Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance

by Lilia Birney

Bill was waiting for them by the carriage, his arms crossed over his chest. Penelope broke into a run when she spied him. Dash it all, how wonderful to get back home. How nice it would be to change out of this costume, have a bracing cup of tea—or something stronger—and then plan what to do next. The visit to the Lily had given them more information than she thought possible, at least once Pierce took over. She squashed the feeling of jealousy that rose in her chest as she recalled how quickly the light skirts were ready to talk to Pierce. How flirtatious they had gotten with him. Why, when Miss K had given him a wink, Penelope had a most unladylike desire to claw her eyes out.

  It was pure folly to get angry with anyone for flirting with Pierce. After all, she wanted nothing more from him than an affair. In essence, she was no different than those prostitutes.

  Bill handed her into the carriage, and Pierce scrambled in behind her. Bill shut the door, and the springs of the carriage gave a groan as he ascended to the box. Penelope stared at Pierce in the darkness of the carriage, barely able to make out his expression. “Well, what next?”

  “Now we need to find Emma. I suppose I must go back to the Barclay and charm an invitation to Adams’ house party from Mrs. Ealy, the proprietress.” He lounged against the seats with careless charm.

  Her lip curled despite her best efforts to seem calm. “You can’t get an invitation. I am sure Adams wouldn’t allow a commoner to his house party.”

  “I have my ways,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t worry overmuch.”

  “Oh, I am sure you have your ways,” she spat. “Honestly, I shall be so glad to get home and rid myself of this absurd costume…and of you.” She tried to hold it in, but her temper was getting the best of her. He was so self-assured, so suave. He used his charm on those whores just as he had on her. And how infuriating that she had succumbed. Well, almost.

  “Why so angry? We are much closer to tracking down Cicely than before. Once we find Emma, we stand a much better chance of finding Cicely’s whereabouts. You should be pleased, not upset.”

  He was using that same calm and rebuking tone of voice that Peter would use when he wanted her, as he said, “to see reason.” The first time Peter had used it was when she had walked in on him with one of his lovers. And Peter was trying to keep her from leaving their home, trying to get her to see the good in living out a lie in front of all society. That tone of voice was infuriating then, and it was infuriating now.

  “Men,” she muttered. “You are all the same. Every man jack of you.”

  “Penelope.” He crossed the carriage floor and settled beside her, taking one of her cold hands in his much larger, warmer ones. He chafed it until warmth and feeling began to flow again. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done to displease you?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” After anger always came tears, and she despised this weakness in herself. She bit the inside of her cheek, paying heed to the pain. It was a trick she learned years ago, and it never failed to work. The tears that had stung her eyes dried at once. She wrenched her hand free.

  “Are you angry that I carried you into the room? I know it was undignified but it was the only ruse I could think of to get us through that crowd of drunken louts.” Pierce reached out and traced the curve of her jaw with his thumb, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. Despite her best effort at repressing a shiver, her shoulders jerked.

  “Are you cold?” He tugged her cloak more firmly about her shoulders.

  “Are you an idiot?” she replied, inflicting her best Ice Goddess tone of voice. That should put him in his place.

  “I suppose I am. I cannot, for the life of me, think of what I have done to arouse such passionate anger.” He drew back from her, and a feeling of cold dread began to seize her heart. “You are very pretty when you are angry, I must say. At the risk of provoking more anger, of course. Your eyes are like pools of water—so green as to almost be blue.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, and was cut short as he leaned across her, taking possession of her lips with his. He plunged his tongue into her mouth and she gasped. Was this the correct thing to do? What was he doing? Oh, it felt lovely, but what was she supposed to do in return? Gingerly, she touched her tongue to his and was rewarded with a growl that emanated from the depths of his throat. She was supposed to be furious at him. He was working his charm on her—just as he always did. And why did she always surrender? Was she really so desperate for affection? Or was he just uncommonly good at flirting?

