by Nina Rowan
Darius has become quite fond of the Darlingtons’ cozy, cluttered home—so different from Rushton’s elegant town house—and the three rambunctious sons who reminded him of his brothers so many years ago. Hot tea and fresh cakes were always at the ready, and Mrs. Darlington fussed over him a bit whenever he returned to London.
Though Darius enjoyed the confectionery shop, he most looked forward to his visits to the Darlington house. There, the vague disquiet that always simmered at the edge of his brain seemed to disappear. Or, at least, to lessen.
And, too, there was Penelope Darlington, the solemn girl who had always seemed to Darius like an ideal daughter. He understood young girls like her, who met his expectations. The obedient girls who sat with their hands folded and waited for someone to address them. The girls who dressed well, listened to their parents, and waited with breathless expectation for their debut ball, after which they would marry according to their parents’ wishes and become proper wives.
Penelope Darlington was such a girl. He remembered her as brown-haired little thing who sat behind the counter at her father’s confectionery shop and looked at everyone with unnerving perception.
Now, though, he finally wanted to show her what—
He heard a distinctively feminine laugh. Even to his unpoetic mind, the sound echoed that of bells and music. He turned instinctively, and his heart gave a strange jolt.
Clad in a blue gown that contrasted with her pale skin, which glowed like alabaster, Penelope Darlington laughed in a way that made her eyes sparkle and a vibrant energy radiate from her. With her glossy light brown hair, diamonds sparkling at her throat, her bosom decidedly curved and round beneath her bodice, Penelope had become…not the young woman Darius expected.
The Penelope he remembered was a tractable, solemn girl who would develop into a woman with a serious dedication to life and her position in the world. She was not supposed to turn into a vivacious debutante.
The odd sensation in Darius’s chest settled into disappointment. Only in that instant did he realize he’d wanted her to be the same dutiful girl she’d always been. Because like words, definitions, etymology…he understood Penelope Darlington. Or he’d thought he did.
Still smiling, Penelope said something to the person who stood beside her. Darius shifted his gaze to the other man.
Jatropha. Jaundice. Jealousy.
Simon Wilkie was the scion of a once-prominent Scottish family that had fallen on difficult times after the death of his father years ago. A handsome fellow whose charm appealed to ladies of all ages, Wilkie had spent the past two seasons making the social rounds in London.
At least, that was what Talia had told Darius, remarking that Wilkie had made a concerted but unsuccessful attempt to woo both her and several other daughters of the peerage. While the women had enjoyed his attentions, both they and their families had known Wilkie’s attentions for the ploy that they were.
Darius could not help but wonder if Penelope Darlington knew that as well. He rather doubted it, given the way she was gazing up at Wilkie with admiration, again laughing that musical-bells laugh as she reached up to fiddle with her necklace, which lay against a throat so white and graceful it reminded Darius of a swan’s neck…
He shook his head. He was unaccustomed to his thoughts swerving in such a ridiculous direction. It was simply that Penelope had changed so drastically and in a manner he had not anticipated.
His brain clicked and whirred as he watched Wilkie bend to murmur something in Penelope’s ear. What did she see in such a cad?
She smiled and nodded, stepping so close to Wilkie that their proximity was almost indecent—
“Miss Darlington!”
The booming voice gave Darius a start. Then he realized it had come from him.
Marometer. Maculae. Madness.
“Miss Darlington.” He tempered his voice as he approached Penelope and Wilkie, ignoring the other man’s narrowed gaze as he stopped beside Penelope. “A pleasure to see you again. You look lovely, as always.”
Penelope gave him tight smile. “You as well, Mr. Hall. Welcome back to London.”
He nodded his thanks and slid his gaze to Wilkie. “We’ve not been introduced. Darius Hall, third son to the Earl of Rushton.”
“I ken yer sister, Mr. Hall,” Wilkie replied with a faint tone of snideness that had Darius clenching his fists. He hated that Talia had endured her own share of gossip after their mother’s affair and their parents’ subsequent divorce.
