“She’s leaving, you know.”
“What?” He shot up, feeling his head spin and all the blood drain out of his body.
His mother nodded gravely. “She’s going to live with her sister. Eventually, she’ll be governess to Eugenia’s children.”
No. No. No, his mind railed. This could not be happening. Surely, in time, she could find a way to forgive him. Surely, in time, the kiss would become a mere memory and everything would go on in the same manner as it always had.
His life depended upon it.
“How can she do this?”
His mother turned away with a shrug. “It really is the best thing for Penelope. After all, what does she have to look forward to by staying with her father? All she has is her needlework.”
“She has more than that. She has—” He stopped abruptly, not wanting to reveal the depth of his heartache. Not even wanting to admit it to himself.
“You?” his mother asked, finishing his unspoken admission. As if she could see into his heart, she dared him to deny it with the sly lift of her brow.
He refused to respond, turning to stare out the window. He wasn’t going to have this conversation with his mother. He didn’t even want to think about it.
“But she doesn’t really have you. All she has are dinners a few nights a week. All she has are conversations in your study. All she has are the morning walks when you find yourselves running into each other as if by chance.”
She has more than that, he argued. She had his high regard. She had his undivided attention. She had his . . . heart.
All of it. She possessed every single beat and even the space in between.
“She’s spent so long being content with what you two had, that I believe it quite surprised her to discover that her life was passing by. I think it took seeing her sister so happily settled with a husband and family for her to realize that she wanted more.”
More? A desperate need awakened inside of him. He wanted more, too. But there was too much he risked losing in the process. Already he’d altered one thing between them, and look at how that turned out. She was leaving.
His mother sighed. “I know you fear that a single action or alteration on your part will put everything you have with Penelope at risk. What you don’t see is that by doing nothing, you risk even more,” she said simply, then lifted her palms, weighing her words with one, then the other. “All you have to do is decide if what you have now is worth risking for the chance at greater happiness.”
“I could lose her,” he said before he could stop the words from tumbling out.
His mother blinked up at him, surprised by his admission, but pleased. She gave him a watery smile. “Or you could gain so much more.”
Chapter Eight
CHRISTMAS EVE WITH the Weatherstones had been a standing tradition for the past fifteen years. For Penelope, it was to be her last.
After next week, she would be living with her sister and celebrating next Christmas with Eugenia’s family. Of course, her father would most likely travel to Plymouth for the season, as well. So this could very well be the last year for any of them.
She did her best not to think about it when she arrived and saw the country house decorated with fragrant pine wreaths and red and silver bows. She tried not to think about it at dinner when Ethan mentioned they were having the last of Minerva’s pickled beets—which, according to Abigail, he’d made a special trip to London in order to bring them back for this occasion. And she tried not to think about it now, as they sat in the living room, listening to Abigail play joyful carols on the fortepiano.
Penelope felt anything but joyful. Weren’t there hymns or carols that expressed one’s melancholy on this holiday? She sighed, thankful the sound was disguised by the final trilling notes of “Here We Come A Wassailing.”
In fine spirits, her father clapped and stood up from the settee beside her. “Marvelous playing, Abigail. I could listen to these happy tunes for hours,” he said as he made his way to the tree and plucked a ribboned scroll from one of the branches. “Which reminds me of a special gift I thought of just for you.”
Having drunk far too much Christmas punch, he presented the scroll to her with a flourish. Smiling, Abigail eagerly took the scroll, slipping the ribbon off with haste like a girl unwrapping her first doll.
“James Rutledge, you spoil me,” she tittered in delight. “Why it’s the perfect piece of music for this day. However did you know?”
Hooking his thumbs beneath the fabric of his lapels, he rocked back on his feet and grinned. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while now. It is Bach’s most celebrated work.”
Abigail took his hand, thanked him, then stood to retrieve a small package wrapped in brown paper, handing it to him. “For you.”
Her father made a show of shaking it by his ear and wiggling his eyebrows as if he’d guessed some great secret before he unwrapped it. “My favorite pipe tobacco. How thoughtful, Abigail.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you.”
Penelope watched them with a bittersweet joy. They were all such good friends, close as any two families could be. She would miss this. She would miss this very, very much.
Ethan jumped up from his chair, which was unusual for him. This evening, he’d had a sort of nervous energy about him. He never fidgeted, but she’d noticed him toying with his napkin at dinner, then, just a moment ago, pulling on the fringes of a pillow.
It was almost comical in a way because she was not fidgeting. Instead, she was unusually reserved, sitting on the settee with her hands sedately clasped in her lap.
“I believe I saw a familiar-looking package in the tree for me, Pen,” Ethan said, as he fished through the boughs to the small, square package. This year, she’d chosen to wrap his gift in a scrap of linen she’d purposely stained with tea in an effort to match the color of his eyes.
