A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  “I understand.” Penelope took a deep breath and looked down. “I have never shared this with anyone, but after my parents died, we were in a bit of desperate straits. My aunt took us in, but we all knew it was only for a short time. After that, we were to be on our own. One of us needed to marry and marry well, but we were still in mourning. It had not been long enough; we should not have entered society when we did, but we could ill afford to wait another year.”

  “You did what you had to do.” Marchford gave her hand an understanding squeeze.

  “Did we?” Penelope looked up with big dark eyes. “I have never felt entirely comfortable with the decision to pretend our parents had died earlier than they had. Perhaps that is why I clung to my mother’s outmoded frocks. If I could not show my mourning, I could at least keep her close.”

  A lock of brown hair fell out of place over her eyes, and Marchford gently pushed it back, his thumb tracing along the edge of her forehead. For the first time he felt he had someone who understood. He leaned forward, breathing in her clean scent. Her eyes widened and she leaned closer to him.

  “Thank you.” He slowly kissed one cheek. “This is for bringing back the memory of my mother.” He kissed the other cheek, lingering at his work. “This is for sharing a piece of yourself.”

  He attempted to pull back, but Penelope’s eyes flashed and his intention was arrested. “You have shared with me also, so I should return the favor.” She leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek, spreading warmth throughout his body.

  His heart, generally something beyond his notice, began to beat. He could not tell if it was faster than normal since, until that moment, he had not been aware he had a heart at all. He leaned closer, his eyes focusing on her soft lips the color of the pale sunrise through the London haze. He paused, allowing her a moment to retreat. She did not. He could not.

  Their lips met.

  Slowly their hands found each other, intertwining their fingers. He pressed forward, his lips softly brushing hers. It was a chaste kiss as kisses went, but it was a kiss. A kiss with Penelope Rose.

  Propriety forced him to pull back. She said nothing, but he could tell she was thinking furiously. He wondered what he could do to make the little crease between her eyebrows disappear. So he kissed her again, this time putting one hand on her cheek. He wondered desperately if she tasted as good as her scent promised. He moved forward and deepened the kiss, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close.

  He needed her, was drawn to her with a power he could no longer resist. He had wanted to kiss her for so long now he pulled her closer, one hand running down her back, his tongue sliding along her lower lip.

  “Oh!” She pulled back and put her hand over her mouth.

  He cursed himself for going too far.

  “Well now. Well, well,” she said, a deep pink flush gracing her cheeks. “I think we have thanked each other sufficiently, don’t you think?”

  Not even close.

  “I believe I should be going.” Penelope struggled to untangle her gown enough to stand, and Marchford stood to give her assistance. “I am glad you have found something that was lost to you.” Her eyes grew soft once more but hardened an instant later and turned away.

  “I cannot thank you enough,” he said in a low voice, meaning it sincerely in every way possible.

  “We have thanked each other enough with…with a Christmas kiss of friendship!” She turned on him, defiant, as if daring him to contradict her.

  “I am new to these traditions, so I thank you for sharing them with me. Tell me more about the Christmas kiss.”

  “We did it wrong.” Penelope crossed her arms.

  “Did we? I am more than willing to try again until I get it right.” He stepped closer.

  “There was supposed to be mistletoe.” She frowned, scolding him.

  “Ah, yes, you are right. You must forgive me since I am new to this. Next time—”

  “No, no.” Her eyes widened and she stepped back. “No need for a next time.”

  “But I do so want to get this Christmas tradition correct. You did promise me a happy Christmas.”

  “Did I, Your Grace?” She edged away even more.

  “James. If we are going to share the traditional Christmas kiss of friendship, then you definitely need to call me James.”

  A smile played along her lips. “As you wish. James.” She said it slowly as if trying it out. “I suppose you should call me Penelope.”

  “Penelope,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

  She swallowed. “I must go.” And she fled the attic.

  Marchford took the portrait of his mother and followed at a more sedate pace. It was suddenly very important that he find mistletoe.

  He smiled broadly, filled with Christmas cheer.

  Eighteen

  “James is in a very strange mood,” commented Antonia, giving Penelope a critical eye.

  “Is he?” replied Penelope, trying her best to ignore the banging and focus on her knitting. They were in the sitting room before Christmas dinner. Usually, it was a dignified affair. Tonight strange things were afoot.

  “He smiled at me.” The dowager frowned.

  “He did?” Penelope chewed her lower lip.

  “And wished me a merry Christmas.”

  “No!”

  The dowager raised an eyebrow. “What have you done to him?”

  “Me? Nothing! I’ve done nothing!”

  Banging came from the dining room.

  “What on earth is that boy doing?”

  Penelope slouched in her chair. She knew exactly what Marchford was doing. The telltale banging could be heard coming from the drawing room. He was hanging mistletoe.

  “I think I should check on the dinner.” Penelope dashed out of the room toward the kitchen. She had kissed him. Kissed him. A friendly kiss. Is there such a thing as a friendly kiss? And now the duke had gone and lost his mind. Along the servants’ corridor, she overheard the staff discussing the strange behavior.

