The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella

by Nina Mason

  The object was to snatch and eat raisins out of a bowl of flaming brandy. All the candles in the room were snuffed out to increase the eerie effect of the blue flames, which made all the players look like demons.

  Here comes the flaming bowl,

  Don’t he mean to take his toll,

  Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  Take care you don’t take too much,

  Be not greedy in your clutch,

  Snip! Snap! Dragon!

  At each of these gatherings, sprays of mistletoe hung over the doorways (to the peril of all young ladies present), but try as Rollo might to maneuver Penelope under one of these opportune sprigs, she consistently outfoxed him.

  All of this told him she trusted herself as little as she did him, which, in an upside-down way, kept his hope alive. Had she decided against him completely, after all, she would not have gone to such lengths to keep him at arm’s distance. Still, as long as she only saw him in the company of others, there was little he could do to rekindle her passion for him.

  On the eighth night, she invited him to the village’s annual Christmastide Ball, though only after extracting his promise to behave himself and refrain from monopolizing her attention. “We can exchange pleasantries,” she told him, “and I will reserve one dance for you—your choice—but that is as much as I can offer.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he chose the waltz: the only dance that allowed him to hold her close for the duration.

  Conveniently, the Assembly Rooms in Stow-on-the-Wold were located only a block away from the Red Lyon Inn, where he continued to lodge while laboring in the daylight hours to make Hollywell Abbey habitable again.

  When the fated hour drew nigh, Rollo dressed himself in the formal suit he’d brought along to serve as his wedding clothes. Had he wasted his money? Maybe. But at least he’d look dashing tonight as he endeavored once again to get past the barricade his beloved Sweet Pea had erected against him.

  The ballroom was already full of people when he arrived. As he entered, a cacophony of sounds filled his ears: music, chatter, laughter, tapping heels, clicking snuffboxes, and the rustling of silk gowns. The body-heated air made him instantly overwarm as it carried to his nose the comingled smells of woodsmoke, burning tallow, and a cloying clash of perfumes.

  After checking his hat, cloak and winter-wear at the door, he pulled on his evening gloves and wove his way through the crowd in quest of Penelope. He failed to find her, though he did recognize some of the crème-de-la-crème of Gloucestershire society from years gone by. As he passed them by, they looked at him briefly before looking away with their noses in the air.

  Obviously, word of his return had gotten around. And they were making it clear he was no more welcome in their ranks than he’d been when they shut him out in the wake of his father’s downfall.

  Pretending not to notice or care, Rollo made his way toward the dance floor, where a lively quadrille was in progress. Jealously pricked his heart when he saw Penelope among the dancers, moving skillfully through the steps and turns with a handsome young gentleman unfamiliar to him. She looked beautiful and danced divinely, making him all the more determined to win her back.

  When the quadrille was over, he tried to catch her eye, but she either didn’t see him or didn’t care to acknowledge him, because she walked off in the opposite direction. He followed her, fighting his way through the crowd. By the time he got within shouting distance, another gentleman—or perhaps “dandy” was a better word?—had claimed the next dance.

  As frustration thrummed through him, Rollo pulled the silver flask from his pocket and drank deeply of the brandy therein. To the devil with chasing her about all night like a lovesick puppy. He would wait for the waltz and make his move then. In the meantime, he would try to enjoy himself.

  Doing his best to get into the spirit of the assembly, he circulated among the pretty daughters of the nouveau riche. Generally, they were not above associating with a gentleman with a soiled reputation, especially if he was well-favored, wealthy, and propertied.

  By the by, he found himself talking to Annabelle Carter, the eldest and most attractive daughter of a tobacco merchant and his overbearing wife. Miss Carter had been standing a little apart from her family party and for the moment had drifted out of hearing range of her sisters and mother. She was fanning herself and tapping her toe, clear signs she wanted to dance.

  He approached her and made a slight bow. “May I have the pleasure of the next two dances?”

  She blushed scarlet. “Thank you, sir. I would be delighted to partner you, but must ask my mother before I can accept.”

  While Rollo waited for her to seek Mrs. Carter’s permission, he wondered again if Penelope knew Frank kept a mistress. He’d gone to London, Rollo was certain, to pacify the lady with expensive gifts and cheap promises, rather than to break with her.

  Though tempted to tell Penelope what he knew, Rollo decided not to do so for two reasons: firstly, a gentleman did not reveal the amorous affairs of his brethren, especially to a wife or sweetheart; and, secondly, Penelope might think the disclosure of Frank’s infidelity petty rather than principled.

  And her presuming him to be small would hardly help advance his cause.

  Miss Carter came back, her face now pale instead of crimson. “Mama says I may dance the next with you, Mr. Gillingham, but no more.”

  “Did she give you a reason?” he asked, stung by the insult.

  “She only said she did not want my name linked with yours in tomorrow’s tittle-tattle.”

  It would seem the muck of his father’s reputation still clung to his coattails. So much so, in fact, that even the middle classes now considered him beneath their notice.

