by Jenna Jaxon
It had hardly begun, yet it was already the sweetest kiss he’d ever known. She tasted like…oh, God, like moonlight and fresh cold air, and he was going mad, his lips parting hers, his tongue slipping inside and yes, there it was, just as he’d known it would be the first moment he saw her plump, red lips…
At Christmastime, in the middle of a frozen garden, he tasted summer strawberries, tart and sweet.
It made him wild for more of her—the glide of her tongue against his, fistfuls of her red waves in his hands. It was just a kiss, but every one of his muscles was drawing taut, his body hardening for her…
She whimpered when he dragged his mouth down her neck. He nipped and licked at her smooth skin, tasting every inch he could reach for these brief moments when he held her in his arms. “Penelope, I want…”
All of her, everything, and all of it at once. Her soft body under his, her fingers in his hair, her heartbeat against his lips, and…
He couldn’t have any of it. He couldn’t have her.
You have no right to kiss her…
Will tore his mouth from hers with a groan of despair.
“Will?” She raised her heavy-lidded gaze to his. Her lips were red and swollen from his kisses, and he’d never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted to clasp her against him, and bring her back into the safety of his arms.
Instead, he gripped her waist in his hands, and eased her away from him. “I—I can’t…we can’t…I beg your pardon, Miss Hervey. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He watched as the haze of desire in her eyes faded, and his heart flooded with misery. She touched her fingertips to her lips once, as if touching them would help her understand what had just happened between them, but then her hand fell away, and she rose from the bench.
She started to turn away, but before she vanished into the darkness, she paused and looked back at him. “Do you believe, Lord Archer, that we each have our own one true love?”
Yes.
He didn’t say it, and he didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t say whether or not she believed it. She only gazed at him for a quiet moment, and then, without saying another word, she melted into the darkness surrounding them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“If any of my fingers or toes fall off, Penelope, I’m holding you responsible for it.”
Penelope pushed the blotted papers in front of her aside and turned to find Dinah standing in her bedchamber door. Dinah had on her cloak, gloves and hat, and an irritated frown on her lips.
“Appendages don’t simply fall off, Dinah.” Penelope tossed her quill aside. She’d spoilt half a dozen pages and her fingers were covered with ink, but for better or worse, the Third Act was written.
“They do when they’re frozen.” Dinah strolled into the bedchamber and closed the door behind her. “Lady Madeline and I have spent the last hour in the gardens, searching for you. All my fingertips have gone numb. Have you been up here all afternoon?”
“I’m afraid so.” Penelope rose, crossed to the window, and pressed her nose to the glass with a yearning sigh. A light snow was falling, and the garden below looked like a fairyland with the sun scattering diamonds across the drifts of white. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful, and cold.” Dinah joined her at the window, and they gazed down at the garden below for a few moments without speaking. “Why don’t you go for a stroll this afternoon? It’s likely to be your last chance to visit the garden.”
Penelope dragged a finger down the cold glass, her heart heavy. They’d perform the Third Act tonight. By tomorrow morning she and Dinah would be on their way back to London, and the magical garden just another memory.
Lord Archer’s sweet kiss, just another memory…
Penelope touched her lips, recalling the way they’d tingled when they touched his. His warm breath drifting over her face, just before his mouth took hers. His chest had rumbled with a hungry groan the moment their lips met, and she’d felt the vibration of it in her entire body.
Penelope forced her gaze from the window and wandered back to the dressing table she’d been using as her writing desk. “I’ve just finished the Third Act.” Whether she’d dare to perform it on stage was another matter.
“Wonderful. Let me see what you have.” Dinah sat down on the end of the bed.
“No!” Penelope cried, then winced at the alarm in her voice. “I, ah, what I mean is, it isn’t very good.”
Dinah raised an eyebrow, and silently held out her hand for the pages.
Penelope let out a heavy sigh, gathered the scattered papers and thrust the untidy pile at Dinah. Dinah would see them sooner or later anyway, so there was no point turning coward now.
