The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella
Page 7
Rollo came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips to the sensitive spot just below her ear. She shivered as exhilarating tingles washed through her bloodstream.
He kissed her ear, provoking another onrush of thrilling sensations. “What made you change your mind?”
She assumed he meant about keeping things between them strictly platonic. “It is difficult to explain.”
“All the same, I’d like you to try.”
“Well …,” she began, searching for a delicate way to phrase her reasons. “I suppose I thought that if I had to give up so much, I could allow myself this one small indulgence.”
“Why must you give up anything?” His hot breath sensually bathed her ear. “You only need to make your feelings known and stand your ground.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, melting under his kisses.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a great deal of difference to me.”
She spun around, her beseeching gaze colliding with obstinate brown eyes. “All you need to know is that I am marrying Frank in another two days.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” He seized both her wrists and yanked her against his chest. “You are mine, Penelope. You always have been and always will be. If you marry Frank, he will have custody of your body, but your heart and soul will still belong to me. And mine to you. Why you cannot see that, why you persist in torturing us both with your misguided sense of obligation, well …”
“It isn’t misguided.” She struggled in vain to break his hold on her.
“No? Well, from where I’m standing, it looks as if your parents have deliberately deceived you for their own purposes, whatever those might be. They kept my letters from you, Penelope. They did everything they could to convince you I would never come back for you. That, obviously, was untrue, because here I am, ready to keep my promise … if you will only open your eyes. They don’t deserve your obedience or fidelity. They deserve to be horsewhipped. And so does Frank, for treating you like a trophy in his childish game of one-upmanship.”
With a lump in her throat, she looked away from his smoldering gaze. She could not bring herself to accept her parents were as evil as he claimed. She did not believe it possible they had withheld his letters when they knew how cruelly she suffered his silence. Nobody could be that coldblooded, least of all the two people who had fed, clothed, and cared for her all her life. There had to be some other explanation for the disappearance of his letters. That was all there was to it.
“You’re upset,” she said, hoping to diffuse the quarrel. “Not that I blame you for being so … but you must try to accept—”
“Accept?” His sudden outburst startled her. “What would you have me accept? That you no longer love me? That you no longer feel passion for me? That you truly want to be friends? Well, I refuse to accept such nonsense when your kisses tell quite a different story.”
As his smoldering gaze moved to her mouth, he let go of her wrists. She thought about slapping his face, but refrained. He was right, after all. Maybe not about her parents, but certainly about her. She did still love him. She did still feel passion for him—a passion so fierce it bordered on madness. And right now, she wanted to uncage those feelings more than anything in the world.
“Have I not made it clear I am yours for the taking?”
“You have indeed,” he said crossly. “Although only for the next hour, which is akin to throwing a crumb to a starving man.”
He went to sit on the divan and raked his fingers through his hair. “Penelope, listen,” he began, his voice low and tight. “This … what we’re doing … is wrong. I do not want a mere fuck; I want you to be mine, to have and to hold, to kiss and make love to often as I want, and to wake up next to every morning of my life. And the idea you would deny me that—would deny us both the happiness we deserve—out of some ridiculous sense of duty … well, it’s torture, that’s all. Sheer hellish torture.”
His words made her feel cheap and mean-spirited, so she went on the defensive. “I wish you would refrain from using such vulgar words.”
“Well, I wish … I wish for all sorts of things, none of which I’ve kept a secret.”
She hung her head and heaved a sigh. “I think it might be best if we go back to the ball now … and never see each other again.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “Best for whom?”
“Both of us.”
His steely gaze made her blood run cold. “If it’s all the same to you, I shall decide for myself what is best for me … as I hope you will learn to do before our chance to be together is lost forever.”
“It’s already lost, Rollo.” She sniffed as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I refuse to accept that. You’re the air I breathe, Penelope. My raison d’etre. Without you, there’s no point in going on.”
She could not bear this. It was too harrowing. Aching with regret, she got to her feet. “I should probably go ...”
When she started toward the door, he called after her. “Don’t leave. Not yet. Please. There is more I need to say.”
Curiosity—and hope for a miracle—made her stop and turn. She wanted to stay, but was tired of arguing. She only wanted to feel, to be swept away, to retreat temporarily into a fantasy world and forget the half-life ahead of her.
Rollo was still on the divan, staring at his steepled fingers, his expression dark and brooding. In the moments she waited for him to speak, something deep within her cracked open. Inside the broken shell were the atrophied remains of her self-determination. She used to stand up and fight for herself. She used to defy her parents without a second thought. What happened to make her so weak and accommodating?
“Perhaps I acted too hastily … and spoke too harshly,” he said in a low, graveled voice. “Perhaps a night of passion would do us both good. Perhaps a tumble on the sofa will succeed where logic and entreaty have failed.”
His tongue darted out to moisten his lips, drawing her attention from his eyes. Her desire for him rekindled, she crossed the room and sat beside him.