He resumed his place on the armchair, poised at the very edge as he unwrapped the package, as if he didn’t already know what was inside. When he saw the handkerchiefs, a smile broke over his face. “Pen, you have no idea how much I look forward to these each year, to admire your fine stitching and the designs you loop off the letters. I see the tiniest of gray moths on the tail of the E. Yes, I do believe these are the finest yet.”
Every year it was usually the same thing. First the handkerchiefs, then the nod of acknowledgment. However, this year, of all years, he chose to flatter her needlework. This year, of all years . . . and when she needed the sameness in order to keep herself sane.
His pretty words were too much. Her emotions, already like a cup full of Christmas punch, were threatening at each moment to spill out. She didn’t want his compliment. She’d wanted to take one last nod from him with her. One final nod to bury in her wounded heart.
“I—” she stopped, her voice cracking. She had every intention of telling him how glad she was that he liked them. But when she tried again, nothing came out. Instead, a sudden rush of tears flowed from her eyes. All she could think of was how this was going to be the very last Christmas with him.
Unable to bear it any longer, she fled the room, rushing to the safety of the dark study.
Standing beside his desk, she wiped away the tears with her fingertips, and when those became too damp, she used the heels of her hands. She tried to compose herself. After all, she only had to wait a short while longer, and she could thoroughly give in to her misery, and no one would be the wiser.
“You left without your present, Pen,” Ethan said from behind her, his voice low.
She sniffed and discreetly wiped her wet hands over her knitted shawl. “Present? But you already gave me your present.” He’d settled her account for needlework supplies. For the very last time. The thought caused her next breath to come in ragged.
“Yes, but this year, I have one more gift for you.” He remained behind her, and something in the controlled manner of his tone made her realize that stepping away from the routine must be very difficult for him.
He was quiet for a moment. So quiet, she wasn’t sure if she’d offended him. But just as she was about to apologize, he spoke. “When I saw it, I knew it was made solely for you, no matter what story the jeweler told.”
The jeweler? And then suddenly she understood. He’d gotten her a gift—no, more of a memento—from their small morning adventure. She turned, expecting to see the odd jade tortoise in his hand or even the hideous bird, a joke shared between them.
However, when she saw what he was actually holding, the carefully crafted smile she wore died on her lips. Tears threatened again. In fact, they were probably spilling down her cheeks, only she was too shocked to notice.
It was the ring.
Even in the dimness of the room, the dark sapphires glinted with a fascinating light that held her stare.
“I love you, Pen,” Ethan said simply, as if he’d said it a million times, and she’d heard him utter the words for years upon years.
She blinked, staring at him, wondering if she’d gone mad and was imagining all of this.
It wasn’t possible. In their world of routine and sameness, nothing like this was possible.
“Everything is chaos without you. You, who can never be still for a single moment. You, who constantly challenges my sanity. You, with your wry wit and the way that you know me better than I know myself. You”— he took a breath and stepped forward, using one of his handkerchiefs to wipe the tears from her face—“are the only way I can find peace in my own life.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
He grinned, contradicting her by nodding. “I need you, Pen. I need you more than I need a straight cravat or a smudgeless accounting ledger or even orange marmalade. I need you more than I need air to breathe.” He stepped closer, slipping his arms around her waist, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Because you are my air. I can only breathe when you are near. And if you will not be mine, if you will not consent to be my wife, then I may never breathe again.”
She looked up at him and saw that his expression was no longer teasing but serious. “Wife?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly. This was very . . . not sameness.
He nudged her nose with his, gazing intently at her. “Yes.”
“You want to marry me?” She felt she had to clarify, just in case.
He chuckled and kissed her all-too-briefly on the lips. “That is the general idea. I don’t know of another way to go about trying to have you as my wife, so yes, I believe I’m asking you to marry me.”
She smiled at his teasing. This, she knew, would always be the same. “You can’t blame me for needing clarification. It is rather unlike you, after all. I would have expected a paper marked with notes on how to proceed.”
Again, he laughed, squeezing her tightly to him. “You know me so well. I had planned to get down on bended knee in the music room, in front of our parents, and very poetically ask you to be my wife.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “My plan was much simpler than what turned out, I’m afraid.”
She closed her eyes as he trailed kisses along her jaw. “I like this way much better.”
“You do?” He smiled against the spot just below her ear, nipping her bare lobe gently.
Mmm . . . She made a sound of agreement. “Do you really need me more than you need a smudgeless ledger?”
Ethan lifted his head and regarded her. “You doubt it?”
She lifted her brows and gave him a teasing grin as she shrugged, challenging him to prove it.
