A Rogue in Winter

by Grace Burrowes

  “I am not yet promised to anybody. You are not yet indentured to the cathedral. Today has been splendid, when it might have been very un-splendid. I like you, Pietr Sorenson, and I esteem you as well.”

  She opened the blanket and enfolded him in its warmth. He resisted the urge to rush, to grab and dash, and instead slipped his arms around her and gathered her close. She came into his embrace by degrees, first wrapping her arms around him, then leaning on him a little, then settling against him.

  The pleasure of holding her, of physical closeness, was as intoxicating as hard cider, wassail, and winter ale combined, and so much richer. Joy Danforth lacked height, she did not lack curves. Pietr felt Brobdingnagian compared to her, and so very, delightfully male.

  His body rejoiced, and that he still had the knack—of delighting in the female shape, of treasuring female trust—delighted his soul too.

  “I will think of you on snowy nights for the rest of my life, Pietr Sorenson.” Joy paused with her lips a half inch from his. “They will be precious, happy thoughts.”

  He had the discipline to pause with her, to register the luscious scent of the cloved oranges, the soft warmth of the wool blanket enveloping them, the profound quiet of a darkened house on a winter night. Then he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the pleasure of cherishing a woman for the first time in far, far too long.

  And as Joy kissed him back, he was engulfed in the pleasure of being cherished in return.

  Joy had developed an untested theory. Tucked close to Pietr Sorenson, his lips moving gently on hers, her theory was confirmed.

  Lord Apollo Bellingham, man among men, the envy of his age, favorite of the angels, and pattern card of masculine perfection, could not kiss worth a damn.

  Mr. Hanley-Bledsoe, that long-ago singing teacher who had been a wonder at the keyboard and with bel canto repertoire, had been similarly lacking in talent when it came to kissing—and likely when it came to much else that Joy had allowed him.

  Or quite possibly, Pietr Sorenson had virtuoso skill as a lover. He did not grope, he caressed. He did not mash his mouth against hers, he invited and tempted. He did not make odd noises reminiscent of tired bullocks flopping into the straw, he inspired Joy to soft sighs of longing.

  She would have been content to stand in the shadowy foyer delighting in Pietr’s kisses all night, except that Hiram waited in the study, and beyond that… She might as well have been faced with crossing the drifted moor on foot at night. That thought inspired her to take a taste of her partner-in-pleasure, to trace the shape of his bottom lip with her tongue.

  A chess match ensued, full of sallies and feints, teasing and more temptation, until unmistakable evidence of masculine desire rose against Joy’s middle. She had done that, filled a man with yearning for her. Mr. Hanley-Bledsoe—she’d forgotten his first name if she’d ever known it—had come at her with his bayonet already fixed, so to speak. In recent years, she’d wondered how many other pupils he’d impaled and if seducing young ladies was a form of revenge for never having been successful on the stage.

  She was done wondering about Mr. Handy Blade. For the rest of her life, she’d be wondering about Pietr Sorenson. Where had he learned to rub a lady’s earlobe like that? When had he become so adept at cradling the back of her head against his palm, such that she wanted to arch into his touch like a demanding cat?

  “We must stop,” Pietr whispered. “I must stop.”

  He did not stop, fortunately, for Joy felt an equal compulsion to prolong the kiss. To trace the contours of his muscular back, to learn the precise texture of his hair. While the kitchen and study were adequately heated, only in Pietr’s arms was she finally warm.

  “Joy, we cannot… We must not.”

  “We’ll cease, then,” Joy said, relaxing against him, “but do not apologize. I had wondered.”

  He stroked her hair, his lips grazing her temple. “About?”

  “Was there something wrong with me that the pleasures a proper woman eschews outside of marriage have failed to move me?”

  He peered down at her. “You are moved?”

  “You have moved me, heaven, and earth, Pietr. Your sister is right that you are wasted here in rural obscurity. You should have a post as the royal kisser of wayward spinsters.”