He turned to face her, his eyes shimmering with love, longing, and perhaps a little frustration, too. He took her hand and clasped it firmly. “Before we take things any further, I want to ask you something. And I want you to give me a straight answer.” He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Have you come to care for Frank?—or are you still in love with me?”
The undisguised yearning in Rollo’s dark eyes made her heart weep for the bolts she’d thrown across it. And yet, admitting how she felt about him would only make it harder for them to part ways.
“As I told you before, my feelings don’t matter.”
“I’m not asking you if they matter,” he said crossly. “I’m asking what they are. And, as I said before, they do matter. A great deal, as a matter of fact. So, let’s have it, Sweet Pea. The truth of your heart. Do you love me…or do you love me not?”
She took a shaky breath and again attempted to equivocate. “What good will it do for me to say or for you to know? Whatever my feelings may or may not be, I am marrying Frank in two more days.”
When she started to look away, he grasped her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. Strong emotion swam in his eyes—longing, fury, hurt, fear, or perhaps all four. “I do not believe you will. Because I still believe in the power of love to overcome all impediments. But, to keep my faith from wavering, I need to know if love still exists between us.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and, for a moment, she thought—nay, hoped with all her heart—he would kiss her. She did not want to talk anymore … or to be pressured into revealing her feelings. She was sick and tired of being harassed. She wanted to please herself for a change.
Rather than kiss her, he swept his thumb over her lips. A caress meant to charm a confession out of her. It enticed instead a blazing flash of desire. When he pushed it into
her mouth, she sucked it with fervor, temporarily pacified.
Using his body for leverage, he pushed her down on the divan so that he was atop her, his weight supported by his elbows. As he stared into her eyes, she saw anguish so intense, she could scarcely bear to look at him.
“I waited ten years for you, Rollo,” she said, aching inside. “Ten years without a word. Even though they told me you were dead, I refused to believe them. Maybe it would have been better if I had, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I still felt our bond, our connection, and I knew if you were dead I would only feel a hole where you used to be. A throbbing, unfillable hole even worse than the one your absence left in me. Rather than helping me feel better, however, knowing you were alive made the pain ten times worse. Because … well, because I was sure you’d forgotten me.”
“I could never forget you, Sweet Pea.”
Tears threatened, burning her eyes and throat. “I could not know that, could I? I only knew you had not written or returned in ten long and grueling years during which I’d become a burden to my parents … a spinster no other man wanted—until Frank showed an interest. He was my last chance to spare my parents the expense of having me always under their roof. I had to accept him, Rollo. Do you not see? There was no other choice open to me.”
“Oh, Pea. I could kill whoever stole my letters. Quite literally tear them limb from limb.”
She bit her lip to quell her tears. “Even if my parents are to blame?”
His eyes narrowed and turned flinty. “Especially if they are the culprits. Because it would be to them we owed our present and future heartache. And I would do it tomorrow, too—on Christmas Eve—so you could break your promise to Frank without fear of reprisal.”
Though she did not believe he was serious, she said, “And then watch you hang for their murder, leaving me with no one in the world to look after me? Not even Frank, who I am convinced would spurn me after I humiliated him by leaving him at the altar.”
He got quiet, as if to consider what she’d said. She, meanwhile, became acutely aware of the position of their bodies. He was on top of her, with his hips wedged between her legs. Only their clothing stood between them and the fulfillment of their passions. But how easily those obstacles could be eliminated. A few buttons loosed, a few layers lifted, and voila! She would have the token she came here to secure.
“You are right. Murder is not the answer. Though kidnapping might be.”
“Kidnapping? For heaven’s sake, Rollo. Who are you thinking of taking?”
He smirked. “You, of course.”
She drew her brows together. “Me? Are you mad? What good would that do?”
“It would do a world of good if I could keep you with me until you were missed. Oh, think of it, Pea. We could make love all night and, to hush up the scandal that would surely follow, your parents would have no choice but to give their consent.”
Tempted though she was by his scheme, she could not see how it would solve anything. If she spent the night with him, her parents might allow them to marry, but they would openly condemn the marriage and the means by which it was achieved. Just as Susan Morrison’s parents had abandoned her.
“I can’t, Rollo,” she said with a sigh. “There is too much at stake.”
“You would have little to say on the subject if I made you my captive.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“No, I would not. Much as I should like to, it’s not in my nature to hold you against your will. I’m not, however, above compelling a confession.” He stared into her eyes as if trying to read her mind. “How do you feel, Pea? What is in your heart? Love? Desire? Regret?” He brushed his lips against hers. “Please, dearest. Put me out of my misery. Give me that one small morsel to sustain me before you toss me out in the cold.”
She could not fight him anymore—or herself. She had tried to be the good, dutiful daughter her parents wanted her to be, but his power over her was too strong. “Fine, you win. I love you. There, I said it. Are you satisfied?”
