A Midwinter's Scandal - A Novella Duet

by Erin Knightley

  Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Some making merrier than others,” she said to no one in particular, picking up the cup and returning it to its inebriated owner. The red-nosed gentleman hiccupped his thanks before casting an appreciative leer up and down her person.

  She sighed. Perhaps coming to the Frost Fair alone had not been the most prudent choice, but that was ice under the bridge. She’d just have to occupy herself for an hour—or better yet, two—to give her father time to finish up his business with Mr. Jones. The wealthy merchant tended to linger in hopes of pressing his suit.

  Phoebe’s sudden shudder had very little to do with the cold. As Mrs. Jones, she would be on display—a noble wife used by her tradesman husband to curry favors. He’d made it quite clear she’d have no time for playing around in the dirt, as he called her interest in botany. His wife would be every inch the lady.

  She shuddered again. It wouldn’t come to that. If all went well, next week she’d be gainfully employed as an illustrator and by Easter she’d be long gone from London on a quest to document England’s rare wildflowers with the renowned botanist, J. P. Updike.

  Phoebe pulled her hood low over her forehead as she moved further into the crowd. Should her father find out she’d come here without a proper chaperone, there’d be the devil to pay. But after only a few moments, she began to relax. No one paid her the least bit of mind. Everyone seemed caught up in the colorful spectacle swirling around them.

  Finely-dressed ladies flitted about the booths in groups of three or four while well-turned-out gentlemen played games of chance in makeshift gaming dens. The crisp air smelled of the cinnamon baked apples that peddler women sold from baskets atop their heads, and of the roasting meat on offer by hawkers to anyone passing by with coin to spare. A lively fiddle tune floated to her ears as men, women, and children danced gaily upon the decks of ice-locked barges.

  Phoebe marveled at all of the life being lived, right before her very eyes.

  Is this what it will be like to be free?

  Her stomach fluttered nervously, threatening to unravel all of her tightly wound fear and excitement. Following her mother’s death, she’d spent the months of mourning carefully planning her escape. She’d researched how she’d survive, she’d hoarded her pin money like the stingiest of misers, and she’d all but convinced Mr. Updike, via correspondence, to hire her as his illustrator for his upcoming expedition.

  Because she’d promised Mama that she would live the life she wanted to live.

  Phoebe took in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow exhale of white steam that curled in the frigid air. Well, her time for mourning was through. It was past time to start keeping that promise. She decided from this moment on, she’d follow no one’s rules but her own.

  So, when she finally came across Juliette and Georgiana, Phoebe simply winked at her friends and let them pass. Instead, she joined the queue to receive a personalized souvenir from one of the industrious printers who’d dragged their machines out onto the ice. Alone.

  “Your name, miss?” the harried printer asked as she gained the front of the line. She gave him the correct spelling as she watched him place the cast iron letters onto the block. The slight man grunted as he lowered the huge hand press and held it down for a few moments. He lifted the press and gave her the sheet, looking past her to the man behind. “Next.”

  Phoebe murmured her thanks as she moved away. When she got clear of the crowd, she held the paper out in front of her, marveling at the printed curve of a P, the sharp point of an A, pressed into the sheet in ink forever.

  P. A. Ellison

  She ran her finger over the indention, enjoying the uneven bump of the letters.

  Her new name in print for the very first time.

  Hopefully the first time of many, as she planned to move quickly from illustrating others’ books to authoring botany tomes of her own—even if she had to hide her true identity by using a false name. Most women writers did. She’d know the P.A. stood for Phoebe Anson, at least.

  She couldn’t resist. She raised the paper to her lips and kissed the words. As she folded the paper and pressed it into her pocket, a grin bubbled up from inside and burst to life on her face.

  Soon. Very soon.

  That reality filled her with joy so fully that she simply couldn’t contain it a second longer. She tipped her face up to the sun and did something she hadn’t done since she’d been a young miss—long before the realities of life amongst the ton and her mother’s death had tried their best to quash her spirit.

  She closed her eyes, threw out her arms, and twirled.