“Yes, she tells me you sought unsuccessfully to court her,” he told Wilkie. Grim satisfaction filled him when Wilkie colored a bit with embarrassment. “Returning to the Highlands sooner rather than later, are you?”
Wilkie slid his glance to Penelope. “Sooner, yea.”
She was gazing at the fool as if he were the key to unlocking a box of surprises. Darius felt like his entire chest was filled with thistles, pricking and poking at him.
“And you, Miss Darlington?” he asked. “How are you planning to spend your Christmas?”
“Why, at my father’s feast, of course,” she replied, her voice overly bright. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“That Darlington’s Confectionery has been granted a royal warrant from Her Majesty the Queen.”
Darius was pleased to hear this. Henry had expanded his company significantly in recent years, particularly due to his interest in new processes of manufacturing and attempts to create a palatable form of solid chocolate. Darius had known it was only a matter of time before Darlington’s Confectionery was granted the prestige and honor of being named the official supplier of chocolates to the royal court.
“A well-deserved honor,” he told Penelope.
“My father is planning an elaborate Christmas feast in celebration,” she said. “I’m certain you and your family will receive an invitation. You may expect roast goose, oysters, mincemeat pies, and plum pudding. December eighteenth.”
Even Darius was struck by the date. Though Henry Darlington had remarried and had three more children after the death of his first wife ten years ago, it seemed an act of callousness that he would plan to host a celebration on the date of her death.
Darius didn’t take his eyes off Penelope. She returned his look with steady regard, as if trying to determine whether he remembered what she had told him all those years ago. If he could sense how deeply this betrayal hurt her.
He did. And he could.
But he could not tell her that in front of Wilkie.
Wilkie eased partway between Darius and Penelope, breaking their mutual gaze.
“As I was tellin’ ye, lass,” he said, “the mermaid was the fairest lady the Shetlander ever did lay his eyes upon. Though he’d taken her seal-skin, so in love was he and so enamored of her beauty that he offered her protection as his beloved spouse…”
Darius stepped forward, reaching out to take Penelope’s empty glass. “More champagne, Miss Darlington?”
She shook her head, and for an instant he thought he saw a faint apology in her eyes. He still wanted to tell her what he’d created, but she was clearly more interested in Wilkie’s tales of mermaid love than she would be in Darius’s explanation about chemical papers. He excused himself and went toward the refreshment table.
“Bit of a tumshie, inna he?” Wilkie’s condescending voice reached Darius’s ears as he walked away.
His spine stiffened. Though he hated the idea that anything Wilkie said could affect him, he didn’t like the insult of being called useless. Least of all in front of Penelope Darlington.
After downing a few swallows of brandy, he looked at the clock again. Good. He’d been here an hour. He could leave now without offending Lady Wentworth. He would just seek the hostess out to pay his regards.
He put the glass on a table and went in search of the viscountess. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mind telling him he was seeking a plump woman in her fifties with white hair…
Penelope Darl
ington maneuvered through the crowd like a bright, shiny needle sweeping through cloth. Candlelight danced on her skin. Simon Wilkie was not at her side.
Seizing the opportunity, Darius followed the young woman down a corridor. She paused in the doorway to the library, as if checking to see if anyone was there. In three quick strides, Darius was beside her.
“Escaping the crush, Miss Darlington?”
She turned, fixing him with a gaze that shone vivid blue even in the dim light.
“You do seem to follow me when I try to escape, Mr. Hall.”
Darius almost smiled. He glanced at the dark, silent library. “I appreciate that you seek out places of quietude.”
He’d stopped close enough to her that her scent reached him. Darius inhaled, drinking in the aroma of sugar and cinnamon that still surrounded her. A bit of his tension eased.
