“How can you be so . . . so unaffected all the time?” Her voice rose with her accusation. “Haven’t you ever dreamed for something outside the realm of possibility? Or are you content with each day so long as your cravat is perfectly pleated?”
She glared at the offending garment, struck by a ridiculous notion to crumple it. No sooner had the idea formed that she gave in to the impulse and moved forward on her seat, her arm reaching forward.
Ethan stopped her, taking hold of her wrist. His eyes flared. Before she could react, he yanked, propelling her forward to land clumsily on his lap.
“How dare—”
His mouth covered hers, silencing her outrage. Her head spun, reeling from the sudden scorching heat of his kiss.
This was a kiss, wasn’t it? Yet, it was nothing like her dreams, where his rehearsed request was followed by carefully controlled actions. No, this was no gentle dream. This was hard and demanding. His tongue didn’t request entrance but swept in and plundered.
His arms were not gentle either. In fact, he held her so tightly she couldn’t move, and grasped her wrist so she couldn’t touch him or push him away.
But she’d never push him away.
Instead, she wanted to cling to him. Her anger evaporated in a rush of steam. Her mind cried out for more of this glorious punishment. She wanted his kiss to burn her, through and through. This was the first time she’d been warm in months.
A mew of frustration tore from her throat when his firm hold would not budge. She wriggled and pulled. Finally, she managed to free her hand, but at the cost of the buttons at her wrist as her glove was stripped away. Yet, she didn’t care.
Now, she was free to touch him. Her bare hand found its way to his hair, threading through the thick, heavy waves. The smooth locks wound around her fingers in a caress. How long had she wondered at the texture or longed for this freedom? Forever, at least.
She returned his kiss with the fervor she’d kept locked away for years. Her tongue mingled with his. A tentative stroke at first. Then a few slow swipes until she knew the intimate interior of his mouth as well as he knew hers. She touched the sharp ridges of his teeth and felt compelled to rake hers across his tongue. He groaned in response, his arms tightening around her.
She squirmed against him, feeling very much like a cat in need of affection. He seemed to know this, because in the next instant he unclasped her fur-trimmed cloak and let it fall to the carriage floor. His hands were on her, caressing the length of her back. From her nape to the swells of her derriere, his fingertips traced every vertebra of her spine, leaving none unexplored.
Never once did he break the kiss. Never once did he ease the pressure. The kiss remained a force to be reckoned with, too long denied. With her eyes closed, she felt the pull of his lips more keenly and was mesmerized into answering with the same urgency.
Ethan. . .
Those same hands, which were meticulous with writing figures in a ledger, were just as meticulous with the row of tiny buttons at the front of her half jacket.
Penelope did not know how to describe what happened next. Until now, she could have only dreamed of such a passionate kiss. Let alone ever imagined how wondrous it would feel to have his hands on her body.
The heat of those hands seared through the thin fabric of her dress and her chemise as her jacket parted. Her flesh grew taut, responding to his touch. A sharp spear of sensation stabbed her with the most exquisite pain, which tightened low in her belly. She arched against his hand, wanting more of this sublime torture.
He obliged her, chafing the fabric over her nipple with the pad of his thumb. She squirmed against him again, feeling hot and liquid and never wanting this to end. She was infinitely glad she did not get on the mail coach. This was a far better way to travel.
Ethan deepened the kiss, stripping away her ability to think. Every glorious pull of his lips, every sublime stroke of his tongue exposed more of the yearning she’d locked away. She could not get enough. He dragged down the front of her dress, exposing her breast to the chilly winter air, her nipple contracting in the cold. Yet his warm hand covered her instantly, pressing and kneading her flesh until she ached for more.
Her body was a mass of tingles. The quivering low in her belly intensified unbearably. She pressed herself against the hardness of his thigh to quell the throbbing ache between hers. A sweet sob escaped her at the contact.
He tore his mouth away, his eyes hooded and fiery. When he looked down at her flesh in his hands, an expression of blatant ownership swept over his features. It was as if he said she was his, and there was no denying it.
Yes, something desperate inside her cried. Yes, I am yours. Make me yours!
In answer to her unspoken plea, he bent his head and closed his mouth over her taut flesh. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt. Hot and wet, he drew her deeply into his mouth. It was like being stung, but the pain was sweeter, sharper. Relentless, his tongue flicked over her, abrading her, making her squirm more against him. His skilled fingers plucked her other nipple, intensifying the feeling until the sharp stings and the throbbing ache below were in rhythm with each other.
Her whole body tightened. She rocked her hips again. Suddenly, her body convulsed, her hips moving without her consent, her breasts tightening to the point of shattering. He groaned again, his teeth gently raking over her flesh.
And then she did shatter on a wordless moan, clutching him fiercely as wave after wave of pleasure washed through the shattered pieces of her.
All at once, she was so exhausted she couldn’t open her eyes. She sagged in Ethan’s arms, barely holding on to him as he settled back onto the seat with her.