  Prickling with indignity, Rollo offered her his arm and led her toward the assembling couples. He’d only asked the silly chit to dance because he was bored. Well, all right. That wasn’t entirely true. The larger reason he’d asked her to stand up with him was to inspire jealousy in Penelope. He’d hoped that seeing him gamboling on the dancefloor with another woman might jar her out of her complacency.

  As they formed up to begin, Rollo scanned the long line of ladies opposing the gentlemen. Though he didn’t see Penelope, he did see something enchanting in the way the soft golden candlelight flickered over faces, jewels, and silk dresses. Flattering to all, the soft light made the attractive beautiful and the unattractive more tolerable.

  The music started up. He bowed to Miss Carter as she curtsied to him. They began the reel and, when it was their turn to move down the line, he saw Penelope. She, too, had joined the dance, but did not look happy. Was she jealous of his lovely young partner? The possibility that she was lightened his heart along with his step.

  Though he perceived Miss Carter as little more than a prop, he made what small talk he could as they rose and dipped, pointed and flexed, and circled and turned.

  He danced the next two with a lady of Penelope’s age, whose mother was not as particular as Mrs. Carter. She saw not the son of a reprobate when she sized him up, but a blessing from God sent to spare her the burden of supporting her unmarried daughter indefinitely.

  When the dance ended, he thanked the lady and went to find Penelope—to stake his claim for the waltz. As he looked for her, he got caught up in the crowd and overheard a behind-the fans tête-à-tête between two upper-crust old biddies.

  “Whatever became of his father? Do you know?”

  “He died in debtor’s prison, I heard.”

  “How deplorable! Then again, one could hardly expect better, given the man’s weakness of character.”

  “Too true, my dear. Too true. And from what I hear, the acorn did not fall far from the tree.”

  “Oh? In what respect?”

  “Flouting the rules of decorum. I hear tell young Gillingham has come back to claim Miss Pembroke’s hand.”

  “But … is she not already engaged to Frank Blackmore?”

  “She is. Apparently, though, Mr. Gillingham re
fuses to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  Rollo burned to say something scathing to them both when the bottleneck finally cleared. He settled instead for glowering his contempt as he passed by their chairs. Just as the orchestra started up, he came upon Penelope, who appeared to be looking for him as well.

  As he led her to the floor, he benignly said, “Are you having a pleasant time?”

  “Yes, are you?”

  “Pleasant enough.”

  “I saw you dancing earlier,” she offered. “I had forgotten just how light you are on your feet.”

  “Had you?” He flicked a wounded glance her way. “Because I remember everything about you to the smallest detail.”

  * * * *

  As Penelope glided around the dancefloor in Rollo’s arms, she found it harder and harder to suppress her desire for him. How could she help it when their bodies were moving together in such graceful synchronicity? Outwardly, she still held herself in the rigid posture of the waltz, but inwardly, she felt as boneless and wobbly as her mother’s aspic.

  Rollo dipped her, making her already racing heart beat faster. He was, as she’d lately rediscovered, an exceptional dancer. Not only was his footwork flawless, he also displayed the perfect combination of male bravado and feminine grace.

  Extending his arm, he spun her around before bringing her back to him. Around and around the floor they went, spinning at whirlwind speed. How thrilling it was! She felt almost as if she’d been dead and brought back to life. And perhaps she had. No one made her feel as alive as Rollo did. Or half so euphoric. If only she could stay in his arms forever. If only she could marry him instead of Frank. If only her parents would be reasonable.

  If only, if only, if only …

  And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as her father so often reminded her. He was right, of course. Wishing rarely brought rewards. So, like it or not, she would keep her promise to marry Frank … and give up the chance of a life filled with love and passion. She was not, however, married yet.

  True, she was betrothed, but surely unfaithfulness to one’s betrothed was not as grave in the Lord’s eyes as cheating on one’s actual husband.

  She could still, therefore, gratify her long-denied passion for Rollo this once (or maybe twice, if she saw him again tomorrow) before Frank returned from London. And she could store it away in her heart like a cherished keepsake. Then, when her life grew too tedious to bear, she could take it out and remember how it had been to lay with a man whose touch she craved.

  Before she committed herself to the plan, however, there was something she had to know.

  They were still locked together in the posture of the waltz, their heads tilted in opposite directions. Raising her voice to be heard above the music, she asked, “Why did you never write to me?”

  His face turned toward hers, eyebrows knitted. “I did.”

  Penelope was all astonishment. “Did you? When?”

  “As soon as I reached my uncle’s … and several times while I was overseas.”

  “But … I never received any letters from you.”

  A shadow fell across his features. “Which would explain why you never wrote me back, I suppose.”

  “I most certainly would have,” she told him in earnest, “had I received them.”

  In the silence that followed, Penelope’s thoughts raced as rapidly as her heart. Was he being truthful with her? She believed he was, since she could not conceive what he stood to gain by being disingenuous. That could only mean, therefore, someone had kept his letters from her for their own purposes. But who would have done such a despicable thing? Although her parents seemed the most likely candidates, she could not quite bring herself to believe they would have deliberately caused her the agonies she suffered because of his silence.

