Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (14 page)

He froze, in anticipation of being slapped across the face, and hard. After all, Penelope was hardly used to any romantic attentions from men, much less anything like he was doing now. She would likely order him to leave, affronted at being so boldly touched…a soft moan halted his thoughts. Ah, her ladyship liked it too.

"'At's me favorite, luv," she whispered in his ear. "Do it again."

He uttered a short bark of laughter at her effected Cockney accent. "My God, Penelope, you are the most fantastic woman," he breathed, leaning away from her to loosen his trousers.

"Penelope? 'Oos this Penelope, then, luv? Me name's Nancy, and I'm a good girl, I am." She was giggling now, an enchanting sound that was fast driving him to the edge of his control. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her over to the desk, pushing her forwards so that her breasts touched the blotter.

"You're not a good girl," he ground out as he tugged down his trousers. "Thank heavens for that." He pushed her skirts up over her backside and plunged forward into her tight channel, taking her from behind and glorying in the feel of her. Devil take it, she was already ready, warm and wet for him. He had found the perfect woman. He wasn't attracted to Cockney wenches, whom he could have by the dozen, but by this enchantress who could become any part—maid, whore, ice goddess—and drive him to distraction as each.

Penelope moaned as he pushed forward again and again. "That's it, luv," she whispered. "Me tits isn't getting 'alf inky from rubbing all over yer blotter."

That did it. He lost all control, thrusting forward one last time and spilling himself with a hoarse shout. As he drifted back to awareness, Penelope cried out her release.

"Damnation, Penelope," he whispered. "I lose all control around you."

Chapter Fourteen

Hastily, Pierce withdrew and tugged Penelope's gown back into place. Embarrassment burned through him like a hot poker. He grasped his trousers and pulled them back up, buttoning them securely. Then, shaking, he propped himself against the stout support of Penelope's mahogany desk.

"Pierce? Is anything wrong?" Penelope's fine brow was puckered, her hennaed hair tumbling down about her shoulders. "Are you quite all right?"

"I am fine, I assure you." He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "But I need to sit down."

Penelope grasped him by the elbow and drew him over to one of the needlepoint chairs near the hearth. Then she brought him the brimful glass of Scotch, pressing it into his hand.

"Drink this," she murmured. "You seem quite unwell. Did I hurt you?"

He gave her a crooked, rueful grin. "Not at all, sweetest. Quite the opposite, in fact. You pleasured me so much I think I forgot to breathe."

She chuckled and sank into the chair opposite him. "I feel the need to rest a moment, myself." She kicked off her slippers and held her small, delicate feet towards the blazing hearth. "Goodness, Pierce. When I first walked into the room and you spied me, the expression on your face certainly gave me pause. I thought you despised this new costume of mine."

"I like the costume, but I l-like the woman underneath more." He took a burning draught of Scotch. He had almost said love. He couldn't say it yet. For one thing, saying so after roughly taking his beloved like a common whore might be sending a bit of the wrong message. And, well, there was the question of whether or not he really loved Penelope, or if her unique combination of wit, charm, and beauty was simply overriding all his common sense.

"Thank you." She rose and helped herself to a whisky, cradling the glass in her hands as she resumed her comfortable position near the hearth.

He watched her over the rim of his glass. Did he love Penelope? Or was he merely a victim of lust? He could not be certain. An idea formed in his mind. He had to test himself, had to see for himself what was causing this extraordinary reaction to Penelope. And the house party afforded the perfect opportunity to do so.

"Penelope," he began, setting his glass to one side. "I must speak with you about this house party. I believe there are some…rules…we should abide by."

She turned her bright emerald gaze on him. "Yes?"

With her newly reddened hair, the dark color of her eyes stood out against her pale skin. She was so beautiful. She could attend a ball in an old bed sheet and still be the most dazzling creature in the room…he shut off his thoughts before he was led astray yet again.

"I don't think it is right for us to necessarily indulge in the same past time as the other couples while we are in Derbyshire," he began hesitantly.

"What do you mean?" Her eyebrow quirked and her lips turned downward.

"I mean, I cannot seem to keep my hands off you, sweetheart. I am such a damned lecher when it comes to you. And I would be taking unfair advantage of you if, as you played the part of my consort, if we were to indulge in any sort of relationship." There, that put it rather nicely. Surely she could not be offended by his decision, at least if he voiced it that way.

