A Winter Wedding

by Amanda Forester

  The duke was taller than most men. In a dark blue frock coat and a golden waistcoat cut to perfection, he was the very image of a gentleman. Even more, his manner, his look, his address—he was a duke in every sense. And he was coming for her.

  “I have need of you,” whispered Marchford when she was parted from her partner for a moment in the dance.

  “Perhaps I am dancing,” said Penelope, which surprised herself even more than Marchford.

  “Demands of king and country. I fear you must forgo the pleasures of your new beau’s company.” The words came almost as a growl. People turned their heads.

  Penelope raised an eyebrow.

  “My grandmother has need of your assistance,” he said in a lazy manner, loud enough to be heard by the gossips.

  Penelope made her apologies to her dance partner and followed Marchford to the side of the ballroom. She stifled a grin. The only thing better than being asked to dance, was having Marchford intercede to drag her away. “What would you have me do?” Her voice quivered in anticipation.

  “I need a lookout,” whispered Marchford, leaning toward her so none could hear, his breath hot on her cheek. “Meet me upstairs near the main bedrooms in ten minutes.”

  Penelope nodded, her heart pounding. He had said he needed her and directed her to the bedrooms. Nothing else mattered.

  Getting up the main stairs unnoticed proved more difficult than she originally thought. The novelty of seeing a house open that had been shut for years made the evening’s event a mad crush. People were everywhere and there was no chance of walking up the stairs without someone noticing. Out of habit, she had watched not only the guests but the servants as well, and noted the hidden doorway leading to the back stairs and servants’ passages.

  Penelope chose a moment when the future bride’s brother announced a toast to slip up the side stairs. Upstairs, she found Marchford with a single candle in hand, most likely pilfered from a wall sconce.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Penelope in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “Not sure,” Marchford answered in kind. “Felton talked about moving something up to his bedchamber. I need to search and I would like you to serve as my eyes while I do it.” He paused and cleared his throat. “If, that is, you are willing to become involved. I need not tell you this is highly irregular.”

  “I understand. We should be quick then.”

  Marchford nodded in approval. “You stand by the door. It will be dark, but that way you can see a candle coming and move out of the way before you are seen. The main stairs are here; the servants’ back stairs are at the end of the hall. If someone comes, knock once if it is the main stairs, twice if the servants to warn me, then move down the opposite direction.”

  “What shall you do?”

  “What I do best. Do not wait for me; just leave and return to the ball.”

  It was simple enough and Penelope was a little disappointed her role in the scheme was to remain outside without Marchford. “I understand. Good luck.”

  Marchford nodded and opened a few doors before finding the one he sought. He disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind himself. Penelope was instantly thrown into darkness. There was barely enough light from below to make out the gray outlines of the hall.

  Waiting was an excruciating mix of nervous fear, lest she be caught, and boredom. She wished to know if Marchford had any success and steeled herself against the urge to poke her head in the room and ask him herself. The time stretched on, yet with her senses so alive, she could not tell if it was seconds, minutes, or hours. She was just about to give up her resistance and call to Marchford to see what he had found, when she heard someone coming up the main stairs.

  They were not being particularly quiet, with slurred speech and silly giggles. Penelope paused a moment. Was it one for the main stairs and two for the servants, or the other way around? Her mind spun as the light grew closer.

  She knocked once and turned to flee to the side stairs. She was almost to the servants’ stairs when she heard the unmistakable clanging of a maid carrying up a coal shuttle. Heart pounding, Penelope ran on tiptoes toward the inebriated couple still climbing the main stairs. No time to think. She must escape.

  She slipped into the room, but Marchford was nowhere to be seen. She closed the door behind her and was immediately engulfed in darkness. “Marchford?” she whispered.

  “Penelope?” hissed the voice of Marchford from across the room.

  “Yes,” she whispered back, walking in the direction of his voice.

  “What are you doing here?” his voice was barely audible, but his disapproval was clear.

  “Ow!” Penelope ran into some sort of table. “Drunk couple coming up the main stairs, maid coming up the back.”

  Marchford had her by the hand and moved her around something. How he saw in the dark she did not know, but she trusted him to guide her. “In here,” he whispered and she felt the door of a large wardrobe. Nothing to do but climb inside with Marchford squishing in behind her. The wardrobe was much too small for this purpose and they were tangled up with each other, trying to squeeze inside.

