The Twelve Nights of Christmas_A Regency Novella

by Nina Mason

  The house had been cold, so he’d started a fire with what dry wood could be scrounged. He’d then arranged the few pieces of furniture still in residence around the chimneypiece to make the room feel homier. Once they’d finished skating, he thought to invite Penelope to come inside to warm herself … and maybe pick up where they’d left off last night.

  Afterward, he would do his best to keep her here all night. To avoid scandal, her parents would have no choice but to support their marriage (though perhaps with less goodwill than their daughter might desire).

  He would, of course, rather not resort to such improper methods to secure her hand. He considered himself an honorable man, and such a one did not ruin the woman he loved to coerce parental consent. At the same time, he was not above doing whatever he must to keep her from marrying his rival.

  Would she go along with his plan? Only time would tell. Speaking of which … he’d best quit ruminating and go down to the pond to check the thickness of the ice before nightfall.

  Grabbing his skates and a lantern, Rollo left the house and followed the frozen path leading through the neglected garden to the pond. It had been a crisp, cloudless day and promised to be a clear, frosty night with a brilliant full moon. As he walked with care along the path, conscious of the ice underfoot and the flutterings of excited anticipation in his breast, he kept telling himself to be calm. The more he tried to compose himself, however, the more anxious he became.

  As he rounded a bend, the pond lay open before his eyes. In the darkening shadows, he saw her, drawing lazy figure eights in the center of the ice. His thick-soled boots froze in their tracks. In his breast, his heart did the same.

  She was dressed all in white, from swans-down hood to velvet cape to rabbit-fur muff, to ankle-length woolen frock. Even the boots onto which she’d strapped her skates were the color of the landscape all around them. In the soft moonshine, she might have been the Snow Maiden dancing on the ice, unaware of the human eyes observing her.

  All at once, the pond became hallowed ground and Penelope, an unattainable woodland nymph. Mesmerized, he watched her from a safe distance for a time, reminding himself she was the enchantress who’d come here to seal his fate.

  He walked down, spellbound by her graceful movements. Seeing him coming, she skated over to the edge of the pond. He sat on the bench there to put on his skates. “I hope you know you have cruelly denied me the pleasure and privilege of kneeling at your feet to help you on with your blades.”

  “I can take them off again, if you like,” she offered with an impish smile. “It will only take a moment.”

  He looked up at her, seeing the redness in her cheeks for the first time. She still looked like the girl he’d known as a boy. The girl he’d loved from the moment he first set eyes on her. “Would that not be wasting a moment?”

  Her lovely smile broadened. “Not if it will bring you to your knees.”

  “You did that long ago, my love,” he said. “And I’ve been on my knees ever since. Now, please tell me what transpired with your parents before I go mad from the suspense.”

  “Can it not wait until after we’ve skated?”

  Trepidation speared Rollo’s heart. If the news was good, what could be gained by delaying the telling? “I would rather hear it now and get it over with.”

  She heaved a sigh in a burst of vapor. “Very well. If you insist upon knowing, they would not relent.”

  His heart sank. “Please tell me you stood up to them.”

  “How could I without alienating myself from them forever?”

  “So instead,” he said with rising bitterness, “you chose to alienate yourself from me.”

  “What choice did I have, Rollo? Tell me that. What choice did I have? As I’ve told you all along, you came back too late by a month.”

  The words drove a dagger through his heart. Still, he must not abandon hope. He had a few hours left to try and persuade her otherwise … and he would never succeed by playing the wounded lover. Or by arguing with her. So, he must put swallow his vitriol and try to have a good time.

  As he buckled the straps of his skates, he looked up at her from under his brows. “I hope you took the time to check the soundness of the ice before venturing out on the pond on your own.”

  “I did,” she said, “and also was careful to avoid the areas that looked questionable.”

  “You should not have gone out alone,” he scolded.

  “No harm came to me, as you can see.”

  “Still, it was neither safe nor wise.”