  “Are you all right? You look flushed.”

  She offered him a false smile. “I’m just overheated—from the dance and the stuffiness of the room. Perhaps when the waltz is finished, we could take some fresh air.”

  Something in his eyes gave her the distinct impression his thoughts were running in the same direction as hers. But where could they go private enough for an assignation of the sort she had in mind?

  Then, she remembered the folly in the rear garden. A small Grecian temple, its interior room was sometimes employed as a retreat from the weather during outdoor gatherings. It was the perfect place, providing the door was unlocked and no one else had beaten them to it.

  When the last notes of the waltz faded away, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her through the throng toward the doors leading out to the terrace. As they exited the ballroom, the cold evening air was a shock to her flushed and perspiring skin. Brightly burning braziers added warmth to the area, though not enough to take off the chill.

  Penelope looked out across the garden, whose winding, luminaria-lined path offered privacy and romantic ambiance. “Shall we take a turn in the garden?”

  “It’s quite brisk out here,” he said. “Shall I fetch your wrap?”

  “No, no.” She smiled up at him. “I’ll be fine … as long as you are at my side to keep me warm.”

  “I would be always at your side, my love, if you permitted me that pleasure.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I intend to permit you other pleasures tonight, Rollo. Pleasures I have denied us both for far too long.”

  He turned to her, eyes wide and brows lifted. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  Suddenly unsure of her chosen course, Penelope stepped back and ran her gaze over his person. His wide shoulders and broad chest … his trim waist and narrow hips … the long, firm muscles of his thighs … the sinuous curve of his shapely calves.

  When she reached his slipper-shod feet, she swept her eyes up his body to his face, which she studied with equal ardor. The full, sensual lips … the knife-straight nose … the chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw, and cleft chin. He was, quite simply, exquisite. A model of masculine beauty made even more irresistible by the longing in his heavy-lidded eyes.

  How could she resist such charms? How could any woman?

  She licked her lips, eager to taste what her eyes beheld. “If you want to, so do I.”

  “If I want to?” He chuckled softly. “Are you in jest?”

  “No,” she said, frowning, “though perhaps we should move out of hearing range of those on the terrace.”

  “Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “Perhaps we should at that.”

  When he offered his arm, she took his elbow and they walked together down the terrace steps and along the gravel path. While it was cold, it was also terribly romantic with the full moon overhead and the flickering luminaria guiding the way.

  They were so close together their bodies were touching, generating heat between them. Overcome by an inexplicable need to bare her soul to him, she said, “I never lost faith, Rollo. I want you to know that. Even without your letters, I stayed true to you and my promise … despite my parents’ best efforts to dissuade me. They lectured, cajoled, and threatened me … and perhaps even kept your letters from me. But my devotion to you never faltered.”

  Once they’d rounded the first bend, which took them out of view of the terrace, Rollo stopped and turned to face her. “Tell me one thing, if you would. Had you received my letters, would you still have accepted Frank?”

  “Probably not.”

  His eyes flashed in the moonlight. “Then you were manipulated into accepting him. Can you not see that? Can you not see that you owe neither him nor your parents your loyalty?”

  “But I do,” she countered, racked with guilt and regret. “Perhaps not Frank, but I owe my parents a great deal. They supported me and cared for me, even when I refused to give you up.”

  He released a sigh in a cloud of white vapor. “It sounds to me as if they harassed you more than supported you.”

  Tears burned her eyes and tightened her throat. “Please do not ask me to choose between you and my parents.�
�

  “Why must you?”

  “Because they have made it clear they will disown me if I marry you instead of Frank.”

  “Let them.”

  “I cannot,” she cried. “They may be imperfect, but they’re still my family. My only family.”

  Pulling her into a hug, he held her tightly against him. “We can make our own family together.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same.” Tears ran in rivulets down her frozen cheeks. “Our children would have no grandparents. I would have no one to turn to for support and advice.”

  “You would have me.”

  She heaved a sigh against his chest. “To be wholly dependent upon one person for my happiness is neither wise nor healthy.”

  “Neither is marrying a man you do not love to retain the support of two people you will lose one day anyway.” He tightened his embrace. “Your parents are not immortal, Penelope. Trust me; I know how fragile life is. And when they are gone, you will have only your husband to turn to for love and support. Would you not rather he was someone you cared for than not?”

  Withdrawing from him, she sought his soulful gaze. “Of course I would, but …”

  Before she could finish, he pulled her back to him and caught her mouth in a kiss rife with bottled-up passion. She parted her lips in accord. When he gave her his tongue, she sucked it. The needful sound he made low in his throat produced a stab of longing deep in her womb.

  The kiss went on for several more glorious moments before they broke apart and resumed walking. Around the next bend, the folly came into view and, when they reached it, Rollo tried the door. It was unlocked, so they went inside. Several candles were burning and, in their soft illumination, Penelope could see no one else was there. As she moved deeper into the sparsely furnished space, she heard a click behind her and knew Rollo had locked the door.

  She swallowed hard. There was no turning back now. Not that she had the least intention of doing so.