Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (17 page)

"Penelope?" Pierce's voice was drowsy, his body still heavy upon hers.

"Yes, Pierce?" She stroked his back, tracing the rivulets of water and sweat that still snaked little paths down his skin.

"May I sleep on the bed tonight, rather than the settee?"

She chuckled sleepily. "I would be most offended if you did otherwise."

Chapter Seventeen

Penelope awakened slowly, her limbs heavy and slightly sore from last night's enjoyment. Heavens, but Pierce was awfully good in bed. Maybe all men were like that. She snuggled down more deeply under the eiderdown coverlet and closed her eyes once more. No, not all men could be possibly that wonderful—it simply wasn't possible. Fortunately, and after many years of patient waiting, she had lucked into a relationship with the world's most perfect lover.

She opened her eyes lazily and stretched one arm towards the other side of the bed. How lovely it would be to have just a tiny bit more of Pierce before breakfast. But her hand encountered a lumpy pillow instead of Pierce's broad back. She sat up, tugging the coverlet over her bare breasts. Pierce was nowhere to be found. She was alone in the room, with nothing to warm her save the fire crackling low in the grate.

Where was he? No longer lazy and satiated, a cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She was alone in this great rambling house, full of drunken men having their way with women imported specially for the occasion. And she was scared. She wanted to see Pierce, his blonde hair falling over his forehead, his reassuringly wide shoulders, and his large and gentle hands that had worked all sorts of magic upon her being last night. But he was gone. And she was bereft.

She huddled under the covers and spied the ripped night rail, still lying in a silken pool on the floor where they had left it last night. Pierce had left her naked and alone, and she hated the feeling of vulnerability that hovered around her like a spectre. It was time to seize control of the situation.

She bolted out of bed and sought the wardrobe that held her few gowns. Rifling through them, she found the only one that didn't display her breasts like goodies in a bakery. Then she tugged on a chemise and the gown over her head. As a paid whore, she didn't have her own maid, so she would simply have to make do. But botheration, dressing oneself was so difficult. She pulled the dress into place with difficulty and struggled to tie the tapes at the shoulder. But her fingers, so nimble with fine needlework, suddenly felt clumsy and stiff and she couldn't form a simple loop to save her life.

This came, of course, from allowing a man into her heart. Men made women vulnerable. And she hated being weak. She loved being in control. She had fallen in love with Peter at first sight, and what had he done? Traded on her innocence to cloak his sexual preferences. Oh, they got on all right after a fashion, but the sting of betrayal would never ebb, no matter how many years passed since Peter died.

She would never allow that to happen again. She was her own woman now. She had her own home, her own money, and her own place in society. And even though Pierce was terribly clever in bed, and even though he was as good looking as any Grecian statue in any garden, that didn't mean she had to lose her sensibilities and her independence, did it? Besides which, he was still concealing things from her. The Howland name and its connection to him. The reason for his trip downstairs last night. He certainly had some explaining to do.

How Jane and Elizabeth would be laughing at her right now.

"Damn it to hell," she muttered through clenched teeth. Those blasted tapes simply would not tie.

A rattling noise startled her—the sound of a key in the locked door. She let go of her gown and inched backwards, grasping for the fireplace poker. If that was some drunken lord, she'd give him a jolly good smack.

The door creaked open, and Pierce peered around the corner. "Are you decent?" he whispered.

"For heaven's sake, come in," Penelope replied, unable to conceal her irritation. She fumbled with her dress, drawing it up over her shoulder once more.

Pierce entered slowly, balancing a large tray in one hand. The enticing scent of coffee and bacon drifted into the room with him. "I thought you might be hungry. I, for one, am famished." He set the tray down on a little table near the fire and faced her. "Do you need help with your gown?"

"Don't be silly." She turned away, unable to conceal the heat rising into her face. He had gone to find breakfast for both of them. Her heart softened a bit more—and therein danger lay. She had to enforce some kind of boundary, or Pierce would win over her heart completely. And then she would be in precisely the same position she found herself with Peter.

Large, warm hands grasped her shoulders, turning her around a bit and pulling her closer so that Pierce could tie the tapes. "Usually I am undoing these things," he murmured with a wicked grin. "The least I can do is put you back to rights."

At last. She was dressed, and though she still needed her stockings and her hair dressed, she was no longer embarrassed to face him. "Thank you for breakfast," she said simply. Time to go back to being the Ice Goddess. It was the only defense she knew.

"It was no trouble, I assure you." He pulled two chairs close to the fire and beckoned her to sit. "I think we are the only ones awake. I had full choice of the breakfast table." He removed a cover off one of the plates and passed it to her. "Enjoy."

She was rather hungry. She hadn't eaten much off her tray last night, and, well, they had been rather energetic. They shared the meal in silence, as Penelope stared into the fire. Anything to avoid looking at Pierce. For if she did, she might throw herself at him again.

"Are you feeling all right this morning, Penelope?" Pierce's voice sounded concerned, but she dared not look up at him.

"Just tired." She sought a change of subject—anything to distract them both. "Shall we go to Dunstable, then?"

"Yes," he responded with a tinge of satisfaction in his voice. "I found out all I needed to know last night."

How very nice for him. She took another fortifying sip of coffee. "I shall be only too happy to leave this place."

"I will be as well."

She darted a quick glance up at him, and found his eyes locked on her.

"How far of a drive do we have before us?" Best to stick to the matter at hand. If she started saying exactly why she wanted to leave, or tried to find out why he wanted to go, then they could drift into dangerous waters.

"Two days, I suppose. We'll, uh, have to stay in an inn at least once on the journey." If she didn't know him better, she'd think that he was blushing. Surely not. They had nothing to blush about, not after all they had shared over the past several weeks.

