat, of course.
Rollo shook the reins and clucked to the horse. The sleigh started forward, runners squeaking and bells jingling. As they drove at a steady trot along the narrow path through the woods, the freezing wind burned Penelope’s cheeks and nose. The rest of her, however, was perfectly warm.
“I was afraid you might change your mind,” he said, “though I’m exceedingly glad you did not.”
“So am I.” She blew on her hands to warm them.
He threw a quick glance in her direction. “Why did you not bring a muff?”
“I feared it would get in the way.”
He looked at her again, longer this time. “Of what?”
“Climbing the trellis.” As she said it, a blush heated her face and neck.
His mouth hitched into a lopsided grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” she replied with a smile of her own.
They came out of the trees into a clearing whose snowy expanse sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight. All was quiet except for the jingling harness and labored breathing and thuddin
g hooves of the horse.
“Is this not beautiful?” she observed.
“Not half as beautiful as you are.” Rollo bent toward her, bringing his mouth near hers. “I would kiss you had you not extracted my promise to behave like a gentleman.”
Energy crackled between them. The same magnetic energy she’d felt in her youth. A gravitational pull of deep longing that would never be fulfilled. As regret pierced her heart, she bit her lip and turned back to the scenery. The snow she had so recently admired now looked cold and unforgiving.
Rollo drove on in silence. Turning back to him, she studied his moonlit profile. His straight nose, heavy-lidded eyes, seductive mouth, and cleft chin were the same as they’d been at eighteen, albeit a wee bit more weathered.
A few minutes later, they came out of the clearing on the road that stretched between their two houses. Before she could ask where they were going, he pulled the reins to one side and flourished the whip. The horse broke into a canter, dragging them along. Rollo brandished the whip again and, as the sleigh picked up speed, Penelope felt as if she were flying—but whether toward her destiny or her doom, she couldn’t say.
Rollo gave the horse its head and clicked his tongue. Faster and faster they glided as the horse’s flying hooves showered them with snow. The icy wind blasting her face seemed to carry all her troubles away. She felt so free, so exhilarated, and so alive and care free, she began to laugh like a happy child.
Joining in, he slowed the horse in time to make the turn into the drive of Hollywell Abbey. Penelope dropped back in her seat and looked up at the stars. Suddenly, life was as sweet as it had seemed before he went away.
Rollo drew the sleigh to a stop outside the front door. Their breaths formed little white clouds that hovered ever-so-briefly before dissolving into the night. The moonlight cast blue-gray shadows of antler-like branches across the glittering snow. The woods were eerily silent, apart from the occasional snap of a twig or hoot of an owl.
He turned to her, his muffler and eyebrows covered in frost. “In that white cloak with the fur trim and the frost in your lashes, you look just like the Snow Maiden from Russian folklore.”
Familiar with the story, she regarded him with skepticism. “Does the Snow Maiden not die at the end of the tale?”
“No,” he said. “She falls in love and melts under the heat of her passion.”
Maybe she truly was the Snow Maiden, because, right now, she was melting under the heat of her passion for him. She should check herself and look away from his smoldering gaze, but she was too entranced to tear her eyes from his. A power greater than good sense made her murmur his name low and deep in her throat.
“Are you cold?”
She licked her lips, craving his kiss. “No, I’m melting. Like the Snow Maiden.”
As his lips brushed hers, white-hot desire flashed inside her. Slipping her arms around his neck, she pulled his mouth more firmly against hers. As their tongues met, a fierce desperation bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. The murky depths where she’d sunk her hopes and drowned her love to please her parents. It seemed so wrong that she should be made to choose between family approval and happiness in marriage … and yet, that was indeed the choice cruel fate had put before her.
Her breath caught when his hand came under her skirts, sweeping up the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. When his fingers reached her secret place, she shuddered and let a moan drop into his mouth. Her better angels told her to stop him, to slap his face and demand he take her home, but she could not quite bring herself to obey them.
His feather-soft caresses felt too good, especially when he concentrated on that sublime little spot he’d called her “pearl of pleasure” that long-ago day he’d kissed her there until she came undone. The devil in her wanted to feel that ecstasy again, wrong though it was to crave such sinful pleasures. It was just as wrong to encourage his lusts. But she wanted to give as well as receive, to feel him tremble under her touch, to feel him lose control as his seed spilled over her hand.
Oh, what a wicked creature she was! Wicked and wanton. But she wanted this, wanted him, so ardently, so desperately, she just couldn’t be good.
Freeing her right hand from around his neck, she let it slide down his body until it came to rest on the front of his trousers. She was pleased, though not surprised, to find he was aroused as she was. As she explored that forbidden part of his anatomy through the heavy woolen fabric, he endorsed her labors with a deep, guttural moan.
