Epigraph
“There is no remedy for love but to love more.”
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue—Christmas
An Excerpt from The Elusive Lord Everhart
About the Author
Also by Vivienne Lorret
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
London
1822
PENELOPE RUTLEDGE WAVED to her sister as the carriage disappeared from view. After a month of parties, shopping, and utter chaos, their father’s London town house was now quiet. Perhaps even too quiet.
“I imagine Eugenia will be glad to return to her own home,” her father murmured from the winged chair facing the desk, his head bent over this morning’s paper.
Even though he couldn’t see her, she nodded. “The children will be glad to have more room to scamper about, I’m sure.”
She moved away from the window and closer to the hearth, her fingers toying with the fringes of her shawl. While the fire was well tended, it still did not warm her. For the past week—or perhaps a bit longer—she couldn’t seem to escape this ever-present chill. Today, it was worse than before.
“I daresay, Marcus will be delighted by their return,” her father said with a smile in his voice. “Not to mention the happy news.”
Penelope stared into the fire. Yes. The news. Eugenia—her younger sister by two years—was expecting her third child.
Of course, Eugenia had married Marcus at the end of her first season, when she was not yet nineteen. Penelope, on the other hand, had had four seasons and two marriage proposals by the time she was two-and-twenty, but no husband.
It was her own fault, she knew. She’d found too many flaws in her suitors. If they weren’t handsome enough, then they were too handsome. If they weren’t simpletons then they bored her with their intellect. Too awkward, too graceful, too drab, too smartly dressed, too verbose, too quiet. The list was endless. All she’d wanted was someone who wasn’t too . . . anything.
Her shoulders sagged on a deep sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she peeked over at her father. He merely turned the page, apparently unconcerned.
Hmph. It wasn’t the least bit contrived, and still her father did not inquire about the cause of such a meaningful sigh.
“Perhaps I should have accepted my sister’s invitation after all,” she grumbled. What good was having a father if he didn’t become alarmed by such a sigh?
“What was that, dear?” he murmured, still not bothering to look up.
“I was just thinking how lonely you would be if both your daughters were married.”
At last, he looked up, wiry eyebrows lifted in question. Wry amusement curved his mouth. “Have your sights set on a fellow, do you?”
Crossing her arms, she turned to face her father, not bothering to hide her irritation. “I am five-and-twenty, Father. It has been three years since my last season. By all accounts, I am well into spinsterhood.”
Unconcerned, he went back to his paper. “I’ve told you before that you could have as many seasons as you like. Fetch yourself a husband if you are so inclined.”
Fetch herself a husband? He made it sound as if he didn’t care in the least. Even when she had announced that she planned never to marry, he’d merely accepted her decision, stating his belief in the fact that she must know her own mind better than anyone else.
Which she did, of course. There was no arguing that. However, it still irked her that he didn’t care one way or the other. “There are fathers aplenty who force their daughters into marriage.”
He murmured his agreement without looking up.
“Some even make their dowries shamefully tempting.”
“Your dowry is handsome enough to tempt the right sort of man.”
Her fingers plucked at the fringes of her shawl, pulling on the threads to make them even before twisting them into knots. “Honestly, I don’t care about any of that. Truly. I don’t even want to marry. There isn’t anyone of interest to me. Not like the way it was with Eugenia and Marcus, anyway.”
She still remembered the night of her sister’s debut. Marcus had been the first to sign her dance card. “You could tell right away they were meant for each other. They had a spark from the very beginning,” she mumbled more to herself than to her father. “Some people do, I suppose, while others . . . don’t.” A fact that had taken her years to discover.
She sighed again, troubled by the turn of her thoughts. She didn’t want to marry, so what was she going on about?
Perhaps it was the aftereffects of her sister’s visit. Yes. That must be it. She’d been so busy lately that she hadn’t had a spare moment to breathe. All she needed was a bit of fresh air and to settle herself, once again, into the life she had chosen.
“I’m going for a walk,” she announced, knowing it didn’t matter one way or the other.
As if to prove it, her father merely murmured.
Outside, the bracing early-December wind caused her to rethink her walk. The streets were damp and muddy from rain, and the sky was a gloomy gray that matched her mood. The persistent chill that had plagued her for days now turned icy. She felt cold to the marrow of her bones.
A blanket over her lap and a steaming pot of tea on a side table beckoned her. Yet the vision was far too depressing. If she went back inside at this moment, she could easily imagine herself remaining there. Not simply for today, but for a lifetime.
A horrible specter of herself, sitting in a chair by the fire with her needlework in her lap, loomed before her. She would grow old there. Perhaps not in that chair, but in a chair by some fire, her hands slowly wrinkling and curling from age.
That could easily become her life from this point forward if she returned to 7 Danbury Lane.
In fact, the thought of returning to the quiet house and the murmured acknowledgments of her father terrified her.
