Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

As he entered the study and saw that his mother was the only one in the room, he felt downright surly. “Good evening, Mother,” he said with a slight bow, then went directly to the sideboard to pour a brandy. He murmured a perfunctory, “To your health,” before tipping it back in one swallow.

  She sipped her claret and smiled over the rim. “And what has you in such a fine temper?”

  He poured another finger of brandy and didn’t answer. By her amused expression and the way she always had her ear tuned to the servants’ gossip, he knew she already had the answer.

  “From what I gather, you won’t be the only one in a foul temper at dinner this evening.”

  “Not by my choosing,” he grumbled into his glass.

  His mother chuckled, tsking as she shook her head. “I’m not certain Penelope feels that way, or else she would not have put cream all over your scones.”

  The servants had a tendency to embellish facts. “She merely mixed the cream into my marmalade. The scones were still edible.” He finished his brandy, wishing his mood had improved after the second glass. Yet, as the clock struck the hour, he remained ever conscious of the fact that he and his mother were still the only two people in the study. “As for her temper, if she chooses to be angry because I laughed at her foolishness, then so be it.”

  His mother lowered her glass, and down with it went her amusement. “You didn’t.”

  “I did,” he said, trying not to sound like he was defending himself. “I would react the same way if she came to me tomorrow with her idea of hiring a coach to take her as far as she could go. The very idea. For her to do that would be the same thing as arranging for her own kidnapping. Angry or not, if nothing else, I’ve helped to save her from herself. ”

  “Oh dear.” His mother sighed. “I wondered when this would happen.”

  This was not the reaction he expected. Where was her alarm? Where was her outrage?

  “You wondered when Penelope would concoct a scheme to set about her own ruin, did you? Well, you might have warned me.” He scoffed and thought again of another brandy.

  “Ethan, you must remember that Penelope is a lot like you.”

  Like him? Hardly.

  He was about to correct her when she held up her hand. Not wanting another woman to storm out of the room, he politely bit his tongue.

  “She finds comfort in the things that remain the same day after day,” she continued, staring at him pointedly. “Yet she has also watched her younger sister discover love and happiness in a new life of her own making. Eugenia was young when she leapt into the unknown. She didn’t know what she risked leaving behind if her leap fell short. However, Penelope knows.”

  He was still waiting to see a shred of surprise, but instead all she did was make excuses for Pen’s lunacy.

  His mother drew in a deep breath. “Above all, she fears risk. She catalogs all that could possibly go wrong and whom she could hurt in the process. She also fears abandoning her father, not wanting him to feel as they all felt when her mother died so many years ago.”

  “Then there is no question,” Ethan said, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “The way she felt when her mother died—that fear of loss—is still very much a part of her.”

  Their mutual loss was what had drawn him to Penelope when they were younger. Somehow, she helped fill the void. He was only thirteen when he discovered he could talk to a ten-year-old girl about the most painful experience of his life. That pain wasn’t anything he would have ever wished on her, but it was an undeniable part of both their lives. And, as much as he hated to admit it, this was the first time he ever thought something good might come of it. Because if she feared leaving, then she would abandon her foolish idea.

  He hated to admit it, but this time, he was afraid she meant to go through with it.

  He looked down into his glass and willed the brandy to help restore his mood. Then he willed the knot in his stomach to unwind.

  “You may be right,” his mother said, all too cryptically.

  He didn’t like the inevitable “but” that was sure to follow. The knot tightened further.

  “However, there comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to make a choice.” She held her hands aloft like balancing scales. “You can choose a life of the sameness you hold dear, or you can charge blindly into the unknown, never knowing what may come of it but all the while hoping to find true happiness.”

  True happiness. Penelope was happy, wasn’t she? Essentially, she was free to do what she pleased. She went shopping and to parties. People thought highly of her, even cared for her. She didn’t have to worry about her father’s being alone in his house. Her sister was well provided for and, by all accounts, happy in her marriage.

  In addition, if Penelope were ever struck by a female inclination to nurture a baby, she could always visit Eugenia. While Ethan had never been struck with the desire to have his cravat crumpled or puked on, he knew that if he ever was, Edmund had children aplenty to see to the task. Truly, what else could she want?

  AT A QUARTER past the hour, James Rutledge and his daughter arrived for dinner. Rutledge graciously blamed their tardiness on his old bones, and Ethan kept his doubts to himself. Shortly thereafter, the usual dinner went off without a hitch. Well, almost.

  Apparently, his mother had forgotten Penelope’s aversion to asparagus. So before they entered the dining room, Ethan spoke secretly with Hinkley and asked if a hasty addition could be made. Perhaps a bowl of cook’s special pickled beets? He knew they were her particular favorite.

  After that, dinner proceeded smoothly. Penelope sat in her usual place to his left, fidgeting with the napkin across her lap. The soup course came and went with the usual compliments to their cook. And when the beets were brought to Pen, her lips curved in her usual smile of delight.

  The knot in his stomach was a mere memory now.