  “Where did His Grace find so much mistletoe?” asked one of the upstairs maids to the footman.

  “And why is he hanging it all over the place?” asked the footman.

  “That’s quality for you. They’re all cracked,” said a scullery maid.

  “I’ll crack you if you don’t stop your yapping and get back to work,” shouted Cook. “And you, not you again. Get out. Out!”

  Cook came at Pen with a broom.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Penelope, taking a step back.

  “Oh laws, not you, Miss Rose. That dratteddog thing.”

  Looking around, Penelope noted a matted mass of wet fur scurrying around people’s feet. Cook tried to sweep the little dog up the stone stairs, out into the snow, but the beast would have none of it, ducking around the broom at the last minute and running between legs back into the hostile kitchen.

  “Poor thing. He’s probably cold and hungry,” said Penelope.

  “He can be poor and hungry outside my kitchen!” demanded Cook.

  The animal took refuge behind Penelope, his large yellow eyes pleading for help. He had a funny face, as if he had run into a wall and his face was flattened. He put up a dirty paw to beg. “But it is Christmas,” suggested Penelope. “We are to provide a home for the weary traveler.”

  Cook gave her a withering look. The scullery maid muttered something again about quality being touched in the head and this time Cook did not correct her.

  “That thing will have fleas, miss. Can’t stay here,” reasoned Cook.

  “Perhaps I could give him a bath?” suggested Penelope. She hoped another member of the help would actually help. But not one would meet her eye, and all became very busy.

  She ended up kneeling on the floor, covered with towels, washing a bedraggled dog in a large bucket
. With the liberal use of a jar of soap and a comb, along with some meat treats to gain compliance, she began to reveal the image of her rescued friend.

  It was a gray mop.

  Further drying with a towel revealed an unexpected surprise.

  “Blimey. I reckon that dog is a cat!” exclaimed a maid.

  The cat meowed loudly to the stunned kitchen, proving his felineness.

  “That done be the largest cat I ever saw,” said one of the grooms, coming in from the cold.

  “What are you gonna name it, miss?” asked a footman.

  “Miles,” said Penelope without a second thought. “Because there are miles of cat here.”

  The kitchen staff laughed and all gathered around the Christmas cat-dog. After a hearty feeding for the cat and some debate over whether Christmas syllabub or wassail punch should be served at dinner, and it being decided to prepare both, Penelope returned upstairs, a large bundle of damp cat in her arms.

  Upon reaching the main floor, Penelope found a labyrinth of danger. Somewhere was the dowager, who must be avoided at all costs—a stray cat in her pristine household would be an abhorrence. And somewhere else lurked the duke. To make matters difficult, he had hung a maze of tiny bundles of mistletoe overhead. Not content with simply hanging it in doorways, he had constructed a web of string from which dangerous bundles of mistletoe hung at random intervals.

  The real question was, did she want to get caught?

  Well, did she? Clearly she had much too much cat in her arms for rational thought. Penelope took a breath and stole softly across the hall to the main stairs, one eye looking for the duke or dowager and the other eye nervously glancing above her. Miles, the enormous cat, chose that inopportune moment to make a rather large meow, which echoed loudly down the hall.

  “What was that?” came the voice of the dowager from the sitting room.

  “I shall go see,” replied the duke.

  Nothing for it but to run. And run she did, except when she got to the stairs, she encountered a difficult problem with her hands full of cat, her wet slippers slick on the marble floor, and a meowing animal who did not appreciate the ride. She stepped on her skirts and went down on the stairs with a bump and a hiss.

  “What the blazes…” Marchford stood above her. “Is that a dog?”

  “No, actually,” said Penelope, trying to untangle her foot from the hem of her skirt. “It is a cat.”

  “A what?” The dowager walked up and poked the damp creature with her cane before Penelope could pick it up again. Miles growled, looking more disreputable than ever.

  Marchford glanced between the dowager and Penelope, his eyes narrowing. Penelope sighed. So much for her Christmas cat. She was certain she would be told to remove the beast, but the dowager just then noticed the web of mistletoe above her head.

  “My stars and garters, what have you done?” exclaimed the dowager.

  “I have mistletoed the house,” said Marchford defiantly. “I have decided that if I choose to decorate my home like a tradesman, I shall do it to distinction.”

  “You have decided what?” the dowager’s voice was like ice.

  “Too bad you have seen your Christmas present early,” said Marchford, swiftly changing the subject.

  “My present?” asked the dowager, slightly mollified, looking back at him and Penelope and the monstrosity in her arms in a distracted way.

  “Yes, your present,” said Penelope. She had no idea where Marchford was going with this, but she took his lead.

  “The extremely rare Peruvian jungle house cat,” said Marchford.

  “The Peruvian jungle house what?” The dowager rapped her cane on the marble floor in irritation.

  “The jungle house cat, from deepest Peru,” said Penelope. For all she knew it could be from Peru.

  “That is a dog,” dismissed the dowager.