  He kissed her again, and what did it say that two kisses into the conversation, Joy already knew what he was trying to communicate. Pleasure at her words, and regret too. He and she might share more than two kisses, but only a few more, and only kisses.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Kisses should move, and that you’ve had to put up with the other kind is a poor reflection on those who’ve kissed you.”

  She rested her forehead against his chest. “I put up with much more than kisses, Pietr. If there is such a thing as a wayward spinster, I am she.” This was the oddest, most wonderful conversation. Like the cider and the holiday bread. Unexpectedly delightful, given the circumstances.

  “There is no such thing as a wayward spinster. There are only people with a healthy sense of curiosity about pleasures the Almighty designed into us. I’m sorry you were a disappointed spinster, if you qualify as any sort of spinster at all.”

  “You aren’t dismayed?”

  “I stand in your embrace, ready to procreate, Joy Danforth. If I am dismayed, it’s not because you indulged in a few discreet adventures. You would be amazed at how many first babies in my parish show up less than nine months after the nuptials. Half, at least, and my congregation knows not to remark upon that in my hearing. If the Christmas story teaches us nothing else, we should know that any mother and child safely through their travail is cause for profound rejoicing.”

  Well, that explained it. Pietr Sorenson tarried in the wilderness because his wrath was provoked by hypocrisy. People who put on airs and demanded perfection of their daughters while indulging in all manner of debauchery and nearly expecting licentiousness of their sons would drive him barmy.

  People who never missed services lest they lose a chance to spread malicious gossip in the churchyard would have him hurling verbal thunderbolts from the pulpit.

  People who maintained an empty theater box while expecting the cobbler and his family to go hungry would wound Pietr’s heart.

  The very society Joy had been raised to value above all else wore a different aspect when viewed through the eyes of a man who took his honor seriously.

  “I wish,” Joy said, then fell silent. Wishing was pointless.

  “Tell me.”

  “I wish I had met you much earlier and that spring was not inevitable.”

  “We can share those wishes,” he said, easing away. “And probably a few more best left to the imagination.”

  “Many more.”

  They shared a smile instead, a little sad, but also pleased and intimate. Pietr reached above Joy’s head, and when she thought he’d pluck a berry from the mistletoe dangling from the crossbeam, he instead took down the whole bunch.

  “I will see to the fires in the bedrooms,” he said, “and then join you in the library.”

  Joy realized with a start that he needed time to compose himself. He was as discommoded as she was, probably doubting his decision to take the cathedral post.

  Well, good. He belonged here, where he was happy. She would have told him that, except he’d taken the mistletoe with him into the gloom of the upper floor.

  Joy stayed below, wrapped in her blanket and in wishes that would never come true.

  Chapter Five

  Pietr slept badly.

  He’d taken his frustrated desire in hand, so to speak, before rejoining Joy and Hiram in the study. She had read to them from the offerings of the Lake poets, her voice a soothing rivulet of verse. Spring lambs, daffodils, clouds… symbols of new life and hope, though Pietr heard them as proof of that inevitability she’d mentioned.

  New life was all well and good for spring lambs, but what was wrong with the old life for Rothton’s vicar? Precisely nothing, and
yet, Pietr was taking up his Bible and his kitten—neither one much comfort of late—and leaving the village for a lot of glorified clerking. But then, what was glorious about judging pie contests or listening to Mrs. Peabody’s endless fretting?

  Kissing Joy Danforth was glorious.

  “You have morning callers.” The lady herself had stuck her head into the study. “They would not come into the house.”

  The vicarage was redolent of cinnamon, for Joy was of a mind to try one of Mrs. Baker’s recipes. The result was warmth throughout the vicarage such as Pietr did not usually enjoy in his housekeeper’s absence. Hiram dozed away the morning in his bedroom, while Pietr had tried to work on a sermon.

  The weather had eased up, though low clouds hung in a sullen overcast, and more than a foot of new snow had fallen.

  “Guests?” Pietr did not want to contend with guests, or not guests come to spy.

  “They said they are reporting for duty.”