  Sitting most indecently on the lap of the Duke of Marchford, Penelope hoped that the various parties in the hallway would pass and let them escape, but the hope was short-lived.

  The door swung open and somebody entered the room.

  Twenty-one

  “A maid, she’s coming!” squealed a young lady. “Quick! In here.”

  The wardrobe door was still open a crack when the couple and their light fell inside the room. The illumination allowed Marchford and Penelope to move aside a fallen coat that was blocking the wardrobe door and close it swiftly, hoping they had not been seen. Penelope was sitting on top of the duke in a manner quite unladylike. After a few anxious moment, Pen doubted the couple, deep in drink by the sound of it, had noticed them. In truth, they were rather beyond noticing anything but themselves.

  “Ah, my love, look. A bed,” said the lady in a husky tone.

  “Yes,” said the young gentleman. “I do believe it is. Well, whatever shall we do?”

  The young lady giggled and then the room grew quiet except for some wet smacking noises, leaving little doubt as to what the young lady of inebriation had on her mind. Unfortunately, in Penelope’s present condition of forced intimacy, the idea of kissing was brought forcefully to mind with the man on whose lap she now sat and who was breathing hot breath on her neck. She desperately hoped that the couple would be leaving soon, for she was growing so warm with a mixture of embarrassment and desire she thought she might swoon.

  Right on top of Marchford. Not an all-bad idea.

  The bed gave a loud creak. “Oh!” said the man outside. “I fell.”

  “On the bed. How clever of you,” purred the woman, who suddenly was not sounding quite as tipsy as she had before. “You look all hot. Allow me to loosen your cravat so you can breathe.”

  “Err, that is not my cravat.”

  “No, but I wager you can breathe better now.”

  “More like I can’t catch my breath,” said the young man in painful honesty.

  “What can I do to put you more at ease. How about that?”

  “Oh. Yesssss.”

  “Or this?”

  Things grew quiet again except for a moan from the young man. It was intolerable. Penelope was sitting astride Marchford, his arms around her, his face tantalizingly close to her own. Her desire to kiss Marchford was pounding with intensity. She could not help herself and turned her head to rest her cheek on his. He responded immediately, running his hand up her back and down again, lower and lower, until his hand cupped her backside. Hot tingles shot through her, making her heart beat faster. She should stop him, but instead she wanted more.

  The couple on the bed groaned again, and Penelope could only imagine what they were do
ing and how it would feel to be doing it with Marchford—James to her now. She nuzzled her cheek to his, brushing against the sting of the tiny stubble on his jaw. She turned, her lips trailing lightly across his cheek, in search of his mouth.

  Her heart beat harder and she kissed the corner of his mouth. It was more chaste than she intended. It was dark, and she was aiming for his lips. He returned in kind and he did not miss. His lips were soft, and the kiss began as it had in the past—friendly, soft—but gradually it became more heated and urgent as he pressed into her. Or perhaps she was the one demanding more. The intensity increased, his lips moving over hers, a novel experience, but between the sounds of the couple on the bed and her own pounding desire pressed against him, she explored this new adventure with everything she had. Sitting on him as she was, she could not help but feel his interest rise.

  “Wait, we shouldn’t. In the master’s room. Don’t want to get you in trouble,” said the lad on the bed with earnest concern.

  “Don’t you worry, my love. Drink,” commanded the vixen, and from the sound, he did so. Shortly afterward, the bed began to creak and the soft moans of the couple drove Penelope’s imagination wild. She knew the very basic facts about sex—having four married sisters was informative—but to be so close to the act was an educational experience. One that she suddenly wanted to be schooled in. And since she was conveniently sitting on a virile man, her education might soon be coming.

  James’s breath shuddered and he tried to pull back his arms, but there was nothing for it. The wardrobe was too cramped, and not being a small man, he took up much of the space. What little room was left, she consumed. He was trying not to ruin her, she understood, but she would have none of it. The truth was obvious in the dark wardrobe. She had been attracted to him since she met him. And now that she had him pinned beneath her in a situation from which he could not escape, she would give no quarter. Poor man.

