Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection

by Sophie Barnes

  Hurt that his mood could alter so quickly, she frowned. For one moment, Penelope thought he understood, but now she realized that his small morning adventure was only a diversion to placate her. “I suppose so,” she said, her defenses up.

  “And what did your father say when you asked him for the money to hire a coach and traveling companion to take you to the Continent?”

  “I have money of my own.” Her father would not approve, she knew. One of the reasons she’d yet to commit herself fully to this new adventure was because she knew leaving him, even for a short time, would hurt him. If Ethan knew her better, he would realize this was not an easy decision for her.

  He glared at her, his thick brows casting dark shadows over his eyes so that she could no longer see their color, only their hardness. “Surely, you’re not thinking of going alone, without his consent?”

  She drew in a breath to calm her rising temper. “I am five-and-twenty, not fifteen. Surely, a woman of my age can enjoy a few freedoms. Even if you don’t understand, I’m thankful my father does.” Or will, she hoped.

  Ethan was quiet, studying her as if he’d never seen her before. As if she’d sprouted from the ground, and he was the first to discover this strange creature.

  Then, after a moment, his features settled into a look of calm understanding. He offered her a friendly smile that didn’t quite remove the hardness from his eyes. “You’re obviously restless and needing something to occupy your ever-fidgeting hands. We leave for the country by week’s end. You’ll have plenty to do once you are home, I’m sure, running your father’s house, planning menus, writing letters—”

  “Don’t forget my needlework,” she added, not bothering to keep the bitterness from her tone. “And if I’m still restless and want to occupy my time with other things, I’m sure I can take my sister up on her offer to become governess to her children.”

  He blinked. “You would go to live with Eugenia?”

  Until this moment, her answer would have been a resolute “No.” But now, she didn’t know if she could continue like this any longer. For years, she thought it was better to resign herself to a life of eternal friendship simply to be near him. Now, she knew she couldn’t bear it. “I feel that if I don’t break free of the sameness of each day, I will go mad,” she admitted quietly. “I need this, Ethan. Can’t you see how important it is to me?”

  They stared at each other like two strangers seeing each other for the first time, neither of them entirely happy with the introduction. Gradually, the carriage slowed to a stop, signaling their arrival.

  “Can’t you see how I’m required to save you from yourself? To save you from ruin . . . or worse?”

  Penelope felt tears sting the corners of her eyes. He didn’t understand. She’d hoped that, of all people, Ethan could. But he was only one more obstacle. “Then allow me to release you from any imagined obligation you might have.”

  Chapter Four

  ETHAN REACHED FOR Penelope. He had to make her see reason.

  Yet he stopped, his hand hovering in the space between them. At this precise moment, he knew he could say nothing to convince her. Their tempers were too close to the surface, and he was likely to say something he would later regret. Instead, he watched as she left the carriage. Watched as she didn’t require his assistance. Watched as she made it safely to the ground, without any help from him.

  She wanted to leave. No, she was determined to leave. And for what, an adventure?

  Why did she do this to him? He felt as if his blood were boiling, not in anger but in desperation so keen he didn’t know the source of it. All he knew was that he had to make her see reason.

  He growled as the carriage moved a few doors to Number 3. But he could not go inside in the temper he was in.

  Instead, he instructed his driver to take him to the fencing salon. Perhaps an hour or two, or three or four, would help him clear his head before dinner this evening.

  AS ETHAN AND his mother walked through the door of Number 7, he was reminded again that this was to be the last dinner before they set off on their journey in two days’ time. Knowing Penelope the way he did, he knew this might very well be the last chance he had to make her see reason.

  At least, with the dinner at her father’s home, he hadn’t been plagued with the notion she would not be here. Because of that, the first knot of his cravat looked precisely as it should this evening. Also, he chose to wear his charcoal coat and silver-embroidered waistcoat she’d remarked on with favor on three separate occasions.

  Handing off his overcoat and hat with thanks to Vernon, their head butler, Ethan prepared to escort his mother into the parlor, where James Rutledge stood preparing drinks at the sideboard. However, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Penelope descending the stairs.

  Ethan hesitated, allowing his mother to precede him while he waited for Pen. He turned to the stairway and looked up, expecting to gauge her mood.

  Instead, the sight before him arrested all thought. Pen was a vision of exquisite loveliness in a shimmering champagne gown. His gaze traveled up from the ruffled hem to the long skirt that seemed to accentuate the length of her legs. Not only that, but it was fashioned in a way that drew his keen notice to the curve of her hips and the slenderness of her waist. His palm tingled with the memory of holding that waist.

  He tried to blink, to turn away, but all he could do was watch her slowly descend into his field of vision. But no—she was his field of vision. He saw nothing except for her and how the bodice fit her to perfection. The champagne color of the gown made the enticing swells of her flesh look like sweet cream, or perhaps it wasn’t the color at all but the fact that she was usually covered with a fichu.

  Ethan swallowed, wondering how he was going to get through the night without making a complete fool of himself. He couldn’t think. He knew he should utter a word of greeting, but he was sure he’d trip over his tongue.