  “Superb wine, Rutledge,” he commented with a salute of his glass to the opposite end of the table. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost believe the lamb fed from this very vintage, with how well they complement each other. Wouldn’t you agree, Pen?”

  “I would,” she offered graciously though lacking his enthusiasm. Her attention seemed engaged on her plate, where she cut her potato in imprecise cubes.

  He felt his brow furrow as he watched her and wondered if she was brooding over their earlier argument. She was quieter than usual, or at least it seemed she was. Then again, perhaps he was looking too closely, the memory of his mother’s words lingering like smoke after an explosion. But why should it bother him if Pen chose to stew over his reactions?

  The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if all he could expect from her were these two words, or if he should draw her out further. Wondered if the return of his good humor was premature.

  “While my fondness for Minerva’s pickled beets is unparalleled,” she continued, oblivious to his momentary angst as she laid down her knife with care, “I must admit that her parsley potatoes are running a close second in my esteem.”

  Ethan felt his brow unfurrow, and the corner of his mouth hitched upward. Pen was back to her usual self after all.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” his mother added, dabbing her napkin to her lips, all evidence of potatoes gone from her plate. “They came from our garden in Surrey—Oh, how I look forward to returning. The country is so lovely this time of year.”

  Rutledge offered an easy grin that went well with his nature. “In three more days, you will have your wish. I daresay, there isn’t parcel of land in all of England as lovely as the rolling hills and thicket of trees that our neighboring properties share.”

  Ethan was looking forward to the trip, too, though he kept the sentiment to himself. He enjoyed the quiet of the country, particularly in the mornings, when he and Pen inevitably found themselves walking together.

  Dinner conversation went on as if nothing had happened between them earlier. And if she wasn’t going to bring up th
eir earlier argument, then neither was he.

  When dinner ended, they retired to the music room for dessert and listened to his mother play the fortepiano.

  It seemed everything was as it should be once again.

  “You play so beautifully, Abigail,” James Rutledge commented from one of two winged chairs that banked the hearth. He gave his glass of brandy an absent swirl in the firelight. “Each time you play one of those trilling little notes, I can imagine a pair of dancers floating along with the music.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Penelope said, her mouth curving in a dreamy smile as she closed her eyes briefly. “When you play, I feel transported.”

  His mother blushed at the compliments. “Transported? Why that is high praise, my dear. And where did you go on your journey?”

  Ethan tried to remain relaxed, with one arm draped over the carved back of the settee, but the instant he discovered that Penelope was imagining herself somewhere else, all his earlier tension returned.

  “A ballroom at first, with candles glowing all around. Then a lush meadow alive with butterflies. And at the very end, I was on a mountaintop, with the first flakes of snow falling,” she said, her smile remaining. When she opened her eyes, it was as if they were strewn with stars, glittering with a light from within.

  He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. All this talk about being transported, and journeys, and hiring coaches was positively maddening. Why was she so determined to vex him?

  “It has been ages since I’ve played for people dancing. It always brought me such pleasure,” his mother said, her face glowing with a newly formed plot, no doubt. In fact, he was sure she was about to ask him to dance with Penelope in her next breath.

  He was trying to come up with an excuse when she interrupted his thoughts—

  “James, would you indulge me this once and take your daughter for a turn?”

  Ethan jerked his gaze toward his mother, to see if this was also part of her plot. But for all the world, it looked as if she hadn’t even considered him as a viable partner for Pen.

  Rutledge gave an apologetic shake of his head. “I haven’t danced in so long I’d surely end up crippling one, if not both, of us.”

  A small laugh escaped Penelope as she looked over at her father with affection. Ethan’s mother resumed playing as if the matter were settled.

  Still, no one regarded him.

  He was trying not to be offended. Clearing his throat, he stood. “I’d be happy to indulge you, Mother.”

  His mother’s face fell, and the notes ended with a sharp discord. “Oh, Ethan, please do not suppose I did this to corner you. We are all aware of how much you dislike dancing.” From her expression, he could now tell that she truly hadn’t been trying to manipulate him.

  Now, he actually was offended. “I don’t dislike dancing.”

  Speculative eyebrows rose from everyone in the room, but it was his mother who spoke. “And yet you managed to avoid dancing with Penelope during each of her seasons.”

  “That’s simple,” he stated with a shrug, fixing a mocking grin to his lips as he crossed to one of the winged chairs. “The reason for that was because I had no desire to repeat that first dance.”

  Penelope scoffed and ignored the hand he offered her.

  “Afraid that you’ll tread all over my feet again, Pen?”

  The stars left her eyes in a flash when she glared at him, leaving nothing behind but midnight blue. Taking his challenge, she stiffly slipped her hand into his and stood.

  He grinned at the small victory. Tucking her arm in the crook of his, he strode across the room to the open area in front of the wide doors that led to the garden.

  “I was only fifteen at the time, as you well know,” Pen grumbled when they stood facing each other.

  “A very awkward age, if I remember correctly.” He grinned when she glared at him, the moonlight behind him casting a glow over her freckles. “What type of dance would you like, Mother?”