Dinah turned over the pages, the eyebrow inching higher until it finally disappeared into her hairline. When she’d finished, she laid them aside, and turned a measuring look on Penelope. “It is good, particularly that affecting scene at the end. Still, I can see why you might be anxious. You’re fretting over what Lord Archer will think, aren’t you?”
“I promised him I wouldn’t insult Lady Lavinia again,” Penelope muttered, but she avoided meeting Dinah’s eyes. It was a cowardly dodge. Her worry had nothing to do with Lady Lavinia, and everything to do with herself.
Dinah snorted. “Oh, I doubt very much it’s Lady Lavinia who concerns you. Once Lord Archer sees this, he’ll demand to know what you mean by it. Are you prepared to give him an explanation?”
Penelope sank down onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders drooping. “I don’t know.” She wouldn’t know, either—not until she saw his reaction. That was the trouble with this plan—she’d have to expose her own feelings first.
Dinah took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Well, you can always claim it’s nothing to do with him, and you were simply reciting your lines. As for Lady Lavinia, if ever anyone deserved an insult, it’s her. I can’t imagine what Lord Archer is thinking, courting such a harridan.”
“She may be a harridan, but she’s a lady.” The last word tasted bitter on Penelope’s tongue. “She’s what Lord Archer wants.”
That pulled another snort from Dinah. “Lord Archer hasn’t the vaguest idea what he wants. He’s worse than Lord Rodrigo.”
“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, Dinah. I did promise him I’d behave.” Penelope had intended to keep her promise, too, but it made her more miserable than she’d anticipated to marry Lord Archer…that is, Lord Rodrigo to Lady Proper, and the next thing she knew, an entirely new ending had flowed from her pen. “There’s still time for me to rewrite it.”
“But how will you end it? Lady Proper isn’t Lord Rodrigo’s one true love. The audience will storm the stage if you put the two of them together at the end of the play.”
“Why should they? It makes sense for the two aristocrats to be together at the end. Far more sense than putting an earl with a…” Penelope’s voice hitched, and she trailed off into a miserable silence.
Dinah gazed long and hard at Penelope’s face. “No,” she said at last, her voice thoughtful. “Let’s not change it. I think it’s perfect, just the way it is. Now, why don’t I copy the pages then deliver them to Lord Oliver and Lady Madeline while you have a walk in the garden? Here, take my cloak and gloves. They’re not much, but they’re warmer than yours.”
Penelope let her gaze wander to the window. The snowflakes were still falling from the pale gray sky. If she didn’t go now, she wouldn’t have another chance to walk in the garden before they left Cliff’s Edge. As for the play…
It wasn’t going to please everyone. Certainly not Lady Lavinia, and very likely not Lord Archer. Yet every line Penelope had written had come straight from her heart. Even if she wanted to change it, she wouldn’t know how.
So, she wrapped herself in Dinah’s cloak and slid her fingers into the gloves. “I promise to return before my appendages fall off.”
“Hmmm?” Dinah was studying the pages strewn
out over Penelope’s bed. “You know, Penelope, this play is really quite good. Good enough you might be able to persuade Silas to stage it at the Pandemonium.”
“Oh, nonsense. It’s the silliest thing imaginable.”
Dinah’s brows drew together with consideration. “It’s a farce. Every audience in London loves a farce—the Pandemonium audience more than most—and this is a farce about the notorious Lord Archer, London’s favorite Tainted Angel.”
Penelope frowned. “No, it isn’t.” Perhaps she’d been thinking of Lord Archer’s circumstances when she wrote it, but she hadn’t intended for the characters to represent any of the Angels.
“Well, it could be, with a few changes.” Dinah grabbed a bit of the paper. “Don’t you see? Lord Rodrigo becomes Lord Archer, the rake who wants to turn gentleman.” She scribbled a dozen lines, then handed the paper to Penelope.
Dinah had scrawled, “The Reformed Rake, by the Pandemonium Players” across the top of the page. Underneath she’d listed the names of the characters in the play, with the names of various house party guests next to them. Beside the name “Rakehell” she’d written, “Lord Archer, William Angel,” and beside “Gambler Scoundrel,” she written Lord Christopher’s name.