“What are you doing now, Mr. Hall?” Penelope asked. “My father said you were writing an article for a scientific magazine but also that you were working with some sort of coding machine for the Home Office?”
“By profession, I am a writer, but by education, a scientist. By inclination, I am a mechanic, which is why I’ve always enjoyed the machinery of production.”
“You’ve not found a way to marry such diverse interests?”
“They are not nearly as diverse as you might imagine,” Darius explained. “I’ve recently received a publisher’s contract to write a popular encyclopedia of scientific and literary terms to replace some of the more antiquated dictionaries currently available. It is, in fact, the perfect marriage of science, mechanics, and writing.”
“Of course it is.” She sounded as if she were trying not to sound entirely bored.
Darius felt his jaw tighten. From what he’d seen, she had been far more interested in Wilkie’s dramatic tales of men in love with mermaids.
“He appears quite taken with you.” The observation escaped Darius’s mouth before it had even fully formed in his brain. The peculiarity of such a process—he always thought before he spoke—was even more unnerving than the direct way Penelope Darlington was gazing at him.
“He is,” she replied frankly.
Darius suppressed another rustle of irritation. “What do you know of his character? My sister tells me he’s got quite a reputation for being a rakish sort of fellow prone to pursuing young women of higher standing. Likely because his family has fallen upon difficult times.”
Penelope’s eyes flashed with blue fire. “Exactly like my father, aren’t you, Mr. Hall? He said almost the exact same thing.”
“And you still don’t believe it?”
“No, I do not. And if Mr. Wilkie’s family has fallen upon difficult times, it matters naught to me. Everyone knows that a gentleman does not pursue a shopkeeper’s daughter for her fortune.”
Even Darius had to acknowledge the truth of that. Yet, gentleman or not, any man would pursue Penelope Darlington for her beauty.
“You’re standing beneath the mistletoe,” he said. Again, the remark simply emerged without prior formation. He was beginning to feel unbalanced by the strange effect this woman had on him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Darius pointed upward to where a sprig of ribbon-wrapped mistletoe dangled from the doorway just above Penelope’s head. She followed his line of sight, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks as her lips parted. He half expected her to step away from him, but instead—unless he was imagining it—she seemed to shift an infinitesimal degree closer. Warmth unfurled in his blood.
“One who stands beneath the mistletoe requires a kiss,” he continued, unable to follow the direction of his thoughts, which no longer seemed to be his own.
Neither did his body, which had surrendered to the wild beating of his heart and an odd shortness of breath. He wanted to unfasten his cravat and feel cool air against his skin because this proximity to Penelope was making him hot from the inside out, and nothing he told himself would quell the sensation.
He could not stop staring at her lips. They were pink and plump, with an indentation in the top lip. If he were to place his finger there, it would fit perfectly within that little notch. So too would the tip of his tongue.
Columna. Colures. Comata.
Combustion.
An inflammation of light and heat. He felt the explosion in his chest at the thought of settling his mouth against Penelope Darlington’s perfect lips, feeling her body pressed to his, sliding one hand to the back of her neck so he could angle her head and deepen the intensity of the kiss…
“I don’t believe in such fables, Mr. Hall.” Her clear voice sliced through his imaginings.
Darius didn’t have imaginings. At least, he hadn’t before now. Certainly not ones about kissing Penelope Darlington, her hands clutching his shoulders and her hips arching into his…
Darius drew in a hard breath and attempted to regain control of his unruly thoughts and even more uncontrollable body.
“You’d take the chance, then?” he asked.
“What chance?” she asked, resting one slender hand against the doorjamb as if for support. She still hadn’t moved away from him. Her cheeks were still flushed pink, and her scent filled his head.
“If a woman is denied a kiss while standing beneath the mistletoe, it is foretold that she will not marry the following year,” Darius said.
“Is that so?”
“Indeed.”
Penelope laughed that bell-laugh again, and for an instant Darius thought she had read his desires.