  He trailed a path of kisses down her throat, and she swayed back against the seat. The heat of his breath seared her skin through the shoddy wool of her costume. One of his hands caught her around her back, supporting her, while the other roamed her body. He was taking terrible liberties. She should stop him. Really she should. One icy word, well-pronounced, would snap them both back to reality.

  But if she didn’t—what would happen then?

  Pierce lifted her skirt, tracing the length of her leg with his fingertips. “My God,” he muttered against her bosom. “You are incomparable—like a Greek statue.” His fingers stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, coaxing them apart. What was he saying? How would a thief-taker know anything about Grecian statuary—oh dear…her thoughts trailed to an end as sensations overwhelmed logic.

  His fingers traced other, more private parts of her body and her breath caught in her throat. “What are you doing?”

  “What I was imagining doing all evening, ever since I saw you in that costume,” he panted. His breath seemed to be coming in huffs and puffs too. “A man can only take so much.”

  His fingers slipped inside of her, and she arched against his hand. His thumb stroked against the most vulnerable part of her being. “Yes, please,” she whispered. “Don’t stop this time.”

  He muttered something unintelligible against her breast and began moving his fingers in and out while stroking her at the same time. She writhed against his hand, her breath coming faster as tension welled inside her body. Without warning, she shattered into a million pieces, crying out as she came apart. Pierce pulled her into his lap and as her shudders began to slow, gently eased his hand out from under her skirt.

  “Are you still angry at me?” he whispered against her temple.

  She lay limply against his chest, trying hard to catch her breath. “No.”

  Something pulsed against her bottom. “Pierce, are you all right?”

  “Nothing you can’t make better,” he responded with a rueful laugh.

  She wriggled her bottom experimentally. She knew what men looked like without their clothes on. She had seen Peter naked a few times early on in their marriage. And, when she was trying to be a true wife to him, she had, well, serviced him in a way that he found acceptable. Did Pierce need that now? Men needed some kind of release. She knew that from her few—very, very few—dalliances with Peter.

  She slid off his lap and knelt on the carriage floor. Oh my—yes, he was absolutely rigid. She traced the length of him with her fingertip and he groaned deeply. She found the buttons of his trousers and began to release them, one by one. His member stood up as she pulled the fabric away and freed him.

  “Penelope?” His breath was coming in short gasps.

  She tugged his hands, drawing him closer to the edge of the bench. He was very large—much larger than she would ever have thought possible in a man. Her eyes widened. Then she put out her tongue and licked every inch of him.

  He swore loudly and grasped the edge of the bench with both hands.

  She took him into her mouth, savoring the taste and the smell of him. It was quite intoxicating, really. And feeling him writhe as he had made her done just a few moments before was delightful. This time she made a noise in the back of her throat and was rewarded with an answering groan and a muttered oath.

  Then, without warning, Pierce pulled away from her and grasped her shoulders.

  “Good God, Penelope, where did you learn to do that?”

&nbs
p; ***

  He didn’t wait for an answer. If he waited too long, he might unman himself on the seat of the coach, or the front of her dress. So he pushed her back on the seat, shoving her gown and chemise up around her waist.

  “What-what are you doing?” she gasped, her beautiful mouth reddened and slightly swollen from her ministrations.

  He didn’t answer, but undid the tapes from the shoulders of her dress. Then he tugged the shoddy wool down over her breasts, revealing them as round and as perfect as he had dreamed of these past few nights. He flicked his tongue over them, delighting as each nipple hardened and goose bumps rose across her skin. She tasted of ripe peaches.

  Was she ready again? He reached down and touched her once more. Yes, she was damp and inviting. He bit back the moan that worked its way up his throat. Good God, he was no better than an animal around her. He parted her thighs once more with coaxing hands, then began pushing against her entrance. Lord, but she was tight. It must have been some time since her last lover.

  She gasped and tried to close her legs.