"Of course." She arched one brow and finished off the dregs of her coffee. "I'd rather find some decent clothes to wear for the rest of our journey," she added. She was done playing her role, after all.

"Did you not bring anything more modest with you?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

"Of course not. I thought for sure we would find Cicely here, and leave here with her. I had no idea we would be traipsing about the countryside, chasing a rabbit trail to Dunstable."

He drew himself up as though a little offended by her tone. "I can ask among the houseguests if you like."

"No indeed, that would certainly cause talk. Besides, I would rather leave as soon as possible." She nibbled on some toast. "Couldn't we find a shop on the way?"

"There aren't many find modistes between here and London," he responded dryly. "But we can look in the shops as we pass through Leicester. There might be something there."

"Thank you," she responded shortly. "When can we leave?"

"The sooner the better." He stood, brushing the crumbs from his fingertips. "How much longer until you are ready?"

"Just let me put on my stockings and slippers, and throw my gowns into a trunk. I can be ready in five minutes, and then I will worry over my hair as we travel."

He nodded briefly. "I'll bring the carriage round, and send someone up to get your things."

As he left the room, that same sinking feeling invaded her being as it had that morning, when she discovered he was gone. She missed him already, even though she would see him in just a few moments.

She drew on her stockings and slippers, starting a ravel in one stocking in her haste. She wasn't acting like some ninny because she loved Pierce Howe, was she? That would be the absolute worst thing she could do. Have him as a lover, certainly, and share his bed for the foreseeable future until their affair would surely meet its untimely end. And then she would go back to her life as the Ice Goddess, back to her lonely bed every night, never seeing him again.

She glanced out the window. Yes, there it was. The carriage was brought round, and Pierce was talking to the coachman about something. He gestured up towards the house, and sudden tears stung the backs of her eyes at his gesture. He was there, arranging matters and taking care of all the details so she could find Cicely. And she loved him.

Despite everything, she loved him. But she could never, ever let him know the truth.

***

Penelope's hair, still shining with golden highlights despite the henna, tumbled down around her shoulders and brushed up against his arm in the carriage. The strands caught on his coat-sleeve and tangled around his glove. And it was driving him to distraction.

He flicked a glance at Penelope as she continued combing her hair, completely unaware of the effect she was having upon his sensibilities. He was besotted. Enchanted. A complete and utter fool in love with her. He knew it from the moment he first saw her, the night she had called him to find Cicely. All the past few weeks had merely been a game of catch as catch can, as he tried to avoid the obvious. But the truth hit him like a particularly well-placed jab in the stomach, confirmed by their stay at the stag party. She was the perfect woman, and he adored her.

He traced the end of one long ringlet, curling it around his finger. Penelope glanced over and gave a little laugh, tugging her hair free. "My apologies, sir."

"Don't apologize." He had trouble forming the words. In fact, he felt like a bloody idiot, trying to make sense of all the emotions rushing through him. "Here. Allow me."

He took the comb from her hand and began, with long strokes, to untangle the strands. Penelope stiffened and pulled away. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." Her voice sounded strained, as though she too were having difficulty speaking. "I just feel silly that I didn't put my hair in order before we left. I wanted to hurry, you know."

"I don't mind." He resumed carefully combing through the tangles, losing himself in the feel and the scent of Penelope. Even her hair smelled warm and sensuous, like ripe peaches.

The carriage rocked back and forth over the road, so he braced Penelope by pulling her backward into his lap. "Better?"

"Yes." It was more of a gasp than a word.

As he brushed, he indulged in thinking of Penelope. Not just Penelope naked and writhing beneath him, which was, of course, the most enticing sight in the world. But of Penelope reaching out to Emma, offering her a position of dignity in a fine household. Of Penelope darting out of the bushes to reach his carriage as he transported her to the Gilded Lily. Of Penelope hugging the doorstep of the Lily, frightened and cold. In every instance, she was conquering doubts and fears, extending a hand to others, taking a step that few other women of wealth and privilege would ever consider.

That was Penelope. Honest. Good. Fearless.

He didn't deserve her. He was a lying scoundrel. He made a profession of lurking in alleyways and doorways, working for whomever paid him enough blunt. He had not even told her the truth about himself, about being part of the notorious Howland family. He should not even be touching her in this way.

He swept her hair to one side and pressed a burning kiss to the back of her neck. "Penelope," he murmured. She would save him. She was so good, so kind, so generous.

She drew her back up rigidly, but held still. "What is it?"

"Nothing untoward, I promise." She had a right to be suspicious. When did he ever not press his advantage? He had made love to her in a carriage, over a desk, and at a stag party. He didn't want to press matters again. He merely wanted to pay homage. That was all.

He leaned forward, allowing her to rest her weight against his chest. Then he tangled his hands in her hair, murmuring broken phrases—he couldn't even form the words right in his mind. She began to relax against him, slowly, hesitantly.

He kissed the back of her neck again, trailing down the nape of her neck, breathing deeply of her scent of peaches and gardenias. The Ice Goddess was melting. Her posture no longer rigid, she sank into his embrace, allowing him to kiss and caress her.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Something I must do. I've wanted to do this forever," he muttered against the crook of her neck.

He pulled her up into his lap, cradling her in one arm, drawing her legs across the length of the bench.

"Comfortable?"

"As comfortable as I can be." She gave him a little smile.

With a strangled groan, he took her lips, not plundering as he usually did, but gently worshipping the tender curve of her mouth, the soft roundness of her cheeks. "Penelope," he breathed. "You are the most extraordinary woman. I cannot remember what life was like before I met you." Or what it would be like without her. That simply could not happen. He would not allow it to happen.

She reached down, grasping for the front of his trousers. He took her wrist and gently held her hand. "No, Penelope."