Penelope skimmed it, a sick feeling in her stomach. Dinah was right. With only a few changes it could be a play about the Tainted Angels, and not one that flattered them. Lord Rodrigo in particular was portrayed as a bumbling fool who couldn’t tell the difference between a lady and a prostitute.
“No. I didn’t write the play to hurt anyone.” Penelope handed the paper back to Dinah.
Dinah took it from her with a sigh. “I don’t wish to hurt Lord Archer or his family either, Penelope, but if you had no other choice, something like this would put you back in Silas’s good graces. Florentina’s, too. She’d be thrilled to see Lord Archer humiliated after the way he tossed her aside.”
“I would never do anything so low, so ugly—”
“It is ugly, but so is starving in the London streets.” Dinah’s voice was harsh, but when she saw Penelope’s stricken expression, her face softened. “I’m sorry. I don’t like it either, but you’re not the vicar’s daughter anymore, Penelope. There may come a time when you can no longer afford your scruples. Do you understand?”
Penelope looked down at her hands, at her bare fingertips poking through Dinah’s worn gloves. “I understand.” She understood all too well, but nothing would ever induce her to turn the play over to Silas. Her scruples might cost her, yes, but they were all she had.
Dinah patted her back. “Go on, then. Take your walk. You’ll feel better afterwards.”
*****
Penelope spent the rest of the afternoon in the gardens, trying to commit each rosebud and gravel pathway to memory. She wandered for so long she didn’t have a spare moment before dinner to speak to Dinah. By the time they had a chance to exchange a few private words, they were mere minutes from performing the final act.
“Now, don’t look so terrified.” Penelope was dressed in her actress’s costume, and Dinah was straightening the long black wig and making soothing noises in her throat. “Lady Madeline and Lord Oliver both adore the Third Act, and the audience will too, I promise you.”
Despite this reassurance, Penelope’s stomach writhed with butterflies, all battering wildly against her ribs at once. The curtain was only seconds from rising. “Oh, Dinah, I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mistake.” Lady Lavinia was going to snatch her hair out, and Lord Archer was going to be so furious he’d stand back and let it happen.
“Nonsense. It’ll be just fine. All you need do is run on stage and fall down in front of the carriage when you hear Lord Rakehell yell, ‘Dear God, we’re going to hit her!’ From that point on, just follow Lord Oliver’s lead. You can do that, can’t you?”
“No! That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Penelope’s butterflies were going so wild she was certain she was going to cast up her accounts all over the stage.
“Don’t worry about a thing.” Dinah led her toward the side of the stage, out of the audience’s sight, then turned to take her own place.
Penelope snatched at Dinah’s arm before she could stir a step. “Dinah, wait! I can’t…I don’t think I can do this.” Oh, what had she been thinking this afternoon, writing that absurd ending? At best, Lord Archer would be livid, and at worst…
At worst, he’d laugh at her.
“It’s too late for regrets now, my girl. Lord Oliver and Lady Madeline are waiting.” Dinah tugged her arm away, and ran toward center stage, where Lord Oliver was sitting in a makeshift carriage the stable boys had fashioned out of a few cushions set atop a hay bale, holding a pair of reins that had been attached to a hook offstage.
“Curtains!” Dinah whispered.
The stable boys pulled the curtains back, and then there was nothing Penelope could do but stand at the side of the stage, every limb shaking, and wait for her cue.
“Once we are wed, I must have six carriages, my lord—not a single fewer than six will do, with perfectly matched white horses. Dozens of gowns, all of them of the finest silk and satin with Belgian lace, and a grand townhouse in Mayfair. Grander even than Devonshire House!” Lady Pristine Proper was seated beside Lord Rodrigo in the carriage, clinging to his arm with one hand and ticking off her demands with the other.
Penelope closed her eyes in despair. Act Three already promised to be the most offensive yet, and they’d just begun.
Lord Rodrigo turned a comically aghast face toward the audience, and laughter drifted through the drawing room. “But my lady, my mother is ailing, and not fit for the London air!”
