by Linda Banche
If Penelope’s father hadn’t written that letter saying she refused to wed him…
Cursing the failed promise of love, he swung Atlas back toward the manor house.
His return route passed the rose garden. A bleak spot, a garden in winter. Brown earth, brown twigs, brown leaves. Nary a scrap of green in sight. The large white arbor set in the middle of the mulched beds rose stark against its drab surroundings.
In the center of the arbor sat a lady garbed in a dark blue pelisse.
Charles gripped the reins so hard Atlas shied. Penelope! And above her, on the arbor’s cross bar, dangled a clump of brilliant green mistletoe.
***
Heavy footfalls pounded in the garden. Penelope raised her head.
Charles, halfway down the straight path, charged toward the arbor.
Her throat closing, she jumped up and pressed herself against the side of the bower.
Charles leapt up the steps, onto the bench and then tore at the canes atop the crossbar. Muttering curses and the occasional “ouch” as the thorns fought back, he wrestled with the roses.
Tattered pieces of rose bush showered onto her. She flung up her arms to deflect the spiky debris.
Then, as quickly as he started, he stopped. Slowly, he lowered his arms and then jumped down. Eyes narrowed, he picked at his torn and scarred gloves, muttering another “ouch” or two. Then he squinted one-eyed at the top of the arbor. He scratched his head, his tall beaver hat tipping at a rakish angle over his brow.
Long repressed memories flared to life. He had worn his hat that way when they courted. She’d loved the hat on him like that. She still did.
His lips pressed together, he bowed to her. “I beg your pardon. I thought I saw—mugwort up there.”
“Mugwort?”
“Yes, a dangerous plant, but I was mistaken. You have nothing to fear.” Still, he once more climbed onto the bench and ran his hands over the cross bar. After a final glare at the arbor, he stepped down. “Blasted mistletoe.”
“Did you see mistletoe on the arbor?”
His head snapped up as if her voice had broken him out of a trance. “No, no mistletoe.” He cleared his throat. “Is the weather not fine for this time of year?”
Chapter 4
With a calm he didn’t feel, Charles escorted Penelope to the house.
Edward must have been funning him. No mistletoe? Ha! The weed blanketed the house, and the gardens, too. The surrounding forest probably consisted of denuded oak trees, the hapless mistletoe ripped from their sagging branches by hordes of demented gardeners.
Penelope must be in on the joke. There was no other reason she would always stand beneath the plant.
Yesterday he’d found himself outside the sewing room, of all places. How he found that nondescript little nook buried in the bowels of the house was beyond him. And he happened upon that almost-hidden room exactly when Penelope was there. She hadn’t seen him, but he saw her, again under a sprig of mistletoe.
If he weren’t a rational man, he would think supernatural forces were at work. Especially since he hadn’t been able to locate that benighted sewing room afterwards when he made a deliberate search.
Her warmth bridged the bare inches between them, igniting an answering warmth in him.
Curse his continued feelings for her. He clasped his arms behind his back to prevent himself from sweeping her up and kissing her until they both gasped for air.
Instead, he beat the topic of the weather to death as he walked. At the door, he bowed, and then returned to Atlas, who calmly grazed on the brown grass at the edge of the rose garden. After seeing the horse tended to in the stable, he then marched straight to the library and Edward’s stash of brandy. Noon was a little early for a drink, but he needed something to fortify himself.
He insulted Edward’s exquisite brandy by draining the glassful too quickly to savor the taste. Then he coughed and coughed until the fire in his throat subsided. At least the discomfort also calmed his racing heart.
He balled his fists and winced. Blasted thorns. Unfortunately, the spirits did nothing for his lacerated hands. He had better have his valet tend them. Wincing more, he trudged upstairs to his chamber.
Turner, his valet, stuck his head out from behind the clothespress door. “Good afternoon, sir, did you enjoy your ride?”
“Yes. But I need your help with my gloves.” He tugged at one glove. “I got caught in a thorn bush.”
