A Winter Wedding (15 page)

Sitting most indecently on the lap of the Duke of Marchford, Penelope hoped that the various parties in the hallway would pass and let them escape, but the hope was short-lived.

The door swung open and somebody entered the room.

“A maid, she’s coming!” squealed a young lady. “Quick! In here.”

The wardrobe door was still open a crack when the couple and their light fell inside the room. The illumination allowed Marchford and Penelope to move aside a fallen coat that was blocking the wardrobe door and close it swiftly, hoping they had not been seen. Penelope was sitting on top of the duke in a manner quite unladylike. After a few anxious moment, Pen doubted the couple, deep in drink by the sound of it, had noticed them. In truth, they were rather beyond noticing anything but themselves.

“Ah, my love, look. A bed,” said the lady in a husky tone.

“Yes,” said the young gentleman. “I do believe it is. Well, whatever shall we do?”

The young lady giggled and then the room grew quiet except for some wet smacking noises, leaving little doubt as to what the young lady of inebriation had on her mind. Unfortunately, in Penelope’s present condition of forced intimacy, the idea of kissing was brought forcefully to mind with the man on whose lap she now sat and who was breathing hot breath on her neck. She desperately hoped that the couple would be leaving soon, for she was growing so warm with a mixture of embarrassment and desire she thought she might swoon.

Right on top of Marchford. Not an all-bad idea.

The bed gave a loud creak. “Oh!” said the man outside. “I fell.”

“On the bed. How clever of you,” purred the woman, who suddenly was not sounding quite as tipsy as she had before. “You look all hot. Allow me to loosen your cravat so you can breathe.”

“Err, that is not my cravat.”

“No, but I wager you can breathe better now.”

“More like I can’t catch my breath,” said the young man in painful honesty.

“What can I do to put you more at ease. How about that?”

“Oh. Yesssss.”

“Or this?”

Things grew quiet again except for a moan from the young man. It was intolerable. Penelope was sitting astride Marchford, his arms around her, his face tantalizingly close to her own. Her desire to kiss Marchford was pounding with intensity. She could not help herself and turned her head to rest her cheek on his. He responded immediately, running his hand up her back and down again, lower and lower, until his hand cupped her backside. Hot tingles shot through her, making her heart beat faster. She should stop him, but instead she wanted more.

The couple on the bed groaned again, and Penelope could only imagine what they were doing and how it would feel to be doing it with Marchford—James to her now. She nuzzled her cheek to his, brushing against the sting of the tiny stubble on his jaw. She turned, her lips trailing lightly across his cheek, in search of his mouth.

Her heart beat harder and she kissed the corner of his mouth. It was more chaste than she intended. It was dark, and she was aiming for his lips. He returned in kind and he did not miss. His lips were soft, and the kiss began as it had in the past—friendly, soft—but gradually it became more heated and urgent as he pressed into her. Or perhaps she was the one demanding more. The intensity increased, his lips moving over hers, a novel experience, but between the sounds of the couple on the bed and her own pounding desire pressed against him, she explored this new adventure with everything she had. Sitting on him as she was, she could not help but feel his interest rise.

“Wait, we shouldn’t. In the master’s room. Don’t want to get you in trouble,” said the lad on the bed with earnest concern.

“Don’t you worry, my love. Drink,” commanded the vixen, and from the sound, he did so. Shortly afterward, the bed began to creak and the soft moans of the couple drove Penelope’s imagination wild. She knew the very basic facts about sex—having four married sisters was informative—but to be so close to the act was an educational experience. One that she suddenly wanted to be schooled in. And since she was conveniently sitting on a virile man, her education might soon be coming.

James’s breath shuddered and he tried to pull back his arms, but there was nothing for it. The wardrobe was too cramped, and not being a small man, he took up much of the space. What little room was left, she consumed. He was trying not to ruin her, she understood, but she would have none of it. The truth was obvious in the dark wardrobe. She had been attracted to him since she met him. And now that she had him pinned beneath her in a situation from which he could not escape, she would give no quarter. Poor man.