Penelope rubbed her glass back and forth with her hands, her eyes cast down. "I don't feel that way at all. What if I want to continue things as they are?"

The only way he could be certain that he loved Penelope lay in keeping his hands off her person for as long as possible. If it were mere lust, he would know immediately. He would be tempted by others at the party, for example. But if he loved Penelope, then a brief period of abstinence would do no harm. In fact, it might strengthen their relationship. He gave his head a firm shake. "I would not be a gentleman if I did so, Penelope."

Her eyes blazed upward at him, igniting his very soul. "What if I enjoy our affair, and wish to keep things as they are?"

Affair? So the lady merely considered their relationship an affair. He clenched his jaw and swallowed to keep from showing the bitter disappointment that flooded his being. "Well, then, I would have to say no. I assure you, Penelope, I am making this decision for your own good."

She gave a most unladylike snort. "How very kind of you, sir. But then, I don't see why you are so concerned. After all, you are no gentleman. Why act like one?"

That stung. So, was she only interested in pursuing a lasting relationship with a gentleman? "You sound so bitter, your ladyship. Why keep flinging my humble birth at me like a weapon?"

"I have no great opinion of gentlemen," she spat. "Lying, deceitful, upper-handed, overbearing louts—the lot of them. My first husband, who lied to me and took advantage of my innocence, for example, was one of many. I much prefer someone who isn't a gentleman. And I don't want you acting the part, or assuming some misguided notion of what it means to be a gentleman, for some silly reason."

He was treading on very dangerous ground. One false move and he might very well lose the lady forever. She was deeply hurt, that was certain. Her first husband's deception—a cloak he adopted for survival, no doubt—had wounded her deeply. And he had no wish to add to her hurt or to position himself as someone akin to Lord Peter.

"Penelope, sweetheart," he began, keeping his tone gentle and low. "I have no wish to hurt you. But nor do I want to take undue advantage of you. We are going to this house party merely to find out more information about Cicely. And if I were to make love to you while we were there working, then I would be the worst sort of rogue. Please understand, darling."

Her expression turned mulish, and she grew quiet. Too quiet. She merely sipped her whiskey and stared into the fire, her breasts rising and falling as she breathed in and out.

"Penelope? Speak to me, sweetest. Surely you understand this is for the best."

"Very well, Pierce." She heaved a sigh and turned away from him. "If you insist. We shall go to the house party together, masquerading as a nobleman and his courtesan. But we will not, in fact, play out those roles, as much as I would wish to."

"Thank you, darling." But even as the words fell from his lips, an uncanny feeling seized him. He may have won the battle, but he had the distinct impression he had lost the war.

***

Drat Pierce Howe and his ridiculous notions of chivalry. During their four day journey into Derbyshire, they had ridden in a carriage together, stayed at inns and even shared beds and not once had he behaved improperly towards her. And not only that, but she found herself genuinely liking his company. He was witty, well-read, and a good conversationalist. She was becoming ensnared by the man—as helpless as a horse on the lead. She looked forward to his company, enjoyed being with him, and craved his touch. She was thoroughly and deeply infatuated with the man.

Was that the underlying purpose of this ridiculous enforced abstinence? If so, it worked only too well. She found herself wishing, over the course of their journey, that their investigation would last longer. Not that she wanted to keep from finding Cicely, she hastened to add to herself. But, wouldn't it be lovely to continue seeing Pierce for just a bit longer? The thought of finally saying goodbye wrenched her stomach. She never wanted to say goodbye.

She stared out the carriage window as they traveled the last leg of their journey. Pierce sprawled on the seat across from her, asleep. Why, the man even looked attractive in his sleep. He didn't snore, he didn't make unseemly faces. He was as handsome in repose as he was awake. As she contemplated his visage, she only had one more lingering doubt. Why did he insist that he was no gentleman? That name, Pierce Howland, signified some class of gentry. Jane was still looking into the matter. Why was the man so reluctant to identify with his family? Perhaps there was some long-buried family secret that he wanted to keep hidden.

But then, if anyone was sympathetic to deep dark secrets, it was she.

The carriage turned onto a winding dirt road, passing a pair of impressive stone and iron gates. This must be the estate, then. They were almost there, and time for her to assume her role as a doxie. If they were successful, they would find Cicely and then she would finally be done with this farce.