Then, besieged by a sudden fit of conscience, she withdrew her hand and mouth from him. Clearly, she could not trust herself when they were alone any more than she could trust him. She glared at him in disapprobation. “You promised to behave yourself.”
He looked dumbfounded. “But, I thought—”
“A gentleman would not take advantage of a lady in a moment of weakness.” Though it broke her heart to treat him so contemptuously, it was either that or allow her animal passions to pave the way to her disgrace.
She must not let what happened to Susan Morrison happen to her.
Rollo stared into her eyes as if trying to read the truth in them. Then, unexpectedly, he caught her to him and smashed his lips against hers. She nearly died from the effort it took to remain passive, though she somehow managed not to kiss him back.
Finally, in obvious frustration, he let her go. “Confound it, Penelope, I love you. And I believe you still love me.”
“What I feel has no bearing on what must be.” She looked away from his disarming gaze.
“Maybe not to your parents or Frank,” he said heatedly, “but your feelings matter a great deal to me.”
“Were that true, you would have respected my wishes.” Though the words were heated, she was angrier with herself than she was with him. “Now, promise me you will not kiss me again … or try to make love to me in any way … or I shall be left with no choice but to renege on my agreement to spend time with you over the holidays.”
“When we kissed, I heard no protests.” His dark eyes flashed in the moonlight. “And I in no way coerced you to touch me in the intimate way you did. That was utterly and completely your own doing.”
Heat flooded her face. “Do you not think I know that?”
“I wonder at times if you know your own mind in the least.”
“I assure you I do.” She tried to sound stern despite her growing despair. “And will give you a piece of it if you persist in your impertinence.”
He caught her wrists in both hands. “I will take some of the blame upon myself, though not all of it. For the love of God, Penelope, you cannot put your tongue in my mouth and your hand on my prick and not expect me to respond the way nature intended. I am a man, not a saint—a man who wishes to win you back by any means necessary.”
He released her wrists and flung her away from him. She smashed against the side of the sleigh, furious with him and herself. If he wanted to see restraint, she would show him restraint—by ensuring she never let him lead her into temptation again.
“Fine.” She spat the word. “From now on, we will see each other only in the company of others.”
“Fine,” he snipped in reply. “If that’s the way you want it.”
“It’s not the way I want it Rollo,” she told him. “It’s the way it has to be.”
Silence fell between them—a cold, awkward silence that made her feel as if someone had cut a hole in her heart through which her lifeblood now leaked like teardrops. With Rollo, she would have known great love and passion in marriage. With Frank, she would only ever know friendship and forbearance.
All at once, the thought was unbearable to her. Fighting tears, she touched Rollo’s shoulder, bringing his gaze back to hers. Heat radiated between them as they stared into each other’s eyes in unspoken longing. Then, he cracked the whip, setting horse and sleigh in motion.
They drove in silence back toward Winterberry Park. When they reached the place in the woods where they’d met, she hesitate
d before disembarking. Meeting his eyes in the dark, she said, “Since from now on we’re only to be … friends, you may … this one last time …”
Slowly, he moved closer to her. When her face was only inches from his, she tilted her head and closed her eyes. His mouth met hers, softly at first and then with more ferocity. Their lips parted, their tongues engaged, and their arms went around each other. She clung to him, kissing him as feverishly as he was kissing her.
Desire avalanched over her—a mad, unreasoning desire made the more rapacious by the impossibility of fulfillment. She might have let things go further had they not been in a tiny sleigh in the woods of her family’s estate. But they were, and she was engaged to another man—a man she would never love the way she loved Rollo Gillingham. All the same, she had made her bed and now must lie in it for the rest of her days.
With the wrong husband.
Breaking from the kiss, she sat up and looked around in despair. Though it all seemed so real, she knew deep down it was only make-believe. These minutes she stole with Rollo were no more than play-acting. Marrying Frank and making her parents happy was her life off-stage. And yet, paradoxically, she felt so much more herself with Rollo than she did with anyone else.
“Forgive me,” she said, aching inside. “I don’t know what came over me.”
He arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
Climbing out of the sleigh, she hurried away through the snow, renewing her resolve to never let her weakness for him get the better of her again. Thankfully, the house was dark when she reached it. As she mounted the trellis, she realized she’d forgotten to ask why he’d never written to her.
Chapter Six
Penelope, true to her promise, made plans to ensure she and Rollo were never alone. One night, they went wassailing through the village with some of her friends from the St. Edward’s church choir. On another, they attended a folk concert and Christmas pantomime. On several others, they went to evening parties, where the chief entertainments were singing carols around the pianoforte and playing parlor games like Snapdragon.