  ****

  Malcolm Gray, Viscount Coverdale, had been admiring the impressive silhouette the great dome of St. Paul’s made against the afternoon sky when quite another sight captured his attention. A young lady held a scrap of paper out before her, brought it to her lips for a kiss, and then smiled with such beatific joy he couldn’t help but be caught in it, his lips lifting of their own volition.

  He felt that joy from several steps away, almost like an energy that traveled across the frozen landscape to warm him. The woman seemed to brim with it, and for a brief second, Malcolm knew such a moment of pure jealousy it stole his breath. Had he ever been that happy?

  When she tossed her head back and started spinning in abandon, his breath caught for a completely different reason altogether. Her cloak fanned out at the bottom, flowing around her lithe form in a twirling cloud of blue. The counter-twist pulled the fabric tight across her chest, emphasizing lovely curves. He stood riveted, watching her.

  He’d known another girl who’d loved to twirl like that, once upon a time. Had even been known to twirl with her on occasion, before he’d realized young lads didn’t twirl, of course.

  The woman’s fur-trimmed hood fell away. As the sunlight limned her profile, a flash of recognition jolted him.

  Phoebe.

  Though he’d caught just a glimpse of her upturned nose and prominent chin, he knew it was she. It had been years since he’d seen her...too long. His smile widened as he closed the distance between them, stopping just beside her.

  “Still a whirling dervish, I see.”

  Phoebe’s head jerked up as a gasp escaped her. The sudden movement must have thrown her off balance for her eyes flew wide and her outstretched arms started circling frantically. “Oh!” she cried as her feet slipped from beneath her.

  Alarm shot through him. Malcolm lunged to catch her, but his own boots slid just enough that he knew he wouldn’t be able to reach her in time and keep them both upright. He threw his shoulder into a twist of his own and his back slammed hard onto the ice. He jammed both heels down and pushed, propelling himself into place to cushion her fall.

  “Ooomph!” Phoebe landed full atop him, the force of her body jarring him from the front as well. Her grunt echoed inside his chest, but as their fall had knocked the wind from his sails, he had no air with which to answer it. He closed his eyes with a grimace.

  He lay there for a moment, trying to collect himself. Too many sensations pulled at him. Cold seeped into his back from nape to calf, sending a shiver racing up his spine. Pain radiated from his shoulder, also, where he’d taken most of the impact from their fall.

  And yet...heat blanketed his front, a softness that both covered and warmed him. He must have wrapped his arms around Phoebe to protect her because he now held her tightly against him. Front to front. Chest to chest. Hip to hip.

  Malcolm opened his eyes. Indeed, he was clutching Phoebe to him. Her legs and arms had naturally spread in an effort to catch herself, which left her draped over and around him in the most delectable way. All pain vanished and another shiver drove out the cold—a hot one. Near blazing.

  Malcolm forced himself to ease his death grip, but could not seem to remove his hands from Phoebe altogether. He allowed them to rest on either side of her ribcage before sliding over her slim waist to settle on her hips.

  His movement seemed to startle her out of her sho
ck. Her head jerked back from where it had rested against the hollow of his neck and then she pushed upward, hard. He groaned as the heels of her hands dug into his chest just below his collarbone.

  “I’m so sorry!” she cried, frantically trying to lift her torso from his. With another forceful shove, she succeeded. The second she was upright, she yanked her hands back.

  Malcolm took a deep breath as the pain receded. Of course now, instead of being draped over him, Phoebe was straddling him, all of her weight and heat resting squarely where an innocent young miss should certainly not be. Not that he was complaining.

  His hands tightened on her hips instinctively, the need to pull her tighter against him nearly overwhelming. For a moment all he could see was a beautiful girl, her cheeks pink and flushed, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath, her long brown hair slipped from its moorings and tumbling in seductive disarray. All he could feel was her thighs gripping his hips, the curve of her bottom pressed against him, the flash of desire burning through him—

  “Malcolm?” Her breathy voice floated through the haze.