THE NEXT THING she was aware of was Ethan’s carrying her into her father’s study and laying her down on the settee. It was still early yet; the sweet aroma of freshly baked breakfast pastries filled the house.
He paused to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “We will talk about this later.”
She blushed and nodded. Now that they were no longer in the confines of the carriage, knowing what had just occurred made her feel shy. Strange, she didn’t feel shy at all while it was happening.
He must have been feeling a little shy as well because he looked guiltily away. Then, as if he’d known her plot by heart, he made his way to her father’s desk. On top, sat two folded letters. Ethan picked them both up and likely noted that one was addressed to him. She swallowed nervously, wondering if he would read it now. How could she bear to look at him after what she’d written, after admonishing him for being the cause of her needing to leave?
Yet, in the next moment, he moved to the hearth. Without asking for her consent, he threw the unopened letters into the fire.
He glanced over at her again, his unruly hair delightfully disheveled. “When Vernon let me in, I merely told him you suffered a fall on your morning walk. So, perhaps you could limp around a bit to make it convincing.”
“Oh. All right.” She blushed again, realizing only now that her clothes were back in order.
Looking up, she hoped to find reassurance in his gaze. She received a small smile instead and a nod before he left.
Chapter Six
THE WEATHERSTONES AND the Rutledges set out late the next morning and traveled all day. Once they reached the halfway point of their journey, they stopped at an inn for the night. Being so late in the year and with the threat of snow hanging in the dark-lined clouds overhead, there weren’t many travelers, and the owner and his wife doted on those who were there. In fact, they were so well tended to that Penelope didn’t have a single moment to speak with Ethan.
Of course, she wasn’t expecting a declaration of love over a bowl of turnips, especially with their parents so close by. However, she did expect more than their usual conversation, which consisted of remarks on the delicious pork pie, the fine crust on the jam tart, the robust flavor of the mulled wine . . .
Yet, when she mentioned how the country air must have given him qu
ite the appetite, he averted his gaze.
For her, something monumental had occurred between them. Something that changed her entire outlook. Something that made her hope for the first time in . . . forever. Surely, their relationship wasn’t destined to remain the same. The specter of her future was far away. In place of the old woman at her needlework was a life filled with dark, passionate kisses and a love that was its own adventure.
Yes, she would be very happy to have many more adventures like the one she had with Ethan yesterday morning. She wouldn’t even mind if kisses were somehow worked into their daily routine.
She smiled on a sip of wine and glanced down to her plate, situated, as usual, to the left of his. “The roasted parsnips are particularly fine. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Weatherstone?”
For the first time since they stopped here in their separate carriages, he regarded her. A look of relief washed over him as he nodded. “Very fine, Miss Rutledge. And how did you find the beets?”
“Fair. But not nearly as fine as your Minerva’s beets.” She wasn’t entirely sure she liked that look of relief. It certainly didn’t bode well for where her thoughts were at this precise moment. Because she was still wondering how to approach the topic of scheduled kisses. Perhaps once they were settled, she would join him for a morning walk in the country and discuss it.
She could picture their debate clearly in her mind. He would suggest Tuesdays and Thursdays before dinner, and she would state that Wednesdays and Fridays after dessert would be better, simply for the sake of being contrary.
“I see your ankle has recovered from yesterday morning,” Abigail Weatherstone commented from across the table, startling her from her musings. “You were so fortunate to have Ethan so close at hand.”
She did her best to hide her blush behind her wineglass. Abigail had a way of being too direct at times, and her gaze now told Penelope that she suspected something other than a morning walk had gone on between them.
“Yes, very,” she said quickly. “As you suggested, I do believe resting in the carriage was the best thing for it. I used the time to work on the most beautiful butterfly. I’d love to show you after dinner.”
“I would like that,” she said with a smile, but her direct gaze remained. “I’ve always been fascinated with butterflies. For so long, they go about seemingly unnoticed, then one day they are transformed, and the world suddenly changes. For the better, I think. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Penelope nodded, knowing that an understanding had passed between them. An uncontrollable smile curved her mouth. “Yes, very much so.”
Abigail lifted her glass. “To butterflies, my dear?”
She reached forward and touched Abigail’s glass with a clink.
“What say you, Ethan?” her father asked with a chuckle from the opposite end of the table. “Shall we toast to a more manly insect? Perhaps a centipede?”
However, the joke appeared to have been lost on Ethan, for he did not smile. In fact, he seemed in another world, lost to his own thoughts. Once he realized he was being studied by the group, he cleared his throat. “Yes, of course,” he said, and absently lifted his glass to mimic the rest of them.
PENELOPE AND ABIGAIL were to share a room, just as Ethan and her father would. However, when she returned to her room, she discovered that her needlework was not with her things. Knowing that her satchel had probably been put in her father’s room, she stepped across the hall, prepared to knock on the door.
Yet, before she could, she encountered Ethan pacing the narrow hall. His cravat was askew and, by the way the wavy locks drooped over his forehead, his hair looked as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. Noticing her, he stopped suddenly. The dark worry in his gaze caused her own worry to rise.