“I might be, if you said it with a little less …” He nibbled and licked her lips with torturous sensuality. “Hostility.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re a devil, Rollo Gillingham. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Sadly, yes—though I flatter myself I’m not half as bad as the good people of Stow-on-the-Wold make me out to be.”
“I concur.” She ran her tongue along the seam of his lips. “For you were always very good to me.”
“And want to continue being so, as your adoring husband.” He caught her bottom lip and gently sucked it. “Now, are you going to say it like you mean it?—or am I going to have to take you over my knee?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said against his mouth.
“Oh, but I would,” he replied against hers, “and I promise you’d enjoy it.”
“I’m intrigued.”
He ran his tongue along her lower lip. “Later, my darling. Right now, I want to hear you say the words I long to hear—like you mean them this time.”
“I love you, Rollo,” she told him with all sincerity. “And to prove it, I will talk to my parents again.”
His eyebrows shot up. “About marrying me instead of Frank?”
“Yes.” She gave him a full-lipped kiss.
His eyes lit up and a smile spread across his mouth. “Oh, Pea. Do you mean it? Will you really marry me?”
“I will talk to them, Rollo. That’s all I can promise for now.”
Before they could make plans to meet up afterward, a loud rap sounded on the door. Panic-stricken, she said, “Oh, no. What should we do?”
“Keep quiet and hope they go away,” he whispered in reply.
She swallowed hard. “And if they don’t?”
“One of us will need to hide while the other attempts to get rid of them.”
Whoever it was pounded impatiently. “Come on, you two. You’ve been in there near an hour. Isn’t it time you gave someone else a turn?”
Chapter Seven
After rising, Rollo joined the two laborers he’d hired to help with the heavy work, which was progressing faster than expected. That, at least was encouraging—because he was determined to get Hollywell Abbey in order, even if his life remained in shambles.
Yes, he planned to lease it as soon as it was habitable, but that was neither here nor there. To him, the house was more than timber and stone. It was a symbol of his family’s honor.
While his mother lived, they were respectable members of the landed gentry. She’d been the glue that held the family together, and Papa, too, as it turned out. To quell his unbearable grief, Rollo’s father took to drinking and gambling. Soon enough, he became a fixture at the Hazard, Faro, and Rouge et Noir tables in nearby Cheltenham. Being a popular resort with Le Bon Ton, the town was home to an abundance of gambling hells of both high and low class.
To pay the debts he accrued, Papa mortgaged Hollywell Abbey, the Gillingham family seat since their ancestors acquired the former monastery after the Reformation. When the money was gone, the bailiffs stripped the house of its treasures, piece by piece. First, they took the silver, then the paintings, then the decorative accessories, and finally, the Elizabethan furniture his mother took such trouble to preserve.
Watching their family heirlooms being carted off by those to whom they meant nothing had been like losing his mother all over again. Rollo was able to save a few trinkets: his grandfather’s watch, his mother’s ring, and the dueling pistols which had been in the family for generations.
Tragically, he could not save his father, who was hauled off to debtor’s prison under a cloud of scandal. Having no profession or source of income, Rollo was sent to his Uncle John, who purchased his nephew a commission in the Royal Army.
Around noon, one of the Pembroke’s footmen delivered a note to Rollo at Hollywell. In it, Penelope informed him she’d spoken to her parents and would come to him after dinner to relay the result.
How could he not? They did not just skate together back then; they adapted actual dance steps to the ice. She’d always adored skating—one of the few physical activities permitted to young ladies—and he was no less fond of the amusement himself. The feeling of gliding along so effortlessly, so swiftly, so gracefully, had been all the more exhilarating with his Sweet Pea holding his hand.
He’d reread her note at least a dozen times, searching for any hint as to what she might say. To his great vexation, there were no subtleties to be found.
At the moment, he was gazing out the parlor window, impatient for nightfall. The shadows of twilight creeping over the snow assured him it would not be long now. The encroaching dusk heartened him. The day had seemed as endless as had the night before. He’d been too racked up over Penelope’s promise to talk to her parents to get any sleep, save intermittently.
His purpose, however, remained unchanged. Or, rather, had gained strength as a result of her confession last night.
He would marry her, confound it, whether or not her parents approved. Provided, of course, he could persuade her to stand her ground. It would be a shameful waste to throw away what they had over something as trivial as unjust prejudices. Theirs was a life passion, after all, not some puppyish infatuation that would fade away in time.
Had not the last ten years proved as much?
Marrying Frank (or anyone else, for that matter), therefore, would be a grave mistake that would plague both their hearts for the rest of their days.
Such torment was far worse than enduring parental estrangement. How could she not see that? Or, if she could see it, how could she condemn them both to such wretched existences?
He had no answer. He only knew that he had to find a way to convince her marrying him was the right and fitting choice—however much her parents might differ. But how to go about it? He’d tried everything he could think of, including threatening to keep her captive overnight, and he had no more cards to play.