  “A waltz of course,” she replied, adding a delicate trill of the keys. “I want to see all those swirling butterflies and snowflakes for myself.”

  Pen straightened her spine and elongated her neck until she looked as proud as a queen before she deigned to rest her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t recall you were any more graceful at eighteen.”

  He drew her a half step closer with the slightest pressure on her waist. “Dancing takes two, Pen.” His hand curled over her waist, his fingertips settling into the small of her back.

  Strange, he didn’t remember her being so slender at fifteen. Or perhaps it was that he didn’t notice the subtle flair of her hips before now. Through the soft silk of her blue gown, he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

  It was in that exact moment when Ethan realized he’d made a grave error in believing everything was still the same.

  This—whatever this was—was not the same. Not at all.

  She slipped her hand into his, and he was suddenly very aware of the softness of her fingers and how delicate and cool they were against the warmth of his palm.

  Anger receded from her gaze, replaced by what he would call uncertainty, as if the same vague sense of grave error had fallen upon her as well. “Aside from my dancing master, you were my first partner. I thought between the two of us, at least you would know what to do.”

  The music began.

  It was too late to turn the clock back to a few minutes ago. Too late to undo the challenge he had issued her by asking her to dance. Far, far too late.

  As if by rote, he stepped forward, moving with meticulous precision. He held her fluidly, yet firmly, just as the dance demanded. Her carriage was equally exact, her steps just as precise. She felt sublime in his arms, supple and graceful. They moved together as one, in perfect harmony. And yet . . .

  All at once, he wasn’t sure of himself, either as a competent dancer or as Ethan Holbrook Weatherstone. His entire world shifted in the space of single moment.

  You were my first partner.

  Those words were his undoing, shooting through him like a cataclysmic event, destroying everything inside of him that he knew to be true.

  This was Pen. By all accounts, she was his best friend, a fixed structure in his life. She was the one he teased just so she would her wrinkle her nose at him. She was the one whose laugh he could pinpoint in a crowd. She was the one person he knew better than he knew himself. He counted on the stability of knowing.

  Yet now, he wasn’t sure of anything.

  The music picked up, and so did their steps. He swept her across the floor, swirling in circles. Every breath he took was filled with her familiar scent. Roses and orange blossoms, all fresh and clean like springtime . . . and Pen.

  His body trembled with the effort to move with the dance, when all he wanted was to stop this madness. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her against him. He wanted to kiss those lips that were parted in wonder as she gazed up at him right now—

  The music ended.

  Ethan huffed from exertion and relief as they stopped. A sheen of perspiration cooled the back of his neck.

  Penelope was out of breath as well, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. “That was . . .”

  “Yes. Quite.” He wished he hadn’t noticed her lips. Now, he was unable to look away, even as they curved into a smile.

  “It seems you’ve worked up an appetite,” she said with a small laugh. Her eyes were filled with light again, like stars on a blanket of midnight. When he questioned her with a lift of his brow, she supplied, “You’re licking your lips again.”

  He took a step back, struck again with the certainty that nothing would ever be the same from this point on.

  Chapter Three

  THE NEXT MORNING at her needlework, Penelope was determined to branch out and try something new. Her stitched flower arrangements seemed stifled, suffocated even, to the point where she didn’t think she ever wanted to stitch another flower again.
>
  Now, in the draper’s shop, she stared at a collection of colored thread, hoping a new color would inspire her. However, disappointment washed over as, yet again, her hope for something different failed. She’d already used every color here.

  Last night after dinner, she’d hoped for something different, too. And for a while, it had happened. She’d danced with Ethan for the first time in ten years.

  Their first time, she’d been horribly awkward and uncharacteristically shy. In fact, she was surprised her clumsiness hadn’t maimed him. Back then, she couldn’t understand it. She’d danced well enough with the dancing master. But with Ethan . . . it was as if she’d noticed her limbs for the first time, and she wasn’t quite sure how they were all supposed to work together. Months of instruction flew from her head like dandelion fluff on a summer breeze. Unfortunately, her feet were not quite as light. Fluff might have left her brain, but fieldstones seemed to have filled her shoes.

  Thankfully, no permanent damage had been done during the dance; instead, Ethan merely used her tromping all over his feet as a basis for teasing her.

  He teased her until she was eighteen and began her first season. Then, at their family dinners, he’d teased her more, asking if she’d managed to stay on her feet or her partner’s. He continued to tease her even when she’d turned two-and-twenty and had ended her fourth and final season with the declaration that she would never marry.

  Now, three years later, he was still teasing her.

  Normally, she didn’t mind the teasing, but lately . . . he irked her to no end. And it wasn’t just the teasing that irritated her. His propensity to want everything to remain the same was about to drive her mad.

  Didn’t he ever long for something new and exciting?

  For a moment last night, she thought she’d recognized a kindred spirit in the way his eyes blazed with light. There was something positively molten in them. His dark pupils expanded, pushing the pale tea color to a rim along the outer edge, where it seemed to glow from within. She’d had a wondrous notion that something monumental was about to happen.