A Winter Wedding (22 page)

“I should go see how my sisters are doing,” said Penelope, trying to step away.

“I am certain they are all well,” said Marchford, holding fast to her arm.

“Your grandmother, I should check on her.”

“She is with Langley, and I can assure you has no need of you at present.”

“But…I need to…”

“Get away so you do not have to kiss me?” whispered James.

The countdown began.

“We truly should not do this in public,” Penelope whispered in return.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven…”

“Allow me to disagree.”

“Six, five, four…”

“But everyone will see,” gasped Penelope desperately.

“Three, two, one…”

“Precisely.”

“Happy New Year!”

Marchford whisked off his mask and did the same to hers. He enfolded her into his arms, dipping her down and kissing her in a confident manner that made her his. Some members of the
ton
gasped in shocked surprise. Others cheered. Undeterred, Marchford branded her with his kiss.

“Where is your grandmother?” asked Penelope as she was assisted into the carriage by Marchford.

“She is being escorted home by Lord Langley.” Marchford climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof to begin the journey home. He then closed the curtains, giving Penelope pause.

They had not stayed long after their kiss on the ballroom floor. If there had not been enough talk about them before, there was now. James appeared pleased with his public demonstration of affection. Indeed, Penelope was flattered that he was taking pains to show society that he was pleased with his choice.

“What were you thinking while we were dancing? You stopped in the middle of the set.” Penelope was not sure why James had drawn the velvet curtains closed and decided to steer the conversation toward safe waters.

“I have always wondered where the Comtesse de Marseille got her money. She is a widow. She escaped from France during the Terror with presumably little in the way of financial comforts, and yet she lives like a queen. I suspect she is profiteering from the courtesan trade, most likely as a madam, or possibly even using the information she gains in such a profession for profit or blackmail.”

Penelope shook her head. “Of her, I would not doubt anything.”

“Indeed. If it would not put you into questionable company, I would suggest you accept her offer and find out more about her operation.”

“I can certainly do so.”

“No!” Marchford was firm. “I do not wish you mixed with that company, even on a ruse.” He casually stretched and put his arm around her.

“What are you doing?”

James leaned closer, his gray eyes shining in the orange light of the lantern. “I did warn you I was going to compromise you.”

Penelope’s heart began to thud. “So you are keeping your word.”

“Indeed. I will always keep my word.” He trailed a finger down her cheek, across her jawline, down her throat, to her cleavage. He traced along the edge of her dress. “I love this gown.”

“I wore it for you.” Penelope decided it was time to be bold.

His hand stilled. “Did you?”

“Yes. You have been honest with me, and it has inspired me to be honest with you.” She flushed hot. She knew what she wanted to say, but with his hand resting on her bosom, it was difficult to think properly.

“Do go on,” he urged, his voice intense.

“You wish to compromise me so I will be forced to marry you.”

“Yes.” He leaned closer, blowing hot air down her cleavage.

Shivers raced up her spine and she was growing hot in certain unmentionable areas. “I also wish to compromise you.”

“Then we are in happy agreement,” he murmured, running his tongue along the edge of her bodice. He was making it impossible to think.

“I wish to convince you to love me.”

He stopped and looked up at her. She hoped her words had not seemed as desperate as they sounded.

“Penelope,” he began, but she put up a hand to stop him.

“It is all right if you cannot, truly it is. I have another plan. If I must enter into a marriage of convenience, I will, but not with you. Never with you. I received another offer of marriage tonight.”

“What?!” Marchford sat upright and glared at her. “Who?”

Penelope was slightly gratified by his jealousy. It could only be a good sign. “He is an earl. The name is not relevant to this conversation. Suffice to say, I now have options.”

“The hell you do,” grumbled Marchford. “You will marry me. No one else. Me.”

“I find your attitude positively primeval. Forgive my bluntness, but we cannot be wed without my consent, and you know the terms you must meet before I will grant such a request.”

Marchford folded his arms across his chest. “Now you are being difficult.”

“You might want to consider that fact before you demand I marry you. I intend to be difficult my entire life.”

Marchford raised an eyebrow.

“I thought I should warn you, as a friend.”

Marchford surveyed her with displeasure for a few minutes, as they ambled along in the gently swaying coach. Finally he shrugged. “I can still continue my plan.” He wrapped his arms around her.

“No, stop!”

He pulled back with a furious frown.

“We will return to the house any minute.” The thought of being caught being indiscreet with Marchford in the carriage gave her chills.

“No chance of that,” said James with a smile. “I told the coachman to give me a tour of Town until I signaled to go home.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. Now where were we?” He put his arms around her once more and pulled her close for a kiss that curled her toes. Slowly, he laid her back on the plush velvet squabs of the coach.