“Are you unwell?” Truly, she’d never seen him like this.
“No,” he said after a moment, then appeared to think on it, and again replied, “No.”
Without thinking, she went to him, lifting a hand to touch his face to see if he felt overly warm. But like before, he seized her wrist. “No,” he said again, sterner this time.
She pulled back as if he’d slapped her. “Am I not allowed to display my concern?”
He lowered his head on an exhale and raked his hand through his hair. “Of course. And you have. I know you care for me, Pen.”
A feeling of dread washed over her. Suddenly, she understood, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want the terrible understanding to fully form because she feared her heart could not take it. Butterflies were fragile creatures.
“Care for you?” She loved him. She’d always loved him. It had simply taken most of her life to realize how much her happiness depended on him. “Surely, since you know practically everything about me, you would know my feelings better by now.”
He looked nervous, his eyes darting to the closed doors on either side of them. With a jerk of his head, he gestured for her to follow him to the end of the hall near the window that overlooked the stables.
“First of all,” he began quietly, his troubled expression turning to resolve, “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you yesterday morning. I was in a panic and overwrought.”
“No, you were angry,” she corrected. “You thought I was simply being foolish.”
“Yes, well . . . there’s that.” He locked his grave gaze with hers. “You put yourself in danger, and I didn’t know how to react. If I hadn’t been up all night . . . Hadn’t chanced to look out the window to see you leave on your foolish—” He stopped and drew in an unsteady breath. “When I finally saw you, I wanted to shake you. Try to shake some sense into you.”
She blanched, hating where this conversation was going, but she had to ask. “What stopped you?”
“I couldn’t hurt you, Pen. And yet, I was so . . . overwrought that I simply reacted.” He raked a hand through his hair again and paced in the small space in front of her. “In the light of things now, I realize my actions were unconscionable, on an equal footing with my first impulse.”
The kiss. The perfect, magical, passionate kiss that transformed her life had happened solely because he couldn’t rationalize shaking her?
Penelope’s head spun, her world tilting. She wanted to step back and lean against the wall for support, but her feet were rooted to the floor. She wanted to close her eyes with the hope that if she didn’t look at him, his words wouldn’t hurt as much, but her gaze remained fixed on him.
He stopped in front of her, his expression full of contrition, his arms locked at his sides. “It was a most unfortunate incident, and I do hope you’ll forgive me. I think you know, my life would never be the same without you,” he added, almost inaudibly.
She swallowed against a sob that was building in the back of her throat. “The same?”
“Our family dinners. Our chats in my study. Surely, you must also regard those moments with fondness.” He attempted a smile, but it did not reach his apologetic eyes. “We keep each other sane, you and I.”
Sane? She was feeling anything but sane at the moment. She wanted to crawl out of her skin and be anywhere else.
“I would hate for my lapse in decorum to risk that.”
“Lapse in—” Her heart sank, but she refused to allow him to notice. “No, of course you would not. Everything must remain the same.”
Ethan must not have heard the censure in her statement because he nodded. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I bid you good night.”
Without waiting for her response, he turned sharply on his heel and walked down the hall, disappearing into the shadow of the stairway.
She stared at the vacancy he left long after the echoes of his footsteps died away. For knowing Ethan as well as she did, she should have known better than to believe the whispers of her foolish heart.
Chapter Seven
WHEN PENELOPE MISSED the first of their dinners once they’d arrived in the country, it was completely understandable. After all, her father had said she was still wear
y from their travels.
However, then she missed another. And then two more.
Ethan, too, had been plagued by an ailment. In fact, he couldn’t seem to shake free of it. Every day for a week, he’d felt listless, unable to focus on his accounts or clear his head. His appetite disappeared. Even the cook’s scones and orange marmalade held no appeal.
Still, he waited for a visit from Pen. Of course, it was colder now. The walk between their country houses was longer than the distance between number 7 and number 3. Still, a carriage would make the journey shorter. He’d make it himself, if only he knew she would receive him . . .
Damn. He wished she would walk in right now, letting him know that everything would be the same again. Letting him know that he hadn’t irrevocably harmed everything they had by losing control.
Surely, the heavens would not punish him for one time. Surely, they knew how many times he’d denied the impulse to hold Pen in his arms, to taste her lips, to feel her body against his . . .
He doubled over as a deep, welling emptiness tore through his heart, an ache so profound he did not think he would survive it.
“Ethan!” his mother exclaimed, rushing into the study to his side. “What is it, dear?”
He held up a hand in reassurance. “It is nothing.” Clutching the side of the desk with his other hand, he gradually stood and drew in a breath. He faced her and offered a smile of reassurance. “Breakfast did not appeal to me, and so I have not eaten today.”
“Nor did you eat last night,” she chided, hovering next to him as he made his way to the chair. “Even James commented on it, wondering if both you and Penelope were suffering the same ailment.”
“Surely not.” He knew the true reason Pen had avoided the dinners. She couldn’t forgive him for losing control. She must hate him. She must . . .
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