“Oh, Mr. Hall, I assure you,” she said, and then she took a step away from him. A cool breeze swept into the empty space where she had just been standing.
“I shall marry,” Penelope said. “Most certainly, I shall. And I need not even wait until next year.”
Darius frowned. His analytical brain fit the pieces of that puzzle together with ease. And he did not like the result one bit.
“I didn’t know you were planning a wedding, Miss Darlington.”
“You don’t know much about me at all, Mr. Hall.”
“I know you’ll not find any exhilaration with Simon Wilkie.”
Her eyes widened, and she took a startled step back. “W-what?”
“If that is what you still seek, he is not the one who will provide it.”
“What do you know of such things?” Penelope asked, her voice tightening. “In all those years you visited my father’s shop, I’d never known a more serious, practical person. Far more interested in gears, levers, and the workings of machines rather than…than…”
“Exhilaration?” Darius supplied.
The color darkened on her cheeks. “Rather than life, Mr. Hall.”
He stared at her. The obedient, dutiful Penelope Darlington was telling him he didn’t know how to properly live?
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Of course you don’t because you’ve never felt it.” She extended a forefinger and poked him in the chest. “When I tried to explain it to you, you looked at me as if I’d gone mad. People like you know nothing about intangibles, all those things someone can feel inside and not have any idea what to do with. Things that have nothing to do with duty and practicality and everything to do with wanting to feel.”
“I know how to feel, Miss Darlington.” He moved closer to her, lowering his voice a notch. “I assure you.”
“You do not.” She lifted her chin, though a visible tremor went through her. “That day when I tried to tell you about being daring and bold, feeling joy and, yes, exhilaration, you started talking about the components of the atmosphere. I mean, really, of all the ridiculous things one could say to a girl who simply wanted a—”
All thought fled from Darius’s brain. He grasped the back of Penelope’s neck and lowered his head. Combustion.
Heat flared through him as he captured the gasp of shock that escaped her parted lips. He tightened his grip just enough to indicate that he would not allow her to e
scape as he pressed his mouth to hers. He curved his other hand around her waist, pulling her closer, heedless of the impropriety of such an act.
He felt her stiffen. He did not release her. He settled his mouth more firmly across hers and let the taste of her spread into his blood. If Penelope Darlington wanted sensation and feeling, then, God in heaven, he would prove that he was the one who could show such things to her, not the likes of that damned Scotsman.
A little whimper emerged from Penelope’s throat. The sound settled in Darius’s groin. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and he curled his fingers into her waist as heat flooded his lower body. She tasted like everything delicious—peppermint drops, lemon icing, strawberry meringue, vanilla cream. Then their tongues touched, and he could hardly remember who he was. His mind fogged with pleasure and hot imaginings of what else he wanted to do with her.
He wanted to ease the ice-blue gown from her shoulders. He wanted to pull the pins from her glossy brown hair and watch it tumble in waves down her back. He wanted to—
She kissed him back. Her body softened against his, her fingers tightening on his arms. Her lips moved over his with a hunger he should have found shocking in a young woman of her respectability, but instead it seemed utterly natural. As if she were releasing something that had been locked inside her, a dam breaking open. A soft groan spilled from her into him. Darius moved his hand to her nape, angling her head to deepen the kiss, wanting her more with every brush of her body…
With a gasp, Penelope yanked herself away from him. Shock darkened her blue eyes to the color of the sea. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Darius’s chest heaved as he tried to rein in his control. Electricity crackled in the air between them.
“What…” Penelope drew in a breath, her expression darkening with anger. “How…how dare you kiss me? What kind of—”
“I told you about the atmosphere,” Darius interrupted, surprised by the fact that his voice didn’t shake, “because you said you didn’t want to be invisible. The atmosphere is invisible, yet it is what makes the earth both habitable and beautiful. It helps us to breathe and live. It reflects and scatters light. It makes the stars illuminate the sky. All because it is invisible.”