She knew she should stop him, but she only pulled him closer. He tasted so good and smelled so good and felt so good, she did not wish him to stop. It wasn’t until his hand began to creep up her leg to her thigh that alarm bells began to ring.

“Wait, no, I should not allow this,” she gasped.

James stilled but did not sit up. Instead, he rested his head on her bosom, breathing hard. “What if I promised we could continue without compromis-ing you?”

“This is all rather compromising,” confessed Penelope.

“What if we continued without risking impregnating you?” He lifted his head, his eyes pleading. How could she say no?

“I…I am not sure it is wise.”

“Probably not, but are you not even a little curious? Would you not like to find out what happens between a man and a woman in a way that will not cost you your maidenhood?”

“You can do that?”

“Yes,” he whispered in her ear.

“As you wish,” she said in a husky voice.

“Ask me to continue.” He nuzzled her ear.

“Yes. Continue. Please.”

And he did. Fingers worked to loosen her gown, allowing access to her breasts. After some heated attention there, his clever hands found their way under her gown. He worked his way up her thigh until he touched her in an intimate manner that made her jump.

“I fear I am not that sort of girl,” she gasped.

“Of course you are not.” He breathed heavy as well. “But you are my girl.”

It seemed a good enough rationale at the moment, and so she opened herself to him, gasping at the sensations he was so quickly able to build. She could not help but press against him, wanting more but unsure what she wanted and where this all might end. Something was building inside her, threatening to explode. Heat surged through her, and she held on to him harder and tighter, not knowing where she was going but desperate to get there.

She threw back her head and cried aloud, only to have her mouth covered with his demanding kiss. Suddenly the tension within her released and her body convulsed with waves of pure pleasure. She was left panting, wondering what on earth had just happened—and how soon she could do it again.

Penelope could not stop smiling. She tried but failed. She cuddled up against him, and he wrapped an arm around her. “Who won tonight?” she asked. “I fear I’ve lost track of the score.”

“I definitely scored tonight,” said James in a silky tone. “But so did you. And I need to take a long, cold walk outside to fully recover.” He rapped on the roof for the coachman to take them home.

“I do like your games.”

“Marry me and we can play them every night…and more.”

More?

The next morning Penelope moved through the house with caution. First of all, mistletoe was still hung about the house like aerial mines. She moved about with one eye above her and one eye watching for James. Even worse, sometimes she wanted him to catch her, and other times she wanted to catch him!

Second, it was the first day of the new year, the day Antonia had chosen to begin her new, married life with Lord Langley. Despite Penelope’s extensive experience with wedding day drama (she did have four sisters), all the wedding plans appeared to be moving smoothly. There was only one thing that gave her unease.

It was cow day.

The twelve days of Christmas was supposed to be a fun childhood game, but now she regretted ever mentioning it to the duke. She had no hope that James would forget or give some reprieve in honor of his grandmother’s wedding. Antonia was resting before the momentous evening in her sitting room, writing letters, and Penelope crept in to join her. All was quiet.

Antonia had given specific orders that nothing of a bovine nature was to put so much as a hoof on her polished floors.

“If you would just agree to marry him, James would stop this wooing nonsense,” grumbled the dowager in greeting.

“You don’t think he would actually bring cows…do you?”

“James is a hardheaded boy. No telling what he will do.”

“Good morning.” The object of their discussion walked casually into the sitting room and sat down to read his newspaper. He looked well, as usual. In truth, Penelope feared he looked better and better every time she saw him.

She feared she was growing hot in unmentionable places at the mere entrance of the Duke of Marchford. She had not known what could happen between a man and a woman, and now that she did, a life of celibacy did not appeal. She must find a husband. And she knew whom she wanted to fill the job.

Except for the small matter of cows. Penelope shared a glance with Antonia, and they both turned to stare at the duke. After a minute, Marchford slowly lowered his paper, meeting their gaze.

“Ladies? Something I can help you with?” He was all innocence.

“What are you up to? You always were a devious child,” criticized Antonia.

James merely smiled at his grandmother. “Was I?” He returned to his paper.

After a while longer, Penelope could stand it no longer. “Well? Am I going to get eight maids a milking or not?”

James lowered the paper again revealing a smug grin. “As you wish. Peters! Bring them in!”

“No!” shouted Antonia. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Instead of cows, eight milkmaids entered the sitting room all holding glasses of milk. The dowager let out a sigh of relief and put a hand to her chest.

Miles the Peruvian cat stalked into the room, wary of interlopers, particularly anything with a beak and feathers. To his delight, he instead found young women with milk.

“Oh, look at the precious puss-puss,” purred one of the milkmaids.

“What a very large cat. Oh, he’s so soft.” Another milkmaid stroked his gray head.