She was going to be banished from London anyway, and she did not worry for a moment over the potential for him being less than discreet. Whatever they did in the wardrobe he would take to the grave. The revelation gave her a freedom she rarely felt, and probably should not have felt then, except that desire was such a powerful wave, it swept her along and refused to let go. She now understood why women would ruin themselves for this intoxicating passion. There may be a price to pay, but at the moment she could not bring herself to care.

She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling his muscles tense at her touch. She stroked down, exploring his firm abdominal muscles, his watch fob, the buttons of his vest, and the butt of the pistol inside his coat pocket. The last discovery was shocking only in that it did not surprise her. He stilled her hands with his, but that could not stop her. The noises outside increased in intensity and pitch, the bedpost banging rhythmically against the wall.

She pressed forward and this time her lips struck true, finding his and holding them hostage. If she triumphed in her victory, it was only for a moment before he began to show her why teasing such a man was not at all wise. The kiss that followed was so intimate, so unlike anything she had ever experienced or ever considered before, she was shocked into pulling back, but he caught her and pulled her back to him, one hand possessively on the back of her neck and the other sliding down over her backside.

She almost yelped in surprise, and he swallowed the sound before it could be uttered by deepening the kiss. He ran his hands up and down her back until her thoughts turned entirely treacherous and then stopped altogether.

The couple outside were now groaning and moaning together at a fevered pitch. James slid a hand between them and trailed a finger along the skin of her low-cut gown at the edge of her bodice. She had thought the gown too revealing before; now she cursed it for not being revealing enough. She pressed into him and his fingers slipped under her gown, running his thumb over her breast in a manner that made her wish she was with him on the bed instead of the unknown couple.

At that moment, the couple reached their climax and the young man shouted out and collapsed. For several minutes there was no sound. James and Penelope froze, his hand still trapped in her gown, not wanting to make any sound in the silent room. Although enough sense was returning to know they had traveled into dangerous territory, Penelope was mostly irritated at the couple for stopping and thus putting her own exploration at an end.

Soft snoring could be heard, and then the strange noises of drawers opening and closing. James slowly removed his hand from her bosom and peeked out of the keyhole. He shifted without a sound and ever so quietly drew a knife. He used the blade to lock the wardrobe with them inside. Taking a peek herself, Penelope saw a young woman carefully going through the room, searching for something. She did not appear at all drunk or exhausted by the throes of passion.

The woman had quickly dressed herself and was making short work of her search, coming close to the wardrobe. Pen hoped the makeshift lock would hold. James must have been thinking similar thoughts, for he held on to one of the inner hooks of the door so as to further prevent it from opening. The young woman came stealthily to the wardrobe and went to open it, pulling hard. When it refused to open, she quickly took a hairpin from her hair and attempted to pick the lock.

Penelope’s pulse pounded as she grabbed one of the inner hooks and pulled toward her with all her might. The lady tried again to open the wardrobe, pulling on the door with surprising strength, but Marchford and Penelope pulled back, preventing her from opening the prize.

The young man on the bed stirred and the young woman paused, was still for a moment, then fled the room. After waiting a few more anxious minutes, Marchford opened the doors and they tumbled out. The man on the bed was snoring, giving no alarm that he would witness their presence.

“What was she looking for?” whispered Penelope.

“This,” said Marchford, holding up a wine bottle.

“Why?” She almost mouthed the word.

Marchford shook his head and they examined the bottle in the pale light of the lantern. It was French and looked expensive. A close examination revealed nothing of particular interest until she examined the label closely.

“Some of these words in French have been spelled in a curious manner,” whispered Penelope. “And does it seem to you that the bottle and cork are older than the label?”

Marchford examined the bottle more closely. “Yes, this label seems almost new.”

The duke returned the bottle to where he’d found it. He motioned to the door and they were soon safely outside, leaving the lad to his fate.

Penelope breathed a sigh of relief at escaping the room and stepped forward in the dim hallway, forgetting the carpet runner down the hall. She tripped and landed hard, more embarrassed than hurt.

“Are you all right?” Marchford was there to offer a hand.