  She frowned at him. “I did not come here to be lectured, Rollo. I came here to enjoy your company while I still can.”

  He gained his feet and removed his overcoat, confident the exercise and long muffler wrapped around his neck would keep him warm enough. It had been many years since he’d skated, so he took a few moments to establish his balance before venturing forth. When he felt more sure-footed, he stepped across the rough, snow-covered edge of the pond to the smooth, clear ice beyond.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her out toward the center, where he skated loops and circles around her to test his agility. Pleased to find he was as proficient as ever, he took her in his arms and began to dance the steps of the waltz he’d adapted for the ice.

  He started slowly and gradually picked up speed until they were spinning around the ice like a pair of interlinked tops, him moving backward and her forward. Though he greatly enjoyed dancing, this was even more exhilarating. Waltzing on the ice was like flying with invisible wings.

  When the dance was finished, he could not bring himself to let her go. He yearned so dearly to kiss her, he bent to do exactly that, but pulled back before his lips met hers. “What do you say to a race? Shall we test our skill at speed-skating?”

  Before he could answer, she took off across the ice. He skated after her, though in his clumsy haste to catch up, he stumbled, landing hard on his tailbone. As he struggled to regain his footing, he heard a loud crack and a piercing scream. Silence followed—a quiet more chilling than all the ice and snow in the county.

  “Penelope,” he cried out, hoping the sequence of sounds didn’t mean what he feared.

  When she gave no answer, he knew it did. She had fallen through the ice and would freeze to death—or drown—if he did not act quickly. Still, he must keep a cool head. If he panicked, he could make foolish choices that could end in both their deaths.

  Fighting to keep his wits about him, he removed his skates and got to his feet. Then, he walked carefully over the ice until he sighted the break. Penelope, her hair and face soaked and caked in ice, was clinging to the jagged edge.

  “Hold on, dearest,” he called to her. “I’m coming.”

  Rather than obey his instinct to run to her side, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled toward her, stopping when he was a yard away. Her teeth were chattering and she was gasping for air—hyperventilating, he knew—from the shock of the freezing water. That alone could kill her if he did not make haste. Taking the long muffler from around his neck, he tied one end in a loop and tossed it to her, keeping a firm grip on the other end.

  “Put your arms through the loop and hold them tight against your body,” he instructed her. “Then kick your legs to make yourself as horizontal as possible.”

  With extreme effort and a heart-stopping slip under the water, she managed to do as he’d asked. Then, with a galloping pulse and a churning stomach, he began to pull with all his might. With her clothes laden with icy water, she was unbelievably heavy. He pulled and pulled—muscles straining and teeth clenched—until at last she was resting atop the ice like a great white fish.

  Though deeply relieved, he knew the crisis was not over yet. She could still die from shock if he did not get her warm at once. Crawling to her on hands and knees, he rolled her onto her back. Her body was limp, her eyes were closed, and her lips were a worrisome shade of blue. Had she lost consciousness? He prayed she had not as he slid both arms under her.
/>   “Penelope, can you hear me?”

  She made no response. Taking her full weight in his arms, he struggled to his feet and, exercising care not to slip on the ice, carried her to where he’d left his overcoat. He would have liked to wrap the coat around her to keep out the chill, but alas, he could see no way to do it aside from laying her down in the snow. And that would be worse than forgoing the coat. Had she been conscious, this would have been so much easier … and better for her. Walking (with his aid, of course) would have gotten her blood moving again that much quicker.

  By the time he reached the house, his arms and legs were shaking with strain and she was shivering violently. Hurrying into the parlor, he took her to the fireplace, lowered himself to his knees, and gently laid her down on the hearth rug. Thankfully, the fire he’d lit beforehand was still burning brightly.

  Clambering to his feet on rubber legs, he threw another log on the blaze and removed the poker from the set of tarnished brash tools on the hearth. As he stabbed the already burning logs with the hooked iron tip, he considered the best way to go about removing her clothes. There was no two ways about it. They had to come off. If he left her in those wet, ice-crusted garments much longer, he would be putting her life in danger.