The only problem was, of course, that she didn't want it to end.

She rummaged through her reticule and pulled out her mask, tying it on with deft hands. "Pierce, wake up," she hissed. "We are nearly there."

"Hmph." Pierce sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Are we? Devil take it, Penelope, you look fantastic in that mask. No one will ever discern it's you."

"No compliments, if you please," she responded crisply. If they were keeping things on neutral ground, then he would have to refrain from praising her. In private anyway. In front of others, any kind words would merely be part of their act.

He frowned, his blue eyes darkening. "Very well."

She peered out the window again as the carriage drew to a halt. Lord Adam's place was a large, rambling stone affair, one that bespoke centuries of wealth and privilege. After all, what kind of man would have the gall to host a party that centered on whores and hunting whilst his wife stayed in London? Excitement and disgust warred in Penelope's mind.

The coachman opened the door and helped Penelope out. Once she alit, she patted her coiffure and cleared her throat. She would have to feign her best Cockney accent, but she was none too sure of how authentic she sounded. So she would try to speak as little as possible in front of others.

"Come, my darling
. Time to begin our Christmas charade
," Pierce
murmured
in her ear. Catching her by the elbow, he walked her up the impressive stone staircase.

The massive oaken door opened without the necessity of a single knock. The butler, with flushed skin and beady eyes, took in Penelope's figure with a heated gaze. Disgust roiled her stomach. She would have to get used to being looked at like this, but she didn't like it. She could not wait until she and Pierce were safe and alone in their chamber.

"You must be Lord
Banks
," the butler said with a grin. "Lord Adam is expecting you. Won't you come in? His lordship is in his bedchamber, but I will let him know you are here, lest he wants to greet you himself."

As they entered the vestibule, Penelope saw one of the maids scurry past, righting her clothes. The butler pinched her bottom as she went by. Ah, so even the servants were free with one another here.

"Wait here. I'll see if his lordship is, er, indisposed." The butler ran up the stairs two at a time, whistling a jaunty tune.

Pierce helped her remove her cloak, but she longed to cocoon herself back in its warmth. Her dress left nothing to the imagination. How infuriating it would be to have that butler leering at her when he returned.

"I know it's all rather sordid," Pierce hissed in her ear. "I promise, I won't let any harm come to you."

She nodded. It was comforting to know that he was there. In fact, she was suddenly very grateful for his strong, solid presence beside her.

A pair of curtains in the corner parted, and a tall, arrogant-looking rake stepped out, adjusting himself rather openly as he button his trousers.

"Thanks, love," he called back toward the velvet portieres. "That was exactly what I needed." Then, spying Penelope and Pierce, the rake broke into laughter. "You must be Banks. Blake told me about you. How good of you to come to my little er,
Christmas
party. Plenty of us stags about, eh? My apologies, my good fellow—didn't know you had arrived. My butler saw to you then, eh?"

Behind him, a very pretty and very flushed young lady stepped out from behind the curtains, tugging her
muslin shift
about her shoulders.
Heat
crept over Penelope's cheeks.
'Twas obvious what had just transpired.
She would have to get used to the sight of such, well, obvious acts of intimacy over the next two days. But it was rather shocking after all.

"Your butler went in search of you, but it seems you were rather distracted." Pierce bowed and indicated Penelope with a wave of his hand. "I brought my own entertainment, Cavendish. Hope you don't mind."

Penelope swallowed nervously, but managed a coquettish smile for his lordship. Would he recognize her? He raked his eyes over her mercilessly, stopping pointedly at her bosom. She resisted the urge to give him a sound slap right across his smug face. No sense in giving up her identity now. And since she was playing a role, she just had to make the best of it.

"Lovely figure," Lord Adam finally pronounced, turning to Pierce. "But a redhead? Surely you know my preferences, Banks. Blondes only at this stag party. Unless you prefer not to share."

Pierce grasped her around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I prefer redheads, and so I thought no one would care if I brought my own toy."

Lord Adam threw back his head and laughed. "Very good, then. She's all yours, and a tempting morsel at that—despite that hennaed hair." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Got a fine little bit of muslin of my own. Barclay's, you know. Blonde, young, very obliging. Name's Emma. I'd share her with you just so you have the pleasure, you know. Or you can have yours and mine at the same time, my good fellow."