She was glad he could not see her cheeks burn in the dark hallway. Why was it not possible for her to appear as a sophisticated lady? She accepted his hand and put her foot down to a surprising pain.

“Ow!” She began to fall and clutched his shoulder for support. With surprising ease, he picked her up into his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I am sure it will be fine,” breathed Penelope, even though she had no desire for Marchford to put her down. He carried her down the side stairwell without catching his breath.

“You will permit me to remove you from this location to a safer place.” He adopted his usual reserved manner, yet she had witnessed the fire beneath the cool exterior.

Penelope wished to protest on principle, but she knew he could carry her faster than she could walk, and leaving their current situation was of utmost importance. More importantly, she liked being in his arms. She liked it a lot.

They returned to the main floor, the noise of musicians and people laughing loud in their ears after such quiet above.

“Let us go here, so I can evaluate your injury.” Marchford carried her into a small side parlor, which was thankfully unoccupied. The room was decorated in rich tones of gold and scarlet and was dimly lit by two wall sconces.

Marchford gently set her down on the couch. “Would you allow me to inspect your injured foot?” he asked with all reserved politeness.

Penelope smiled in response. The formal nature did not correspond with the intimacies they had shared. Since he had already inspected her lips, her bottom, and her breasts, she figured he might as well have a go at the ankle as well. “If you must,” complied Pen, wondering how to reconnect with this man, and yet at the same time wishing to push away the temptation.

She should not wish for something that would always be outside her grasp. Dukes may amuse themselves with insignificant companions if the opportunity arose, but they certainly didn’t marry them. And Penelope Rose was not the type for whom options other than a respectable marriage would be entertained. She held her back straight, even as she swung her legs up to the couch to allow for better inspection. Her ankle was already beginning to feel better, and she guessed the roll was a momentary hurt rather than a long-term injury.

Marchford kneeled on the ground beside her and took her foot in hand. He carefully removed her slipper and felt around her foot in a manner that shot tingles up her leg and beyond. She did not wish him to stop.

“I cannot feel any swelling,” said Marchford.

“That is not the foot I injured,” confessed Penelope.

Marchford gave her the look of aristocratic displeasure. He cleared his throat and took the other foot in hand, giving it the same treatment. This time it was tender to the touch, yet still, she could not complain about the way he caressed her.

“I believe there is no serious harm,” said Marchford, focusing on her foot. The harm was not to her foot; the harm would be to her heart if she tarried any longer.

“I am glad of it.”

Silence filled in the gap between them, stretching out the moment. What could she say now? Was she simply to pretend the wardrobe never happened?

“Miss Rose, about what happened,” began Marchford, staring down at her feet instead of at her. “I fear I owe you an apology.”

“No!” Penelope swung her feet down. “You have nothing for which to apologize.” She did not want the best kiss, albeit her only true kiss, to be so soon brushed into the waste bin of past mistakes.

“And yet I cannot rest easy with my behavior. I fear I have taken advantage.” Marchford remained on his knees before her.

“You were not the one sitting in my lap. If anyone took the advantage, it was me.”

“Do not be absurd. The fault was clearly mine.”

“Fault? So I am a mistake you made?” Penelope rose to her feet, keeping the weight on her good leg.

“No, that is…you are no mistake, but I cannot look upon my own behavior without censure. Since I find myself at your feet, I shall beg for forgiveness. I warn you that if you deny me this boon, I shall be forced to either badger you until forgiveness is given or I shall attempt to even the score by doing something to place you in my debt. I wonder, what situation could I contrive?” The corners of his mouth twitched up.

“Fine, you win, but only because I concede you have more devious tendencies than I.”

“I am pleased to see how well you know me.”

“I shall content myself with providing you pleasure.”

A collective gasp made them both jump. Someone had opened the door and had begun to enter the room. No, not just anyone, the Comtesse de Marseille, the most notorious gossip in all of London was standing in the doorway, her mouth open in horror. Behind her, several of her busybody cronies were with her. Other guests, seeing the crowd around the door stopped to look too, jostling from outside to see what was happening.