The wind picked up, blowing hard against her back. At this time of year, few of their circle remained in town, so this street was practically deserted. Only one other family remained on this side of the lane. Her gaze settled on a door nearly as familiar as her own. Number 3.
The notion of disturbing Ethan Weatherstone’s morning solitude banished the horrible specter, at least for the moment. In fact, the idea sparked a bit of warmth in her. Besides, she had one of her latest needlework creations in her pocket, and his mother would be glad to have it.
Mind made up, she walked briskly down the street, up the stairs, and just before she could rap on the door, it swung open.
Hinkley, with his usual severe, unmovable expression, stood aside for her to enter. “He’s in the library, Miss Rutledge.”
“Thank you, Hinkley. Your soothsaying abilities never cease to astound me,” she said with a smile as she handed over her cloak. One of these days, she’d manage to surprise him.
Unruffled, he bowed. “Happy to be of service, miss.”
As Hinkley predicted, Ethan was in the library. His morning routine never faltered. There he sat, quill in hand, ledger of accounts open while writing figures in a column. The top of his desk was neat and orderly, nothing out of
place. His chair never sat at an angle, but four legs on the floor, in precisely the same direction as the legs of his desk. As usual, his cravat was tied into a perfect knot. The line of his coat, equally perfect. His posture . . . perfect.
In anyone else, these particularities would make her feel entirely inadequate, what with her many flaws—freckles and fidgeting at the very top of the list—but with Ethan, she managed to overlook them. Perhaps it was because his hair was the color of walnut shells and had an unruly wave through it. She knew he hated it, and for that reason alone she found it oddly endearing. His eyes were that way, too. He’d referred to them as muddy. But she thought they looked more like the dregs of tea, sort of a clear, paler brown, with flecks of darker brown strewn about.
In profile, his nose was straight and true. Yet, from the front, there was a slight bend from when he’d fallen as a child. His teeth weren’t perfect either, white but not straight. In fact, she would say he had a rather wolfish smile, his canine teeth slightly too long and too pointed.
“Has lurking in doorways become your new interest, Pen?” he asked, his deep voice edged with amusement, as if they were sharing a long-standing joke between them.
Even though the fire in the hearth did not appear overly grand, when she breezed in, she instantly felt warmer. “Perhaps I was waiting for a proper invitation.”
“Waiting for an invitation? You?” He didn’t look up from the ledger but shook his head and chuckled.
“Oh, all right,” she said with a hint of drama, so he wouldn’t take her seriously. “I was staring at you.”
“Cataloging my flaws, no doubt.”
“You know me so well.” At least that part was true. After fifteen years—not to mention the fact that they were neighbors, both here and at their country estates—they knew each other well. Sometimes, she thought, too well.
Like now, for instance. She knew he was hungry. Most likely, it had been hours since he’d breakfasted. Like Penelope, he was an early riser, as they had often spoken of their mutual enjoyment of those quiet hours. However, the true reason she knew he was hungry was by the set of his mouth. He pursed his lips ever so slightly and swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up, then down above his cravat. Then the tip of his tongue gave a leisurely swipe over his bottom lip, before his teeth raked it dry.
She found herself mimicking the action and shifted uncomfortably. Glancing again at the small fire, she was amazed at the heat it put out. She stepped away from it and moved toward the door. “Hinkley?”
The butler appeared before she finished calling his name.
“Would you please see if the cook would prepare a pot of tea for Mr. Weatherstone? Oh, and if she has any scones, those would be nice, as well. No cream, but orange marmalade instead. Thank you.”
“Very good, miss,” he said. Was there a hint of a smile on Hinkley’s face?
No, she told herself. It couldn’t have been. The streets of London would be overrun by toads before Hinkley’s mouth would ever break into a smile.
“Did your sister steal away your cook this morning?” Ethan asked as he printed figures in a tidy script at the bottom of the page before he moved on to the next.
“No. I simply know you’re hungry.” She ignored his scoff of disbelief and fished the sachet out of her pocket. Pulling at the corners, she examined her needlework and found it lacking. Lacking what precisely, she didn’t know. The chrysanthemums were blooming bright red and vivid green, just as they should be. The leaves were pointed and plentiful, just as they should be. And yet, something was lacking.
Nevertheless, she knew his mother would appreciate the gesture. “It’s my guess that your mother is only now breakfasting in her rooms, and so it will be hours before she invites you to luncheon.”
He shook his head as if negating her ability to know this for certain. “And from our many years of acquaintance, you’ve deduced that, like you, I am an early riser, and it’s been hours since I’ve breakfasted. Not to mention, the clock says it’s nearly noon.”
“Yes, there’s that,” she allowed. “And the fact that you always lick your lips when you’re hungry.”
He moved his quill away from the ledger and looked up at her, a curious expression clouding his tea-colored irises. “And the marmalade?”
“You always eat marmalade on your scones.” She shrugged and pulled again at the corners of the sachet.