The valet quirked an eyebrow. “As you were riding? How unusual.”
With Turner’s help, Charles peeled off the tight kid gloves, sucking in a breath as the leather snagged on the abraded skin. “My favorite gloves. I regret that I ruined them.”
“As do I.” Turner’s visage colored such a violent red that he might have an apoplexy. To him, every item of Charles’s wardrobe, however mundane, was a treasure of the highest value. “But that is neither here nor there.” He clucked as he smoothed ointment onto Charles’s cuts and then bandaged them.
“Thank you.” The pain had decreased to a mild irritant.
“The injury isn’t as bad as I thought. The gloves served their purpose in protecting your skin, but now they are suitable only for the rubbish heap.” Face long, he patted the forlorn pile of ruined leather as if his best friend lay dead before him. “Poor things. I shall give them a hero’s burial.” He gathered up the gloves and the remnants of his doctoring. “Off to the dining room?”
“No, with such a beautiful day, I will go for a walk first.” As cowardly as that was, he didn’t want to see Penelope—and the mistletoe—again. Or to yearn for her any more. Even more cowardly, he didn’t depart by the front door, but from the back, further reducing his chances of running into her.
By the time he climbed the manor’s front steps, everything was right in his world. He hadn’t encountered anyone—much less Penelope—and the stiff pace he’d set to keep from freezing purged every other thought from his mind.
He pulled out his pocket watch. After two. With any luck, most everyone—especially Penelope—would have finished with the midday meal. But, just to be sure, he slowed and stuck his head inside the dining room before entering.
Stomping feet and masculine voices burst out behind him, and a group of men drove him before them into the room.
Despite the late hour, a multitude of chattering guests filled their plates from the selections on the sideboard, or ate and conversed at the table. Even worse, Penelope sat near the head of the table beside her aunt.
Lady Bayle had ensconced herself next to Edward.
Judging by Edward’s fixed smile, Lady Bayle was boring him to death. Served him right for inviting the old harridan.
Although if the aunt hadn’t come, Penelope wouldn’t be here either.
Which would have been better for me.
Really?
With little choice, he let his companions herd him to the sideboard, which, fortunately, was far from Penelope and any possible mistletoe.
He would not look at the ceiling over her. There wouldn’t be any mistletoe there. Of course, there wouldn’t.
For good measure, he dipped his head as he loaded his plate with roast beef, ham, boiled potatoes, pickled vegetables, bread and butter, and cheese.
Mr. Smythe, beside him, cocked an eyebrow. “Someone is hungry today.”
Charles gritted his teeth. “Indeed.” This was more food than he wanted, but collecting all this provender kept him away from Penelope that much longer.
As the precariously balanced mountain on his plate threatened to tumble off, he settled into an empty chair alongside several men at the table bottom, as far from her as possible. He concentrated all his attention on slathering butter on a slice of bread. “And what have you been up to, Baring?”
Lord Baring sat at Charles’s side closer to the foot of the table, so he himself wouldn’t look in Penelope’s direction as they talked. The man was also a windbag, so Charles would face away from her for a good, long time.
“And here’s to the New Year!” Lord Fane added his own toast.
The rest, including Charles, joined in. Toast followed toast again and again, until the end of the table rang with alcohol-fueled jollity.
The plates, the table, the people—all grew a little fuzzy around the edges. Now what had bothered him so?
Smythe, on Charles’s other side, stood up shakily and raised his glass. “And here’s to—uh—what’s left?”
“How about mistletoe?” Baring’s words slurred.
Charles’s head whipped toward Smythe.
And toward Penelope—and the monstrous bunch of mistletoe above her.
“Gordon? What is it?” Smythe set down his glass and then swiveled toward the top of the table. He looked up and down, and then from one side to the other. “I say, with your mouth hanging open like that, you must see something spectacular, but curst if I see anything.”
With an audible click, Charles clamped his jaw shut. “I thought I saw…” He smiled at Smythe. “Nothing. I imagined I saw mistletoe.”