“Would puss-puss like some milk?” A third milkmaid offered him a glass of milk.

It was a time of redemption for the twelve days of Christmas for Miles as eight charming young ladies sat around the large, king cat, petting him and offering him milk from a glass.

Marchford raised an eyebrow at the disturbing scene and walked over to share a private word with Penelope. “This was supposed to be a gift to you, not your ridiculously large cat-dog,” said James in a low register.

“Peruvian cat,” corrected Penelope, though it had been Marchford himself who had concocted the lie. “Besides, you owe him after the terrible swan incident.”

“Who knew swans could be so vicious?”

Penelope giggled at the recollection.

James leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Happy eighth day of Christmas. I am looking forward to our ride home tonight.”

Heat surged into places she was only beginning to realize existed. She had always hated blushing, but this was far worse. She only hoped everyone was distracted by the eight milkmaids and the large cat, sitting in a most unbecoming manner, and would not notice her embarrassment. “You are abominable!”

“Yes, I am. I look forward to being ever so again tonight,” James purred, enjoying himself as much as the feline before him. He took his leave, and Penelope could not help but watch him go.

Never
listen
to
a
thing
a
man
says. Listen to what he does.
Grandma Moira’s wisdom once again came to mind. Perhaps she was being dim-witted, trying to get James to say particular words. Maybe she needed to stop trying to control everyone and everything around her. Perhaps his affection was being spoken in deeds.

Penelope could not stop the smile that spread across her face. She would accept his proposal tonight. Or maybe…she would let him convince her just a little bit more.

***

Penelope was dressed in a beautiful cream silk gown with extravagant lace overlays. It was terribly expensive; Antonia’s sense of propriety demanded everyone connected with the wedding was perfect. Flowers adorned her hair, and Penelope almost felt like she was getting married herself.

The special license in Marchford’s pocket returned to mind. They could be married at any point. A smile returned to her face and refused to leave. She gave herself a mental shake and attempted to compose herself. This was a wedding after all, not a time for giddy happiness.

Penelope joined Antonia in her room, in the midst of extensive preparations. The gown laid out for the Dowager Duchess of Marchford could beggar a small country. It was a marvel of pale blue silk with a gauzy white lace overdress studded with tiny diamonds. The effect, shimmering in the candlelight, was stunning.

“Penelope my dear, come here,” said the dowager when she noted her arrival. “Do you not look lovely? Yes, I have the most exquisite taste.”

“Indeed you do,” agreed Penelope.

“I wish to speak to Miss Rose alone. All of you out,” commanded the duchess, and five lady’s maids fled the room, leaving behind a disarray of ribbons, silk, jewels, and fancy trinkets.

Penelope sat on a vacated stool before the Dowager Duchess of Marchford, wondering what the imposing lady would say.

“I was nothing but a mere slip of a girl when I first met Lord Langley. I loved him from the first moment I met him. Loved him and wished to marry him. When he rejected me on our wedding day, I rejected love and everything it did to me. My marriage to the Duke of Marchford was not founded in love, and it suited me well at the time.”

Antonia paused and took a deep breath. “I need you to understand. I did not raise James to think well of love. I fear I poisoned him to it instead. If I was one to indulge in regrets…” She smiled briskly and blotted her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “But I am not, I fear. What was done is done.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Antonia’s eyes were a piercing blue. “You must show James how to love you. He has not learnt it from me.”

Penelope nodded and absently picked at the lace of her gown as she voiced her fear. “Do you think he could learn to love me?”

“Stupid gel,” said Antonia in a kind voice. “I’m sure he already does.”

Penelope met Antonia’s eyes and then could not prevent herself from giving the elderly matron a warm embrace. “Thank you!”

“Yes, well. Very good. That’s enough of that now. You are a silly gel, but we are all fools for love. Do not wait fifty years for love as I did.”

“Indeed, I do not intend to wait long at all.” Penelope grinned at her, warm and happy.

“That’s a good girl. Now call the maids back in. We have much to do!”

***

The wedding between Antonia and Lord Langley took place at St. George’s with immediate family in attendance, followed by a celebration ball that evening at the town home of Lord Langley. There was little immediate family for the newlyweds, but a few cousins did arrive, along with several aunts, one uncle, and a lot (Penelope never could quite get a steady count) of children in tow.

The wedding was brief, beautiful, and heartfelt. Penelope stood opposite James as the happy couple recited their vows. His eyes were only for her, and hers for him. He was even more handsome than usual, in a gleaming black coat of superfine and a snowy white waistcoat and cravat. She wished to speak with him immediately after but was foiled by the enthusiastic congratulations of the cousins.