  The fog in his mind evaporated, bringing sudden clarity. This was Phoebe. He was having lustful imaginings—lying on the ice amongst hundreds of strangers in broad daylight, no less—about Phoebe. His childhood friend. The girl next door. The bane of his younger self’s existence.

  “Phoebe,” he uttered, surprised at how strangled his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me—” he tried again, but his words died a rather painful death when Phoebe fisted her hand and belted him one right in the fleshy part of his arm.

  Chapter Two

  “Ouch!” Malcolm released Phoebe’s hips and brought his right hand up to clutch at the spot where she’d punched him. Damn, but that hurt! Phoebe wasn’t a delicate flower, by any means. She’d always packed quite a wallop, even when they were children. But he swore the pain was compounded by the blows of her punches past. He rubbed at the throbbing ache and growled, “What the deuce was that for?”

  Phoebe didn’t answer. She was too busy scrambling to extricate herself from his lap, while the ice did its best to thwart her. He rather enjoyed her squirming efforts—or would have if his arm didn’t smart so much—but after a moment, he took pity on her.

  Levering himself by bracing his hands at his sides, he pushed to a seated position. Then, planting his feet, he placed his hands beneath Phoebe’s arms and lifted her up enough that she could gain her feet. The moment she did, she leapt away from him.

  He rose to his own feet before he resumed massaging his upper arm.

  “And how, I ask you, do you always manage to hit the exact same spot? Every time.” He glared over at her, but Phoebe was not appreciating his righteous disgruntlement at all. She occupied herself with smoothing her skirts and righting her appearance. “I suspect you stick your middle knuckle out to inflict the maximum agony, too, you bloodthirsty wench. I swear to God, Pheebs,” he said, using his childhood nickname for her, “if I develop a permanent knot there, I’m laying the blame solely at your feet.”

  “Do hush, and take it like a man,” she quipped.

  She looked up at him then, her withering stare belied by a tugging at the corner of her mouth. He grinned for both of them. How easily they fell back into their teasing banter, even after all these years.

  But even the ghost of her smile disappeared as her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. “Besides, you deserved it.”

  Malcolm’s grin faltered. He’d never seen such a look on Phoebe’s face in all of the years they had known one another. He’d seen imperiousness, laughter, vexation, mischievousness, triumph, sadness, and—to his shame—confusion and betrayal. But never anger.

  It was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. But no...it had been there.

  Malcolm swallowed. He’d hurt her feelings the last time they’d seen each other, but that was years ago...a youthful folly. Surely she’d forgiven him after all this time. No, she was more likely angry that he’d spooked her into falling. “I didn’t intend for you to take a tumble.”

  Phoebe waved him off. “Of course not, though you shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that.” She dropped her gaze from his and began to search beneath her cloak for something.

  Heat crept beneath his cravat on a trek to the tips of his ears. She was angry about the liberties he’d taken with her person, then. Rightfully so. What the hell had come over him? Certainly, he was a healthy man in his prime and Phoebe was...well, healthy too. Still, she was Phoebe. And an innocent. She deserved better.

  He straightened to his full height, tugging at his suddenly stuffy cravat. “I owe you an apology.”

  Her head came up and she froze, one hand holding out her cloak and the other poised to dip into a hidden pocket, wary question in her eyes.

  He should be feeling regret for holding her as he had, he knew, but somehow he didn’t. Still... “I should never have touched you as I did,” he offered. “I only meant to break your fall, but then—”

  “It’s not that!” she burst out. Color bloomed on her cheeks, the skin below her widened eyes turning a brighter shade of red than he’d have thought possible in a brunette.

  “Then what have I done? You said I deserved the—”

  “It’s nothing. Nothing at all,” she insisted with a harsh shake of her head. “In fact, I owe you the apology. Please forgive me and...and good day.”

  Phoebe bobbed a curtsy and then quicker than Prinny could polish off a pastry, she turned on her heel and set a fast clip toward the west bank of the Thames.