Smythe’s eyebrows rose. “Mistletoe?”
“Yes. The house’s name is ‘Mistletoe Manor’, so mistletoe decorations fill the place. Pictures, wall hangings, ceiling trim, whatnot.”
Smythe’s eyebrows shot higher. “That ‘mistletoe’ you didn’t see is over Miss Lawrence.” His lips curved into a knowing grin. “Lovely little filly. My jaw dropped the first time I saw her, too.”
Charles stiffened. “I was not looking at Miss Lawrence. I believed I saw mistletoe over her.”
“‘Mistletoe’.” Smythe’s grin widened. “Of course.” He raised his glass again. “A toast to mistletoe!”
Charles’s smile hardened. Too much wine. There wasn’t any mistletoe above Penelope, just an alcohol-soaked vision. He pushed his wine glass away and cut a piece of ham instead.
“Yes, she is lovely.” Mr. George Bray, a calculating gleam in his eyes, tapped his fork on his plate. Bray was young, wealthy, handsome—and a rake of the first order.
Although Charles didn’t want anything to do with Penelope, he didn’t want her to fall prey to a scoundrel, either. “I suggest you hunt elsewhere. Miss Lawrence is under Lady Bayle’s protection, and that lady is most formidable.”
Bray’s toothy grin was that of a predator on the hunt. “I see. Mayhap I should enlist her aunt’s assistance first. I am sure her aunt would appreciate my attributes.”
“But—”
Several noisy guests entered, and the hubbub smothered any further conversation. Bray stood and left.
Shortly after, Charles left, too. Free at last.
Taking another roundabout course—or maybe, after all that wine on top of the brandy, he couldn’t tell where he was going—he made his way toward the stairway at the side of the house.
There was Penelope, removing her aunt’s eyesore of a cherry-red pelisse from a rack by the door.
And over the rack hung mistletoe.
He turned for the main stairway and fled to his bedchamber.
He paced back and forth in his room. No one hangs mistletoe over a coat rack. That must have been all the alcohol speaking up. He hadn’t seen mistletoe. Of course, he hadn’t. I haven’t seen mistletoe. I haven’t seen mistletoe…
After repeating that to himself several hundred times, he went in search of a game of billiards. He passed the drawing room.
Penelope stood before the hearth—under another clump of mistletoe.
He ran for the billiards room, and promptly lost two games in a row.
Had he gone mad? Or was he still drunk?
He pulled himself straighter. Tea. As much as he detested tea, he needed the tea to dilute the remaining alcohol.
He retraced his steps to the drawing room. Slowly. Surely, Penelope wouldn’t still be there.
No, she wasn’t—she had moved into the adjoining small parlor.
With another clump of mistletoe over her.
Long past time to sober up. With shaking hands, he accepted his cup of tea.
He gulped down the tea and asked for more. Then he found a chair in a secluded corner and drank that cup before returning for another and yet another.
“My, my, you certainly enjoy your tea.” Lady Preston, who presided at the tea table, poured him another cup. “I have a special blend I save for those who enjoy tea as much as you do. I will have a pot made up for you straightaway.” She beckoned to a servant.
He’d heard about her special tea. The brew was so strong, people stayed awake two nights running.
Gads, mistletoe everywhere to drive him mad, and then he would die of tea poisoning.
On his way back to his corner, he passed the entrance to the small parlor.
Penelope was still there—and so was the mistletoe.
At this point, with all the tea sloshing around inside him, he couldn’t blame the alcohol. The mistletoe was no mirage. Always over Penelope, the sprigs had to be real greenery loaded with snowy berries, as if enticing him to kiss her and pick them.
At the earliest opportunity, he would corner Edward and demand an explanation.
He drank his tea and grimaced.
A footman bearing a teapot strode in his direction.
If he didn’t die first.
***
Penelope leaned back in the window seat, eyes focused on the sunlight slanting across the green-and-brown carpet.