“Well, you always slather yours with cream,” he announced rather smugly.
“Are we competing now?” She wanted to laugh, but instead felt rather perturbed. How dare he know her so well and still be so . . . so . . . obtuse about everything else.
Turning back to his ledger, he smirked at her. “If we were, I assure you, I would win.”
“Oh really? Then you already know precisely what I came here to tell you this morning.” She smirked back at him and waited.
“Pen, I know better than to fall into one of your traps. If I tell you and get it right, you will hate me.”
She waited for him to finish with another scenario, but when he didn’t continue, she prompted him. “Or?”
“I should amend that,” he said, turning the page of his ledger. “I meant to say, when I tell you and get it right, you will hate me.”
She wanted to throw the sachet in his face. Or better yet, pour ink all over his precious ledger.
Instead, she felt her lips curl into a rueful smile, delighting in the fact that she would shock him to no end in the next moment as she confessed her idea. After all, there was no way he could have heard her conversation with Eugenia last night at her sister’s farewell dinner. He’d been all the way across the room at the time.
Of course, she hadn’t been serious. Not entirely. However, now she was overcome by a sudden urge to make it true. “I am going to hire a coach to take me as far away from here as possible. And, quite possibly, I may never return. I might find myself on the Continent, or on some sailing vessel to an island where native people teach me to make jewelry from seashells.”
“I seem to recall a similar plot a few years ago,” he added in a bored tone, never looking up at her.
He was positively unnerving! How dare he bring that up to her face. How long had that been . . . four—no, five years ago? It had been right around the time when Eugenia and Marcus had left for their honeymoon trip. Nevertheless, she hadn’t even been serious then. Not truly. At the time, she simply wanted . . . oh, she couldn’t even remember.
That was not the point.
“I fully intend to go through with it this time.” She raised her voice to cement her conviction.
“Is it as bad as all that?”
“Yes, it is—Are you even listening?” This time she was serious.
Years ago, she’d resigned herself to a certain life, and she’d been content with her decision. For a time. Yet now, an uncomfortable restlessness settled over her, prickling her skin from beneath the surface, making her fidget all the more in an effort to shake it loose.
Being near Ethan made it worse, and that knowledge only served to irritate her. She needed some distance to discover if the source of her disquiet was what she feared. Distance to resign herself to this life once again.
Because if she didn’t get away, then she feared she would never truly live.
ETHAN MOVED THE quill off to the side, hovering over the blotter so the ink wouldn’t spot the ledger. He regarded Pen with a speculative lift of his brow. Had there ever been a time when she allowed him to ignore her?
As if unaware of this simple fact, she stared back at him, waiting for a response. He obliged her, repeating her ridiculous statement back to her, verbatim—all accept for the bit about the natives. “You are going to hire a coach to take you as far away from here as possible. Quite possibly, you will never return. You might find yourself on the Continent or on some sailing vessel—Though I might add that finding yourself in another place suggests a shock of some sort. In other words, a complete lack of planning.”
; She let out a huff and crossed her slender arms, the action causing her woolen shawl to bunch over her breasts. “Oh, why do I even bother?”
“Haven’t the faintest.”
This time, Penelope glared at him, her nose wrinkling in a way that drew his attention to her freckles. He liked her freckles. They were balanced and orderly—four on the left and four on the right.
It was ironic that eight such sensible freckles could be on someone so lacking in sensibility.
A quiet knock sounded at the door before Glenna brought in the tea tray. Apparently sensing Penelope’s dark mood and wanting to stay clear of it, she set the tray on the corner of the desk and bobbed quickly before she left.
Ethan wished he could do the same. Instead, he was trapped by an angry blond goddess. Or was her hair brown? He could never quite tell. There were so many shades that it appeared each strand was unlike any other. Some of them pale like butter, others glistening like corn silk, some earthy brown, a chestnut here and there . . . It would take a lifetime to catalog every color.
He situated the tray the way he liked it, lining it up corner to corner with his desk. He noted the two cups and the addition of cream as well as marmalade, most likely from Hinkley’s assumption that Penelope would join him.
But Ethan knew her better than that.
She was still fuming at him, her cornflower blue eyes darkening to midnight. Her lips were pursed in disapproval, making her mouth appear smaller and less generous than it normally was.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked, already knowing her answer.
She uncrossed her arms and pressed her hands to the edge of the desk, leaning forward in a way that caused the fringes of her shawl to brush against the tip of his quill. A strange jolt rushed through him.
“Believe me when I say, you do not want to know what I would like at this precise moment,” she hissed. And before he could summon the will to blink, let alone breathe, she took a spoon from the tray, scooped up a dollop of cream, and proceeded to stir it into his dish of marmalade. “Enjoy. Your. Tea. Sir.”
Tempting Mr. Weatherstone: A Wallflower Wedding Novella (Originally Appeared in the E-Book Anthology FIVE GOLDEN RINGS) Page 1