Lady Proper sniffed at this. “Let your mother stay in the country, then, and have the servants tend her. Speaking of servants, Lord Rakehell, I demand the constant attendance of a French lady’s maid. The finest ladies of the London ton all have a French lady’s maid, and a French modiste, and a French chef. I am to become the Countess of Rakehell, wife to the wealthiest earl in England, and I must have everything French!”
Lord Rodrigo and Lady Proper were so absorbed with their own concerns, neither of them noticed the Christmas Angel sneak up behind their carriage. “Lord Rodrigo is a fool to believe Lady Proper is his one true love, is he not?” The angel addressed this to the audience, her hands held up in question.
The audience responded with a resounding yes, particularly the stable boys, who were so offended by Lady Proper they shook their fists at her.
“Shall I help his poor lordship?” The Christmas Angel asked. “Or shall let him reap the consequences of his folly with a lifetime of marriage to Lady Proper, and an afterlife of eternal damnation?”
“Help the poor sod!” Lord Christopher yelled, and the rest of the audience laughed and clapped their agreement.
The Christmas Angel nodded, then crept up behind the carriage, her finger over her lips to hush the audience. She lifted her arms into the air and waved them about, as if conjuring a spell. The audience remained silent as the angel twirled and leapt gracefully across the stage, her filmy white skirts gathered in her hands and her golden curls flying.
Everyone held their breath and waited, curious to see what the effect of this dance would be, when a sudden shriek made them all jump in their chairs. Lord Rodrigo and Lady Proper both screamed, and Lord Rodrigo grappled with the reins, jerking them savagely to the right, as if to prevent the carriage from hitting something. “Dear God, we’re going to hit her!”
Penelope stood frozen on the sidelines. For an awful moment she couldn’t make herself move, but then she thought of Lord Archer, and emotion welled inside her. He was a good man, a gentleman who cared for his family. He deserved much better than Lady Lavinia.
This was nothing more than a silly little play. Penelope knew that, and she knew it likely wouldn’t change a thing, but it was all she had to offer him. Her heart in her throat, she darted forward and threw herself onto the floor in front of the hay bale, as if she’d fallen
in front of the carriage.
Lord Rodrigo let out a pitiful wail and jerked wildly on the reins. “Dear God, I fear we’ve killed her!”
“Never mind her! You’ve killed me!” Lady Proper just had time to screech in reply before she tumbled backwards off the hay bale. The audience gasped, but it quickly turned to a laugh when Lady Proper landed with an unceremonious thump on her bottom. “Lord Rakehell!” she shrieked, gripping the hay bale and trying to pull herself up. “Come and save me at once!”
Lord Rodrigo didn’t appear to hear her. He tossed the reins aside, leapt down and hurried to Penelope, who was lying in front of the hay bale. He fell to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Why, it’s the lady from the other day—the actress who wept over my troubled heart! My dear lady, do you live still?”
Lord Oliver jiggled her a bit, and Penelope let her eyes flutter open.
“She lives!” Lord Rodrigo yelled, raising his eyes to heaven. He gathered Penelope against his chest and rose to his feet with a dramatic flourish, cradling her in his arms. More than one lady in the audience sighed at the romantic gesture, and Lord Christopher shouted, “Is she your one true love, Lord Rakehell?”
Lord Rodrigo set Penelope down carefully on the hay bale, then threw himself on his knees at her feet. “My dear lady, you showed me kindness and compassion when my heart was sorely afflicted. Yours is the sweetest face I have ever seen. You are my one true love, and I beg you to stay with me forever, and save me from eternal damnation.”
This was the moment when Penelope was meant to pledge her love to Lord Rodrigo, and thus end the play. She hesitated, her gaze falling on Lord Archer, who was in his usual place at the front, with a seething Lady Lavinia at his side.
His face was expressionless, but he was watching her, his dark blue eyes following her every move, her every breath.
Waiting.
Lord Rodrigo cleared his throat nervously and gathered Penelope’s hands in his. “My dear lady, please don’t deny me. The Christmas Angel bid me find my one true love, and you are she. I love you madly and wish to be with you always. Do you love me, my lady? Will you become my wife?”