In the drawing room, she had dutifully fetched tea for Aunt Lydia, resigning herself to another round of half-listening to her unceasing prattle.
“Look, who is that?” Aunt Lydia tipped her chin toward a white-haired lady who had entered the room.
“I know not. A new arrival, mayhap?”
“How fortunate. I must greet her.” Her aunt lumbered over to the lady, who introduced herself as Lady Burnett.
“You must be very happy to be here. Such a lovely party—” Aunt Lydia then pontificated about nothing, as she usually did, to her latest conquest.
Lady Burnett smiled and nodded.
Good that someone was interested in her aunt’s nonsense. Most people weren’t.
Jane pulled Penelope away. “Lady Burnett is almost deaf. You’re aunt’s jabbering will not bother her.”
“They both look happy. Perhaps we should leave?”
They then gathered up their tea and slipped away to the peace and quiet here.
Penelope balanced her cup on her knee. “Charles has looked at something on the ceiling over me several times now. Today in the rose arbor—”
“He came to you in the rose garden? How splendid!”
“Do not make too much of this. He did not come for me.” Although I wish he had. Her heart had leaped at seeing him, and then, just as quickly, thudded to the ground when he ran past her. “Like a madman, he grabbed at something on the crosspiece above the bench, and muttered some absurdity about mugwort or mistletoe there, of all things. Then he denied everything. All the way back to the house, he looked like he wanted to commit murder.”
“He accompanied you to the house, too? Even better!”
“Please stop.” Penelope set her teacup on the table before her. “What is going on?”
“Mayhap he still has a tendre for you.”
“After the way he ended our courtship? Impossible. And if he did, he has a strange way of showing affection.”
Jane chewed her lip. “You will not want to hear this, but I have met Charles several times over the past few years. He has always been all that is amiable. I am still at a loss to explain his cruelty to you.”
“How can you say that? I showed you his letter where he cried off from our betrothal.”
“Yes, and even then, something did not ring true, but—”
A whistling Edward sauntered into the room.
Jane waved him over. “Come, let us hear your opinion on this.”
She explained what they had discussed.
Edward stroked his chin. “I met Charles this morning on the foyer stairs, right after I greeted you, Penelope. He mentioned something about seeing mistletoe above you. I told him we have not hung any yet, and he acted surprised.”
“Oh, ho!” Jane’s face was all smile. “More mistletoe over you! Mistletoe means kissing. Maybe he really does have a tendre for you.”
Edward rubbed his palms together. “Ah, Christmas match-making. Nothing like a betrothal announcement or two to add to the spirit of the season.”
“You both are candidates for Bedlam. I want nothing to do with Charles, and I am certain he wishes me to Jericho. Why, today was the first time we spoke since your stepmother trapped us the first night.”
Jane patted her shoulder, even as she smirked at her brother. “Edward and I will ensure you have no trouble with Charles.”
Oh, dear, what was she up to?
Chapter 5
That night, as usual, Penelope followed her aunt into the dining room.
Jane leaped from beside the doorway as if she had lain in wait. “Lady Bayle, there you are. I would like a word with you.”
“But—”
“Penelope, go inside.” Jane waved her away. “We will only be a moment.” She caught up Aunt Lydia’s arm and dragged her down along the other side of the table.
That was strange. But every minute away from her aunt was a treat.
She made her way along the table until she found her place card. The footman held out her chair as she greeted old Lord Fane, who sat beside her.
She spread a linen napkin on her lap. Her temporary reprieve would end as soon as her aunt took the chair on her other side. Aunt Lydia always insisted that Penelope sit beside her at table, without a care that her action ruined the hostess’s lady-gentleman-lady seating arrangement.
She was laughing at one of Lord Fane’s jokes when the chair beside her scraped back.
Lord Fane coughed and then paused to take a sip of wine.
Penelope turned toward her other dinner partner—and froze.
From the way Charles’s eyes rounded and then narrowed, she might have sprouted horns and a tail.