  After replacing the poker, he returned to her side and knelt down. While fighting in Canada, he’d learned the best way to restore warmth to someone suffering from mild hypothermia was to strip them and yourself to the skin and lie with your body against theirs under a blanket. Unfortunately, he’d left the only blanket in his possession at the carriage house with the sleigh. Fetching it would mean a five-minute walk through the frigid night in damp clothes.

  Just thinking about it made him shiver. He would probably catch pneumonia—if he did not freeze to death first. Yet, it could not be avoided, for they must be covered for the rewarming method to work.

  First, however, he had to get her out of those wet things.

  With trembling fingers, he fumbled with the bow at the neck of her cape until the ribbons came loose. After pulling the sodden garment out from under her, he tossed it aside. Next, he removed her gloves. Her hands were like ice, so he took a few moments to rub them. Only then did he notice the ring on the third finger of her left hand. It was gold, with a rose-cut ruby in the center surrounded by tiny diamonds.

  As he studied the setting, worms of resentment squirmed in his heart.

  Damn Frank for interloping. Damn her parents for their unfair prejudices against him. Damn her for putting her family’s heartless demands above her own desires. And damn himself for taking so bloody long to get her clothes off. Judas God! If he did not make haste, she would not be marrying anyone come Christmas day.

  With renewed urgency, he went round to her feet and made quick work of removing her ice-skates and boots. As he massaged her feet through her damp stockings, he attempted to rouse her again. “Penelope, can you hear me?”

  She did not as much as twitch.

  Still, he hesitated. Why? Why should he find this such a daunting task when he’d undressed women before? Was it because they were willing participants?—or was it because he valued Penelope’s modesty far more than he’d valued theirs?

  Yes, yes. That was undoubtedly the reason. But he valued her life even more—and was putting it in serious jeopardy with all this blasted shillyshallying! Determined to get on with it, he placed her boots on the hearth to dry and crawled back around to her side. A quick study of her frock told him it closed at the back, so he rolled her onto her side and set upon hooks-and-eyes, which—damn his big, clumsy fingers—proved frustratingly difficult to disengage. At length, he succeeded and, as he tugged the soaked dress off her shoulders and down her arms, he was struck by the irony of his present predicament.

  Ten years ago, he would have given his eye teeth for the privilege of taking off her clothes—and it was not from lack of trying that he never got the chance. Yes, he fancied himself a gentleman. At the time, however, he was a pubescent boy with raging hormones and a deep attachment to a girl who was far from frigid.

  Virtuous, yes, but not dispassionate.

  Penelope was still insentient. While lost in his memories, he’d gotten her dress as far down as her waist. Underneath was a petticoat of sheer white batiste with an Empire-waisted bodice and shoulder straps. The buttons down the back appeared to be tiny chips of mother-of-pearl. He did his best to free them from the miniscule slits in which they were encased, cursing in frustration more than once.

  Next came the removal of the stays. As he drew the laces out of their eyelets, he could not help feeling a twinge of arousal. Though far from plump, she definitely had more meat on her bones than she’d had at eighteen. Back then, she’d been as thin as a waif. Not that he had a problem with willowy figures. On the contrary, he fancied slender women, as long as they were not emaciated. He just happened to find voluptuousness a wee mite more to his liking.

  After stripping off her stays, he laid her back down and moved around to her feet again. Still on his knees, he pulled off the garments he’d loosened and tossed them over a nearby chair. She now wore only her shift, whose all-but-transparent wet linen clung to her body in ways that left nothing to his imagination. Her breasts, he could plainly see, were agreeably large and full, her nipples small and pale pink, and the patch of curls between her legs as golden as the hair on her head.

  Despite his wish to maintain objectivity, his body responded to what his eyes beheld with the prickly flutterings of carnal interest. He flushed and averted his gaze, castigating himself for his licentiousness. The woman was insensible, for the love of God. He should not become aroused while tending her, however desirable he might find the sight of her naked body.