  “Don’t worry, my darling,” he murmured against her ear. He’d go slow. It would be hard not to plunge right in, but he would be a cad to do so when it had been so long for her.

  He teased against her entrance again and found the sensitive part of her with his fingertips. Playing with her, stroking her, until she loosened and began to twist against his hand. Then he thrust in with one smooth stroke. Penelope gave a little scream and he froze.

  Could it be? What had just happened?

  “Penelope?”

  She was lying absolutely still, taking deep breaths. “Yes?”

  “Have you ever…been…with a man before?” Damnation, it was hard not to keep stroking. She fit to him so tightly—it was an amazing sensation.

  “Not in this way, Pierce,” she panted.

  His head dropped down. “Forgive me. I had no idea.” What was the gentlemanly thing to do? Withdraw? Or keep going? He glanced over at her. Her golden curls tumbled about her shoulders, clinging to her breasts. Her eyes were wide and dark, but was that with passion or pain?

  “Are you angry?” she gasped.

  “No. I just…don’t know what to do.” It was better to admit the truth. “I’ve been dreaming about this for days. And I don’t want to hurt you or make matters worse.”

  She moved against him. “Then don’t stop.”

  He pulled out a little and thrust back in. “Does that feel all right?” It felt incomparable to him.

  “Yes.” She bucked against him a little. “Don’t stop, Pierce.”

  He began thrusting in earnest, encouraging her with groans and kisses as she moved against him, finding a rhythm. She was amazing. A siren. He could not get enough of her.

  Voices sounded outside the carriage and someone knocked at the door. Damnation. The carriage had stopped. They must be at Penelope’s.

  He couldn’t cease now. He was on the brink. “We’ll be out in a moment,” he barked, thrusting harder.

  Penelope gasped and then gave an enchanting chuckle.

  He rose above her, staring down and her round breasts, her golden curls, her beautiful mouth slightly swollen, her lips parted. He growled—a feral sound that startled even himself.

  Bill knocked once more.

  “In a moment, damn you,” Pierce yelled.

  Penelope laughed again, tilting her head back as he pounded harder.

  The voices continued outside the carriage. Surely those oafs knew what they were about. The whole carriage was swaying to their rhythm.

  He reached down, taking each of Penelope’s nipples into his mouth. He wanted her to cry out too. He wanted to feel her release as he was inside her this time. She moaned again, bucking against him.

  “Penelope, darling,” he begged. “Come for me again.”

  “I can’t—I don’t know—” she panted, and then her release came upon her. He felt her pulsing around him. “Pierce,” she cried, her voice catching in her throat. “Oh, Pierce.”

  He was undone. He came so quickly he did not have time to wrench free and spill himself onto the carriage seat, as he had intended. He poured himself into her welcoming body with a hoarse, triumphant shout. The voices outside the carriage stopped prattling at once.

  He laid his head against her breasts, which were slick with perspiration. “I’m going to sack Bill,” he muttered.

  Penelope chuckled softly, ruffling her hand through his hair.

  “Are you all right?” He raised his face and kissed her lips.

  “Lovely,” she sighed.

  “As much as I would like to stay here all night, we must quit this carriage with as much dignity as we can muster.” He withdrew from her slowly, jerking a little as he went. “I’ll dress myself and see what Bill couldn’t wait for. That will give you time to dress and go into the townhouse without anyone seeing you.” He tugged up his trousers. “Does that sound like a plan?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She looked so vulnerable there, with her breasts exposed and her legs parted. He was a cad of the worst kind, making love to her in a carriage with a bunch of servants outside. Next time would be better, he promised himself. They’d have all the time and privacy in the world.

  He kissed her forehead and opened the carriage door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  Penelope dressed with as much grace as she could muster in such tight quarters. Her body ached and she had the odd sensation of being both cold and sticky with sweat and, well, other things. Nothing would be better than a hot bath and a bracing cup of tea. No, better make that a supremely stout, short Scotch. She struggled with the tapes on her maid’s costume and managed to do them up herself. When she had changed into her costume before their visit to the Lily, Pierce had helped her. Now that he was gone, it was difficult not to feel lonely and bereft.