Without releasing her, he moved to his chair and sat down, pulling her down with him. He opened the top drawer to his left, and there, he drew out his ledger. She recognized it as the one from town by the volume number stamped into the cover. Opening it, he showed her. With a look of triumph, he pointed to a large smudge of ink near the center that completely obscured the figures beneath it. “That was the day I realized how much I love you.”
She looked up at the date, her heart warming at the sight, and now understanding why she’d seen such a peculiar light in his eyes the day he took her to the jewelers.
“Oh, Ethan, it took you that long to know?” She released a dramatic sigh, one of her best, she was sure. “I’ve known for years.”
Epilogue—Christmas
PENELOPE AWOKE THE next morning, happier than she’d ever been in her life. She skipped down the stairs before any of the servants were awake. She couldn’t wait to start planning the rest of her life with Ethan.
Stepping into her father’s study, she noted the tufted armchair by the fire. While it was similar to the one in his London study, she was no longer haunted by the specter of her future self. Instead, the happy vision of children and laughter filled her mind. She sighed with contentment and spun around.
“Good morning,” Ethan said, surprising her by standing in the doorway.
She went to him, rushing into his arms for no better reason than because she could. “Good morning.” She lifted her mouth to his and received a very nice kiss. A perfect kiss. “What brings you here so early?”
He grinned at her, his eyes alight with molten copper. “A morning adventure.”
“Oh?” Hmm . . . Perhaps he was here for more than a perfect kiss. The idea warmed her to her toes.
He chuckled as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. “I’m here to kidnap my would-be bride and take her to Gretna Green.”
She drew in a startled breath, her mouth curving in a wide grin. “But what about our parents? Surely, they will be heartbroken.” However, at the moment, it was difficult to quash her excitement and summon the proper degree of concern.
“Don’t worry, I left a note on your father’s desk,” he said, anticipation glowing brightly in his eyes. “And I left a note for my mother as well.”
“You know, for not having much practice in spontaneity, you are very good at it,” she said, as they walked together out into the hall. There, she saw her traveling cloak and her satchel waiting on the table.
She eyed him speculatively and shook her head, feigning disappointment. “You planned this?”
He shrugged, looking mildly chagrined. “I asked your maid to pack for you last night.”
Once again, Penelope threw her arms around Ethan and kissed him, simply because she could. “Mr. Weatherstone, I love you dearly. You are, by far, the best adventure of all.”
About Vivienne Lorret
VIVIENNE LORRET loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two teenage sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). When she isn’t writing, you might find her in line at Starbucks, eager to refuel with a chai latte and randomly handing out crocheted cup-cozies with a way-too-much-caffeine smile on her face. For more on her upcoming novels, visit her at www.vivlorret.net.
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THE ETHER CHRONICLES
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An Excerpt from
NIGHTS OF STEEL
THE ETHER CHRONICLES
by Nico Rosso
Return to The Ether Chronicles, where rival bounty hunters Anna Blue and Jack Hawkins join forces to find a mysterious fugitive, only to g
et so much more than they bargained for. The skies above the American West are about to get wilder than ever . . .
Take his hand? Or walk down the broken stairs to chase a cold trail. Anna’s body was still buffeted by waves of sensation. The meal was an adventure she shared with Jack. Nearly falling from the stairs, only to be brought close to his body, had been a rush. The hissing of the lodge was the last bit of danger, but it had passed.
The wet heat of that simple room was inviting. Her joints and bones ached for comfort. Deeper down, she yearned for Jack. They’d been circling each other for years. The closer she got—hearing his voice, touching his skin, learning his history—the more the hunger increased. She didn’t know where it would lead her, but she had to find out. All she had to do was take his hand.
Anna slid her palm against his. Curled her fingers around him. He held her hand, staring into her eyes. She’d thought she knew the man behind the legend and the metal and the guns, yet now she understood there were miles of territory within him she had yet to discover.
Their grips tightened. They drew closer. He leaned down to her. She pressed against his chest. In the sunlight, they kissed. Neither hid their hunger. She understood his need. His lips on hers were strong, devouring. And she understood her yearning. Probing forward with her tongue, she led him into her.
And it wasn’t enough. Their first kiss could’ve taken them too far and she’d had to stop. Now, with Jack pressed against her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his lips against hers, too far seemed like the perfect place to go.
They pulled apart and, each still gripping the other’s hand, walked back into the lodge room. Sheets of steam curled up the walls and filled the space, bringing out the scent of the redwood paneling. The room seemed alive, breathing with her.
Jack cracked a small smile. “This guy, Song, I like his style. Lot of inventors are drunk on tetrol. Half-baked ideas that don’t work right.” He held up his half-mechanical hand. “People wind up getting hurt.”
Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection Page 32