  Riddled with self-disgust, he turned away, collected her discarded things, and draped them over the backs of the chairs nearest the fire. Then, he made the mistake of looking at her once more. That she had moved was the only way he could explain what he saw. The hem of her shift had hiked up to reveal not only the risqué red ribbons securing her stockings, but also the beard of her sweet flaxen muff.

  A surge of savage lust went through him as his mind returned again to the delightful day in the woods. When he’d pulled up her skirts and pressed his mouth to that formerly well-defended territory, he’d nearly spilled himself a second time. Fighting for control, he’d pressed his tongue into her secret place and proceeded to lick like a tomcat with a bowl of buttermilk. That was just how she tasted, too. Like buttermilk, for which he’d always had a fondness. He had no idea what he was doing, of course, but he persevered and, at length, brought her to climax.

  And oh, what satisfaction he’d derived from that monumental achievement!

  In the present, he looked around for something to throw over her, to keep her warm while he went for the sleigh-blanket. When nothing presented itself, he doffed his coat and dropped to his knees beside her. After stripping off her wet shift, he did his best not to gawk as he laid the garment over her.

  The good news: it was dry. The bad news: he’d have to go out in the cold in his shirtsleeves. The other good news: a walk in freezing weather was guaranteed to cool his lusts.

  He started toward the door, his chest congested with guilt. Though he probably should not leave her here alone, he could not see another option. His coat was only a stop-gap measure. For a permanent fix, he needed to lay with her naked under a blanket big enough to cover them both.

  Head down and clasping his upper arms for warmth, Rollo jogged down the icy path toward the pond, the full moon and star-filled sky providing the only illumination. His thought was to retrieve his greatcoat first, and then go after the blanket. That way, he’d have the coat—and the flask of whisky in its pocket—for added warmth on his trek to the carriage house.

  A dog howled somewhere in the distance. The lonely sound might have made him shiver were he not doing so already. His teeth were chattering, too, and his body was pocked with goose pimples. The dampness of his clothes only made it worse
. The cold, at least, had cleared his mind of concupiscent thoughts.

  He reached the pond and grabbed the coat, which had grown stiff with frost. He shook it out, slipped it on, and started back up the hill toward the carriage house. By the time he got there, his face burned from the wind, his toes and fingers had no feeling, and his gonads were seeking shelter inside his body.

  He pulled out the flask and downed a generous swallow of whisky. As the alcohol rushed down his throat like a lit fuse, he tromped onward through the knee-deep snow. At the carriage house, he found the latch on the sliding door frozen shut. He picked up a rock and beat on it until it gave way. He went in, snatched the blanket out of the sleigh, and wrapped it around his shoulders. As he hurried back toward the house, he prayed Penelope had not gone into shock in his absence.

  She had not, God be thanked, but she was still unconscious and trembling. Being the body’s natural way of warming itself, the shivering was an encouraging sign. He put the blanket on the hearth and began to remove his clothes. Once they were off, he grabbed the fire-toasted blanket, laid down beside her, and spooned against her.

  As he spread the blanket over them, he pressed his body against hers, trying to think of her as a fellow soldier and not the woman he loved and desired most in the world.

  Chapter Eight

  The first thing Penelope noticed when she returned to awareness was the light and heat of the fire. The second was that she was lying on a rug before a hearth under a blanket. Where was she? How did she come to be here? Why did she ache all over? What was the time?

  She searched her mind for answers, finding only fog. Apprehension slithered through her. Had she missed her curfew? Were her parents wondering where she was? How would she explain where she’d been when she didn’t know herself?

  Only when she tried to sit up did she become conscious of her state of undress. The realization struck her like a slap delivered by a hand of ice. Confusion followed the shock. How on earth had she come to be naked? She looked around her, discovering her clothes hanging over the backs of several chairs positioned by the fire. They appeared to be drying, so they must have gotten wet, but how had it happened?