  “Ah, not guests, then. My angels.” He rose, happy to leave the wisdom of the prophets for the wisdom of the snow shovel. “The village boys and girls with more high spirits than their parents can endure. We have a system, the parents and I.”

  “There are a good dozen of them,” Joy said. “They appear to be in very high spirits. I hope your system involves building snow forts on the green or something equally industrious.”

  She wore a full-length apron, and her hair was gathered up in a chignon. A streak of flour crossed one cheek, and her cuffs had been turned back. Pietr could easily imagine that the kitchen where she’d spent half the morning conjuring sweets was hers, and that he was hers too. He could not for the life of him keep this week’s scriptural passage in his head.

  Something about the blind receiving sight and the lame walking. Not a word for a randy vicar smitten with a woman who played chess almost as well as she kissed.

  “My system involves selfless acts of charity,” he said. “The greater good and children surviving until Christmas.”

  He went to the front door, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside. “Children, good morning.”

  A chorus of “good morning, Vicar” greeted him.

  “We have much work to do. Thomas and Bartholomew, you will handle the church steps and walkways. Beatrice and Alexander, Mrs. Peabody’s walkway awaits you. Haley and Buford, you will tend to the Wiles’s household.” He went on handing out assignments, until only two stalwarts remained, the smallest of the lot.

  “What about us, Vicar?” Mary Ellen Lumley asked. “Sissy and I want to shovel too.”

  They were twins, all of six years old. One was fair, the other dark, and they had eight siblings and another on the way. The Lumley marriage was happy, or as happy as a family of ten could be with limited means.

  “You have a special job,” Pietr said, kneeling before them. “I have tried to keep up with my own paths and walkways, but the job isn’t complete. I need the path to the barn swept, you see.”

  “Swept?”

  “Right down to the grass. The terrace and back steps too. If I should fall upon my backside while carrying the eggs and milk, I would be a very hungry fellow. Come, I’ll show you.”

  They trooped through the house, gawking at the art on the walls, some of which had been done by their older siblings. One of the older Lumley boys—Silas—had an exceptionally good eye. Pietr had arranged for him to learn some proper drawing technique from Her Grace of Rothhaven, who had pronounced the boy a prodigy.

  “Is this what heaven smells like?” Mary Alice asked.

  “I hope heaven is warm like this,” Mary Ellen said. “And that no babies cry in heaven.”

  “Is Amos unwell?” The youngest was barely a year old and already walking.

  “Teething, Mama says,” Mary Ellen replied, following Pietr down the steps. “Teething is loud.”

  “Amos teethes a lot,” Mary Alice added.

  Pietr had tended to the path immediately after consuming the breakfast Joy had prepared. Toast, eggs, ham… Despite being a lady of gentle birth, she’d apparently learned her way around a kitchen of necessity. She’d said her family’s cooks tended to quit without notice, and yet, her parents nonetheless expected omelets and toast to appear in the breakfast parlor every morning without fail.

  Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.

  Pietr equipped the girls with brooms and repeated his usual admonishments: Battling the elements is taxing. Take frequent breaks. Don’t stay outside too long. To do the job right is more important than to finish first. Keep a watchful eye on your fellow laborer’s safety, for the Lord sent forth His apostles in twos for reasons.

  “If Mary Alice falls on her arse, I will help her up,” Mary Ellen said earnestly.

  “Good girl, and I’m sure Mary Alice will do the same for you.”

  He left them discussing plans for whether to sweep from barn to house or house to barn, or to meet in the middle, though he returned bearing two scarves.

  “One wants to be properly dressed for such an important job.” The little girls held still while he swaddled little necks, ears, and chins in Clara’s handiwork. “Better?”

  “Smells like heaven,” Mary Alice said.

  “Like heaven and Christmas.” Mary Ellen took up her broom. “We’ll get to work now. We don’t want the big boys to eat all the shortbread.”

  “I would never allow that. Come inside before you get cold. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Vicar.” They grinned and capered off down the steps.