The relatives were placed in the guest wing of Marchford House and would stay with Marchford a few days, which allowed Penelope to remain in the home, given the ample number of chaperones. After which, her plan had been to go live with one of her sisters until she could set up her own modest residence outside of Town. Except now, she was considering Marchford’s alternative proposal of becoming his wife.

His
wife
!

Penelope had been concerned that she would face opposition in Marchford’s relatives, but Antonia introduced her as James’s fiancée, and none of the relatives dared to second-guess her. If the duchess accepted her, it was good enough for them.

The wedding ball was a crush, as everyone who was anyone attended the glittering event to begin the new year. They had been obliged to go in two coaches, with Penelope and the young cousins in one, and Marchford and the harried aunts in the other. Antonia was the only one who arrived comfortably, sharing Langley’s town coach.

Penelope searched for Marchford’s tall form and dark head in the crowd but was unsuccessful. She gave up after a while and hoped he could find her.

“Meet me in Langley’s study,” whispered his voice behind her. He had found her.

Happy tingles shot though her in anticipation as she worked her way through the crowd. She had not seen Marchford but knew he would proceed by a different route and meet her in the study, where they could be alone. She was waylaid briefly by well-wishers, but was able to push through, slipping into the study unnoticed.

He was there. She had barely closed the door before he was upon her, kissing his hello. Yes, it was time to listen to his actions. It was a most satisfactory greeting.

“I’ve missed you,” he said in a seductive tone when they finally parted lips to breathe.

“I have missed you as well,” answered Penelope, her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder.

“I see my nefarious plot is working. I shall continue to press my suit in a manner most indecent.” He picked her up and swung her around to drop her without ceremony on the desk. He hiked up her gown without regard to the lace, his focus elsewhere. He pushed her knees apart and stepped between them, kissing away any protest. Penelope was aware he intended to ruin her right there on the desk, and despite a slight concern for the gown (it was truly beautiful), she could not care less.

Marchford impatiently swept aside a tray of decanters so he could lean her back and Penelope glimpsed a familiar glass bottle.

“Wait, stop!” she cried.

“No, no, please, no stopping,” said Marchford, his voice muffled from between her breasts.

“Look, this is important,” said Penelope, though she honestly had rather let him continue.

“You best have a good reason to stop me.” He stood up and glared at her.

She pointed at the glassware. “The decanters. Look. It’s another set.”

Marchford groaned. “Dammit. It is a good reason. You have a keen eye, and someday I’ll thank you for it.”

“Do you think Langley is involved?” asked Penelope.

“More likely he is another innocent on whom these were planted.” He found the one with the hidden compartment and held it up to examine the bottom.

“You don’t think they would still be using these to pass messages?”

“One way to find out.” Marchford carefully twisted open the stopper and pulled out a tiny scroll of paper.

Tonight. Midnight. Third guest room on the right.

“It is probably an old message,” said Penelope slowly.

“Most likely,” agreed Marchford. He glanced at his pocket watch and gave her a smile. “Shall we inspect?”

Penelope jumped off the desk and nodded. “Yes, let’s go!”

“Ah, if only you were as eager for me as you are for catching spies.” James shook his head with a rueful grin.

“I cannot help it. You have drawn me into this intriguing life.”

“I am very sorry to hear it. Since I have corrupted you, I should give you this.” Marchford pulled something from an inner pocket of his coat and handed her a long, thin knife in an exquisitely wrought gold sheath.

“What is this?” Penelope turned the beautiful object over in her hand. It was smooth to the touch and heavy with gold. It was an old piece. Instinctively, she held it tighter.

“It was the knife belonging to my great-great-great—I actually am uncertain exactly how many greats—grandfather who gave it to his bride for protection. Or, depending on who is telling the story, it is the blade taken from my great-great-, you get the idea, grandfather by said bride who held him hostage for a brief while.”

Penelope blinked. “Hostage?”

“The story differs depending on who tells it. One version has my grandfather saving his future bride, Gwyn Campbell, from hordes of marauding Scots. Another has this enterprising Campbell miss holding him hostage to secure a peace between the barons.”

“Which story do you believe?”

Marchford shrugged. “She was a Scot and a Campbell, so anything is possible.”

“And you remember her name even after so many years.”

“Not too hard, considering.” He pointed at the knife and she realized that engraved on the sheath in elaborate script was the name
Gwyn Campbell
on one side and
Lady Lockton
on the other.

“This is beautiful, but I could not possibly—”

“Tradition. Take it.”

“But I—”

“For heaven’s sake, you walk about with stickpins in your bodice. You can certainly add a small knife to your garter. Hope you never have call to use it, but it will do me good to know it is there for you if you do.” Marchford crossed his arms before him in a manner that forbid discussion.