  She gave herself a quick shake. No. There would be no heading down that road. She would never make herself a fool over a man again. She plopped down on the bench and pulled up her stockings, tightening her garters so they would stay up. The voices outside the carriage window were hushed and urgent, but she could make out parts of what they were saying if she strained enough. That was Bill’s rarely-used bass tone, and Pierce’s hushed and urgent voice questioning him. But there was a third man with them that did not sound familiar, and he was speaking more loudly than the others.

  “Howland, if you’ve got anything on the Lily, you may as well hand it over.”

  Howland? To whom was the man speaking, and why was that name so familiar?

  “Stubble it, Twist, or I’ll…” Pierce’s voice grew indistinct and the sound of footsteps retreating was all that could be heard. Why was this man Twist pestering Pierce about the Lily, especially at this hour of the night? And why did he call Pierce by the wrong surname?

  She gathered her cloak and peered out of the window. No one in sight. She pushed open the carriage door and alit, but her legs were trembling so badly she could barely stand.

  For heavens’ sake, Penelope. Pull yourself together.

  Pierce was gone, and the other men with him. Would he expect her to say goodnight? Or…was that all he wanted from her this evening. She needed a drink badly. Everything else would have to wait until she got her bearings. Wobbly legs or no.

  She rushed around to the side gate and let herself in through the back door to the kitchen. The staff would all be asleep by now, and no one would be hanging about to watch her most undignified entrance. The house was dark but she knew her way around well enough—and the promising glint of firelight under the library door meant that her well-trained servants had thought only of her comfort before retiring.

  With a grateful sigh, she let herself into the room and closed the door behind her, locking it for good measure. Then she poured herself a large whiskey and settled down before the fire, drinking it in one burning draught. She shuddered. That was the stuff.

  She waited a few moments more. Perhaps P
ierce would come to the door and ask about her. If so, she could run to the door and answer before the servants arose. But if Pierce intended to return, it was not going to be any time soon. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked past another fifteen minutes.

  Very well, then. He wasn’t coming. Well, it wasn’t like she needed a goodnight kiss, or any other kind of reassurance after her carriage exploits, was it? Even so, a feeling of disgust crept over her. Just as she had suspected, he had used her for what she could offer, and then forgotten about her.

  Penelope unlocked the library door and trudged up the stairs with leaden feet. No, there was no need to become a martyr. She was curious about what happened between normal men and women, and she had satisfied her curiosity. That was all. And just because it happened to be satiated with Pierce Howe’s help didn’t mean he owed her anything in particular. In fact, it was better this way. No attachments or commitments to hinder her liberation.

  Her bedroom was dark save for the glow of the fire in the grate. If Cicely was here, she would have been waiting for her mistress in the dressing-room. Penelope would have poured the tale out to Cicely’s sympathetic ear while Cicely gave her hair the required one hundred brushstrokes before bedtime. But now, her friend and champion was gone. And not only that, but she had vanished into some strange world where men paid for the favors of masked women. It was all very bizarre and unsettling. And though one of the servants had kindly laid out her night rail and left the fire burning to keep her room warm, some of the coziness had gone out of her life with Cicely’s absence.

  Penelope undid the tapes of her servant costume and let it puddle on the floor as she pulled on her night rail—a sensible flannel gown for chilly nights. She kicked her costume into a corner, watching it sail through the air with smug satisfaction. If only one could deliver such a well-placed kick to Pierce Howe’s posterior.

  She sank onto her dressing-table bench and grasped her silver hairbrush—a favorite, with boar’s hair bristles—and began giving her hair its requisite hundred strokes. If no one else was here to care for her, at least she would look after her own needs.