  Miles, the Peruvian jungle house cat, meowed in complaint.

  “Is that really a cat? I don’t want that thing,” exclaimed the dowager.

  “I can keep it until later,” suggested Penelope.

  “You can send that Peruvian beast back to—”

  “Oh look, mistletoe!” declared Marchford. Penelope almost jumped into his arms, but Marchford turned and kissed his grandmother on the cheek. Penelope took the clue and picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs.

  “Merry Christmas to all!” she called as she fled. She made it to the door of her room, where she intended to deposit the scraggly cat, but just as she reached out with one hand to open her door, he chose that moment to jump and run.

  “Come back here,” cried Penelope. Miles skittered across the floor and dashed up the hall and back down, finally pushing open a door and racing in. It was the room of the Duke of Marchford. Of course.

  “Bad cat! You come back here!” she hissed at the recalcitrant feline at the door to the duke’s quarters.

  The cat meowed defiantly in return.

  Penelope dashed in the room. She had just left Marchford downstairs and with any luck she could retrieve the animal and be back in her room without him ever knowing. She searched around the room, trailing a finger along the edge of the bed. His bed. What might it be like to…

  The cat! She must find the cat and stop these utterly inappropriate thoughts. The cat had found a hiding place under a dresser. She tried coaxing out the beast, but to no avail. She got down on her knees and bent over to pull the naughty cat out from his hiding spot.

  “And a merry Christmas to you,” said the seductive voice of Marchford. “How did you know exactly what I wanted for Christmas?”

  Penelope, now with her head under the dresser, died of shame. He must be addressing her raised rump, since that would be about all of what he could see of her. She wiggled her way out and stood up with as much dignity as she could muster. It wasn’t much.

  “My cat is stuck under your dresser,” said Penelope hopelessly.

  Marchford attempted to suppress a smile. “How long have I waited to hear you say that?”

  Penelope could not help herself and began to giggle. Marchford chuckled and then they both laughed.

  “Thank you. I can’t remember a time when I was so diverted.” Marchford smiled at her. “You have indeed given me a happy Christmas.”

  “You are most welcome.” If she had made him happy, she was happy too.

  “Oh look, mistletoe.”

  “There’s no mistletoe…”

  He held a sprig of that mischievous plant over her head and before she could respond, planted a kiss on her lips. This time Penelope did not back away. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he gave her a warm embrace. He deepened the kiss and Penelope only held on tighter, shots of liquid lightning coursing through her at his touch. When they finally broke apart for a much-needed breath, Penelope could barely stand on her weak knees.

  “I think I am going to like Christmas,” said Marchford, his voice low and breathy. “Very friendly.”

  “And this is just the beginning. There are twelve days you know.”

  He glanced at his bed and back at her. “I am unfamiliar with these traditions. How friendly does this season get?”

  Penelope snatched the cat, who had slowly vacated the dresser, her heart pounding. “I mean to say…a happy time and all but…”

  “A happy Christmas to you, Penelope.”

  “Merry Christmas…James.”

  Nineteen

  Miles the Peruvian jungle house cat was a sopping mop when wet and a huge fluff ball when dry. After an evening sitting by the fire and then sleeping on her pillow, Penelope woke up sputtering on fur and found Miles had fluffed up to a truly impressive stature, even by Peruvian standards.

  The animal was nothing if not appreciative for his rescue and took to following her about the house, pawing her gently with a large fluffy mitt if he felt
she was not paying him due homage. Penelope tried putting him back in her room several times, but then she would reach for a book and he would be sitting on it, or she would grab her stitching and he would be tangled up in it.

  “Can we ship the dog back to Peru?” grumbled the dowager.

  “Doubtful,” replied Penelope.

  Of Marchford, she saw little during the day. He had gone once more in search of the missing safe. She spent most of the day absently poking a needle at a sampler, though her mind was definitely on other matters and she had to rip out more stitches than she put in. He had kissed her. She had kissed him. They had kissed.

  It had been friendly—very, very friendly. But was it anything more? She waited impatiently for his return. When he finally did, his grim face told her that his efforts had been unsuccessful. Still, it was the day of the engagement ball for Sir Gareth and Lady Jane, to be held at Lord Felton’s house, so there were still opportunities for discovering the culprits.

  As Marchford predicted, a ball held at the home of Lord Felton, who had not entertained in twenty years, was something not to be missed. None who were lucky enough to be invited would ever consider declining the invitation, with the exception of Grant and his wife. She was feeling the ill effects of being heavy with child and decided to forgo the celebration, and naturally Grant would not stray out of doors without her.

  Penelope was pleased, since the evening marked a success for Madame X, but even more excited, looking forward to the ability to look for clues as to Lord Felton’s guilt or innocence. The fact that she could do so with Marchford only heightened her anticipation.

  She was still trying to untangle her thoughts and emotions regarding the “friendly” kiss. She had gotten the merest crumb of what a man such as Marchford could offer; she wanted more. Yet she must take care to guard her heart, to avoid any discomfort when he chose another as a marriage partner.