  By the time her face was level with his, he was angry at her for being so damned beautiful. “Pen,” he managed.

  She smiled up at him coyly, like a woman who knew the direction of his thoughts. Thankfully for him, he knew her better than that.

  “Did you skip luncheon again?” she asked, her gaze drifting down to his mouth. When he didn’t answer, she continued. “You look very fine in your eveningwear, Mr. Weatherstone.”

  He inclined his head and offered the expected response. “As do you, Miss Rutledge.”

  She beamed up at him. “I wanted to try something n—special for this evening.”

  He caught her slip and knew she was about to say that she wanted to try something new. However, in the end, she decided not to go down that road with him again, and he was grateful for it.

  “Minnie tried something different with my hair, as well. Do you like it?”

  When she turned, affording him a glance of the back, he caught a hint of her fragrance and nearly groaned. Her usual elaborate configuration of braids was gone in favor of a simpler twist, gathered by a pearl-encrusted comb. In the light of the sconces on the wall, her hair looked like rich, spun gold. And her shoulders were enticingly bare. Far too much of a distraction.

  “While I should love nothing more than to flatter you until you swoon with delight, I would much rather know why this night, of all nights, is such a special occasion.”

  She tucked her slender arm into the crook of his, her long white evening glove a brilliant white against his dark coat as she gave him a pat. “This is our last dinner . . . in town . . . together. I simply wanted to make it memorable.”

  He gazed down at her, not liking the deception he saw in her eyes. He knew her too well to believe her this time. But he did not call her on it. Instead, he answered her softly. “Then you have already succeeded.”

  Without another word, they walked into the parlor together, joining his mother and her father in an aperitif. Soon after Pen soaked up more compliments from his mother, they went into the dining room and sat in their usu
al places. However, the Rutledge dining room was grand, indeed. With the two pairs of them sitting at opposite ends of the long, polished, walnut table, it made for difficult conversation with the entire party unless one chose to raise one’s voice.

  Strange, he’d never noticed the intimacy of their arrangement before now.

  Ethan glanced over at Pen, his gaze again arrested by her beauty. He forced himself to turn away and did his best to clear his head. Thankfully, he had food to distract him.

  The soup course was a velvety mushroom, a particular favorite of his. He wondered if Pen knew this, or if it was a coincidence.

  He regarded her, noting her sly smile at his nearly empty bowl. Ah, then he had his answer. Perhaps this was a peace offering, and their conversation from earlier today was at last forgotten. Perhaps she was ready to leave this silliness behind, as she’d done before. “This is a pleasant dinner. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She dabbed her napkin to the corner of her mouth, her smile fading. “Our dinners are always pleasant.”

  Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part. “Pleasant . . . hmm.”

  “It is the same adjective you used.”

  His mood darkened, and her statement from earlier came back to haunt him. She’d made a point of mentioning that this was their last dinner. “Yes, but I sense it has a mundane meaning for you now.”

  “Please, let us not start this again.” She sighed and reached for her glass. After a sip of white wine, a tentative smile curved her lips. “You already know how highly I regard these dinners . . . and the company.”

  “Do I?” This is our last dinner . . . together, that was what her eyes were telling him.

  The slightest blush colored her cheeks. “After all these years, how can you not have a full understanding of my high regard for”—she broke off, searching his gaze—“these dinners?”

  He held his breath for a moment. “Then I do not understand why you want to leave . . . these dinners.”

  “I don’t want to leave these dinners behind. I simply want—No, not simply, for it is anything but simple.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I want to alter the menu. I want my plate to be filled with . . .”

  “Adventure,” he supplied.

  “Your contempt for that particular word is palpable. Tell me, Ethan, after years and years of soup first, haven’t you ever wanted to start with dessert?”

  Start with dessert? His mouth went dry at the thought.

  Had he thought of it? Had he thought of abandoning his carefully crafted order? Had he thought of risking their friendship, which gave him the greatest happiness of his life? Had he imagined every possible scenario of what could happen if he lost control and gave in to his craving for one taste of her lips?

  Only a million times.

  He could prove it easily enough. The impulses were always directly beneath the surface, threatening to break through. Lately, more often than not.

  She vexed him to no end. She drove him mad with each of her smiles. She tempted him beyond the limits of his sanity, where he could easily forget how acting on his impulses could risk everything he held dear.

  Start with dessert? The words suggested that he would be able to stop once he started. But he knew there would be no going back if he did. There would be no way to regain what might be lost in the process. It was far too much of a risk to take.

  “No, of course not,” he lied. “Dessert first is too far out of the realm of possibility.”

  Chapter Five

  AFTER DISMISSING MINNIE for the night, Penelope packed her satchel, all the while wishing she didn’t have to leave. But she couldn’t remain this way any longer. The same dinners. The same conversations. The same disapproving gazes from Ethan.

  She felt foolish for ever having dreamed it would be different. And even more foolish for having been in love with Ethan for most of her life. She’d turned down two marriage proposals from perfectly respectable gentlemen in the hopes that someday Ethan would see her as more than a fixture in his life, more than a plate that sat to his left at dinner. Yet, he’d summed up her worst fears with one succinct sentence: Out of the realm of possibility.