  Pietr’s yard would acquire a few snow angels in the next half hour, and the beasts in the barn would have callers. Nothing for it, but he must return to beating his head against Scripture and praying for inspiration. People expected a weekly dose of comfort and wisdom, every Sunday without fail, but the longer Pietr stared at the blank pages on his blotter, the more he longed for some comfort and wisdom himself.

  Rather than return to the library, he found himself in the kitchen, the one place in the house where Mrs. Baker had not bothered to hang mistletoe. No matter, for the sight of Joy Danforth in her apron had Pietr’s imagination festooned with the stuff.

  “The children think you’ve conjured a whiff of heaven.” As did Pietr, and not only with her baking.

  “The cinnamon buns have just come out of the oven. I’m mixing up the icing.”

  “Then the oven is still hot?”

  Joy swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, and the smudge of flour disappeared. “It will be for hours. I was thinking of trying my hand at the holiday bread.”

  “First, I need to bake a batch of potatoes.”

  “Potatoes?”

  “Pocket warmers for the children to take home with them. If you distribute cinnamon buns as well, you will be canonized in a dozen little hearts.”

  He fetched a dozen sizable potatoes from the pantry, washed them, and arranged them in the baking oven. This was part of the system—part of his system—for in the households these children came from, a morning’s steady exertion would earn them no additional sustenance.

  “You’ve organized a charity shoveling brigade?”

  “Years ago. I teach the children to skate because they need to get outside even in cold weather lest their parents do them an injury. Besides, I like to skate, and life cannot be relentless drudgery. One of the older boys asked if he could shovel my walkways in appreciation, and at the time, we had neither curate nor sexton. My walkways should not take precedence over those of the local widows and invalids, though I was happy enough to share the work at the church. The rest evolved, and now we have a local tradition.”

  Joy stirred a drizzle of milk into a bowl of sugar. “Do you pay them?”

  “How is one to learn thrift if one never has any coin to manage? They earn a penny apiece for a good snowfall, plus a snack.”

  “And a large potato.”

  “The walk home is cold.”

  “And did I, or did I not, see you wrap up those little girls in wool scarves?
”

  Pietr swiped a finger through the sweet glaze. “Clara sends me at least a half-dozen scarves a year. I have only the one neck. This is delicious.”

  “I purloined a few drops of vanilla from Mrs. Baker’s stores. I hope she won’t miss it.”

  “Lady Nathaniel Rothmere has a cook in her employ who has studied in Paris. Monsieur Henri has quite elevated our palates, and invitations to Lynley Vale are more precious than rubies. The vanilla was doubtless a gift from her ladyship.”

  “To those children, I suspect your potatoes are more precious than rubies.” Joy gave her icing a few more brisk stirs with a wooden spoon. “They probably start praying for snow in August.”

  “In summer, we keep them busy sweeping walkways, tidying up the graveyard, and weeding the flower beds on the green.”

  She dabbed a layer of thick white glaze onto the first bun, which had been turned out of the pan to cool on a wire rack. “Your green has flower beds?”

  “We do now. Our local duke is an expert at flower gardening. I suggested we turn to him for advice, and his reply was a wagonload of bulbs, bushes, and gardening equipment, along with diagrams for how to lay out the plots. He even ventured from his hall to oversee the planting.”

  Joy moved to the next bun. “You asked a duke for gardening advice?”

  “His Grace was the logical source, having spent years tending personally to one of the most exquisite walled gardens you will ever see. Rothhaven gets down on his knees and digs in the dirt, and as is known to every gardener, a man regularly on his knees is closer to both heaven and earth. Rothhaven’s flowers are as wondrous as Monsieur Henri’s eclairs.”

  Joy dabbed icing on a third bun, and why this sight provoked erotic longings, Pietr did not know. Until yesterday, he’d been a man content, a man at peace with the world and with his body. Now he envisioned her dabbing icing on him and licking it off, slowly.

  “Does your sister, Clara, know you organize charitable shoveling brigades and employ a duke as the village gardener?”

  “We would never presume to employ His Grace.”