  “Phoebe!” he called in her wake, but she didn’t even pause. Malcolm shook his head as he watched her go.

  What had just happened? Phoebe always had left his head spinning. Her mind was constantly moving—second only to her lips, if memory served. But it was unlike her to run away from anything, much less him.

  A scrap of paper caught his attention, lying on the ice a couple of steps away in the direction Phoebe had fled. It must have fallen from her pocket, he realized.

  His curiosity piqued, he walked over to it. He remembered that look of joy on Phoebe’s face as she’d read it, how she’d raised the paper to her lips and actually kissed the thing. What could possibly have made her so happy?

  A love letter from an admirer, perhaps. Why else did a woman smile so? He frowned, the idea not setting well in his stomach. Not that it was any of his concern. Still, as her old friend, shouldn’t he make certain whatever man made Phoebe smile like that was worthy of her?

  A horrid thought occurred to Malcolm as he bent to retrieve the note. What if she’d been on her way to meet this admirer, this man who inspired joy and paper kisses? An assignation.

  Phoebe had run off rather quickly. And now that he thought of it, she’d been alone. No chaperone. No other young ladies flitting about her. Hell, she hadn’t seen him in nearly five years and she’d barely said hello to him, much less thanked him for his rescue. She’d been too intent on escaping to somewhere—or someone—else.

  He snatched the paper up from the ice. He’d discover what was afoot, by God, and then he’d—

  Malcolm blinked rapidly as his eyes registered the print on the page. It was just a souvenir, stating one P.A. Ellison had been at the Frost Fair of 1814.

  He turned it over, but that side was blank. Nothing at all to indicate who this Ellison bloke was and why Phoebe cared. He glanced up, training his eyes on the crowd ahead. Her blue hood was still barely visible, bobbing in a sea of others.

  He looked back down at the paper. He was meant to be meeting some old chums from Cambridge, but ’twas nothing important. This paper was, however—to Phoebe anyway. She’d want it back. And he wanted to know why.

  Malcolm raced after her.

  ****

  Well, she’d handled that beautifully, hadn’t she? Phoebe shook her head in disgust, but she didn’t slow her step. Her cheeks burned hot against the biting wind as she hurried from Malcolm as quickly as the ice
would allow.

  In that first year after he’d left London, she’d often imagined what she would say to him when she saw him again. She’d mentally practiced dozens of scenarios. Sometimes, she was cold and aloof. Sometimes, she pretended not to recognize him. Sometimes, she was overly sweet and gracious. Sometimes, she was vengeful and cruel.

  But never in all of her musings had she fallen all over herself.

  Nor fallen all over him, for that matter.

  A tingling thrill raced down her middle, remembering the press of their bodies together, the heat, the curious aching as they lay together on the ice.

  The strange feeling lingered still, but it blended and fused with a different aching altogether, one suspiciously near her heart. Lord, she’d thought she’d gotten past everything. But it had only taken the sound of his voice and she’d been flooded with feelings and memories she’d long locked away—of the girl she’d once been, of the hopes she’d once carried, of the painful lessons she’d learned at the hands of society’s gossips.

  Still a whirling dervish, I see.

  Phoebe’s chest squeezed at the epitaph. It had been an endearment once, albeit one often said in exasperation. But now—

  She fisted her hands as she walked, forcing her emotions away so she could think clearly.

  Malcolm had greeted her warmly, as if nothing had ever been amiss between them. As if he hadn’t shattered her with his cool disdain when she’d come to London for her first Season. As if that humiliation in Lady Davenport’s ballroom had never happened.

  Did he think she would forget? How could she when his friends had taken his words that awful night and tormented her with them for years after he’d gone back to Devonshire?

  That wasn’t his fault, some foolish part of her whispered. Perhaps not. And perhaps she’d dug her own bed in the years since. But blast it all, she’d thought him a better friend than that. That’s what still hurt.

  Phoebe shook her hands and fingers out, imagining as she did that she was flinging the old pain far away. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it did. She’d be gone from London society soon. And it wasn’t like she was going to see Malcolm again—