  The sense of resignation she’d acquired over the years refused to comfort her now. She knew that if she had any hope of forgetting him, of starting a new dream, of finding a shred of happiness, she needed to be far away from wherever he was. Because whenever he was near, she began to dream of things that were out of his realm of possibility.

  After a few useless tears, she wrote two letters, one to her father and one to Ethan. They both asked for understanding, they both offered a surface explanation of her wanting to see more of the world, they both begged for forgiveness. But only Ethan’s letter mentioned how futile her love had been all these years and how she needed to escape immediately before sorrow crushed what was left of her heart.

  Once he read the letter, the words would seal her fate forever. She could never see him again.

  DRESSED IN HER conservative burgundy traveling costume, she set out in the wee hours of morning on her new adventure, determined to leave futility and routine behind.

  Portsmouth was as good a place as any, she thought as she looked down to the mail coach’s schedule in her hand. She had an aunt there. Flora was her mother’s younger sister, who had invited Penelope to stay with her on numerous occasions. Now, she would finally accept. The only problem was, this would be a surprise visit. Since her aunt was a carefree sort, given to whims of her own, Penelope knew she wouldn’t mind.

  The faint gray light of dawn was starting to creep over the horizon. A few other travelers milled in the area while the horses were being changed. There were eight travelers altogether, which made for a very cramped journey, especially considering only four would be seated inside the coach. She looked around, noting that she was one of three women. Surely, the gentlemen would defer their own comfort and politely offer the inside? However, skepticism warred with reason as she watched not one but two gentlemen hover near the coach’s door.

  Yet, in the next instant her choice of seat was forgotten as a carriage came thundering down the street as if the hounds of hell were directly behind it. The older woman beside her gasped when it came to an abrupt halt behind the mail coach.

  Penelope blinked in disbelief. She knew that carriage.

  With a glance up at the driver, she felt a horrible sense of dread in her stomach. She inclined her head in greeting to Tom, the Weatherstones’ driver, and he returned the gesture. The tiger, young Arthur, hopped down and lowered the platform stairs. He, too, acknowledged her with tilt of his cap and a grin that spoke volumes on the reason they were all here.

  She stared at the carriage door, waiting for Ethan to burst out and rail at her about being foolish and insensible. He would try to drag her home, ranting about her potential ruin. He’d probably expect her to thank him for it, too.

  Thank him for driving pell-mell and making a scene in front of complete strangers, who were all looking at her with interest now, as if she were some runaway child who needed to be taken home for safekeeping.

  She was five-and-twenty! She could make her own decisions, and if something horrible were to happen, then she would be the one to suffer the consequences.

  The more she stared at the door, the more her ire sparked. He couldn’t have received her letter yet because she’d left it in the care of her father, and her father wouldn’t open his letter until he went into his study after breakfast. So then, the only way he would know she was here was if he’d been spying on her. Of all the interfering—

  The passengers started filing into the coach until any hope for an inside seat was gone. She glared at Ethan’s door. He was going to ruin this for her. She’d finally found the courage to get on with her life, the courage to escape the haunting specter of her future self, and he was going to ruin her chance.

  She looked to the mail coach. All the passengers were on. All but one. If she squeezed, she could manage to sit in bet
ween the driver and a rather rotund male passenger. And, of course, it was starting to drizzle, the air not quite cold enough to make it freeze, but close. Very close.

  The angrier she got, the more she could see her breath turn to cloudy vapor. Ethan Weatherstone was due for a piece of her mind. It was about time he understood that he had no right to interfere with her life.

  Mind made up, she took one last look at the mail coach and shook her head. She reached down for her satchel and stormed over to Ethan’s carriage.

  Penelope threw open the door and climbed inside, seething as she sat across from him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look at her. Instead, he sat back against the squabs, his head turned to the window. The only reason she knew he was aware of her presence was from the way he clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching just beneath the surface of his skin.

  “Were you waiting to humiliate me? Waiting until I was already seated before you dragged me away from the mail coach? Or perhaps you planned to follow me all the way to Portsmouth?”

  He refused to respond or even so much as look at her. If she hadn’t been angry before she entered the carriage, then she certainly was fuming now.

  “Truly, Ethan, for someone who cannot live outside the lines of your carefully crafted order, your sameness that covers you like a shroud, this is quite surprising behavior,” she hissed, baiting him. “I only wish your concern for my happiness were as great as your concern for my reputation.”

  At that, he glared at her sharply. Ah, so she’d struck a chord.

  Good. Yet still, he did not say anything.

  There he sat, perfectly groomed, his cravat perfectly pleated, his temper perfectly managed. She wished just once he’d lose some of that control. Because here she sat, with her eyes, most likely puffy and red from having cried most of the night instead of sleeping. She was certainly not perfectly groomed since she could feel a soggy tendril of hair plastered to her cheek. Her cloak was damp from rain. Her nose was cold and likely red as well.