  She was going to be banished from London anyway, and she did not worry for a moment over the potential for him being less than discreet. Whatever they did in the wardrobe he would take to the grave. The revelation gave her a freedom she rarely felt, and probably should not have felt then, except that desire was such a powerful wave, it swept her along and refused to let go. She now understood why women would ruin themselves for this intoxicating passion. There may be a price to pay, but at the moment she could not bring herself to care.

  She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling his muscles tense at her touch. She stroked down, exploring his firm abdominal muscles, his watch fob, the buttons of his vest, and the butt of the pistol inside his coat pocket. The last discovery was shocking only in that it did not surprise her. He stilled her hands with his, but that could not stop her. The noises outside increased in intensity and pitch, the bedpost banging rhythmically against the wall.

  She pressed forward and this time her lips struck true, finding his and holding them hostage. If she triumphed in her victory, it was only for a moment before he began to show her why teasing such a man was not at all wise. The kiss that followed was so intimate, so unlike anything she had ever experienced or ever considered before, she was shocked into pulling back, but he caught her and pulled her back to him, one hand possessively on the back of her neck and the other sliding down over her backside.

  She almost yelped in surprise, and he swallowed the sound before it could be uttered by deepening the kiss. He ran his hands up and down her back until her thoughts turned entirely treacherous and then stopped altogether.

  The couple outside were now groaning and moaning together at a fevered pitch. James slid a hand between them and trailed a finger along the skin of her low-cut gown at the edge of her bodice. She had thought the gown too revealing before; now she cursed it for not being revealing enough. She pressed into him and his fingers slipped under her gown, running his thumb over her breast in a manner that made her wish she was with him on the bed instead of the unknown couple.

  At that moment, the couple reached their climax and the young man shouted out and collapsed. For several minutes there was no sound. James and Penelope froze, his hand still trapped in her gown, not wanting to make any sound in the silent room. Although enough sense was returning to know they had traveled into dangerous territory, Penelope was mostly irritated at the couple for stopping and thus putting her own exploration at an end.

  Soft snoring could be heard, and then the strange noises of drawers opening and closing. James slowly removed his hand from her bosom and peeked out of the keyhole. He shifted without a sound and ever so quietly drew a knife. He used the blade to lock the wardrobe with them inside. Taking a peek herself, Penelope saw a young woman carefully going through the room, searching for something. She did not appear at all drunk or exhausted by the throes of passion.

  The woman had quickly dressed herself and was making short work of her search, coming close to the wardrobe. Pen hoped the makeshift lock would hold. James must have been thinking similar thoughts, for he held on to one of the inner hooks of the door so as to further prevent it from opening. The young woman came stealthily to the wardrobe and went to open it, pulling hard. When it refused to open, she quickly took a hairpin from her hair and attempted to pick the lock.

  Penelope’s pulse pounded as she grabbed one of the inner hooks and pulled toward her with all her might. The lady tried again to open the wardrobe, pulling on the door with surprising strength, but Marchford and Penelope pulled back, preventing her from opening the prize.

  The young man on the bed stirred and the young woman paused, was still for a moment, then fled the room. After waiting a few more anxious minutes, Marchford opened the doors and they tumbled out. The man on the bed was snoring, giving no alarm that he would witness their presence.

  “What was she looking for?” whispered Penelope.

  “This,” said Marchford, holding up a wine bottle.

  “Why?” She almost mouthed the word.

  Marchford shook his head and they examined the bottle in the pale light of the lantern. It was French and looked expensive. A close examination revealed nothing of particular interest until she examined the label closely.

  “Some of these words in French have been spelled in a curious manner,” whispered Penelope. “And does it seem to you that the bottle and cork are older than the label?”

  Marchford examined the bottle more closely. “Yes, this label seems almost new.”

  The duke returned the bottle to where he’d found it. He motioned to the door and they were soon safely outside, leaving the lad to his fate.

  Penelope breathed a sigh of relief at escaping the room and stepped forward in the dim hallway, forgetting the carpet runner down the hall. She tripped and landed hard, more embarrassed than hurt.

  “Are you all right?” Marchford was there to offer a hand.

  She was glad he could not see her cheeks burn in the dark hallway. Why was it not possible for her to appear as a sophisticated lady? She accepted his hand and put her foot down to a surprising pain.

  “Ow!” She began to fall and clutched his shoulder for support. With surprising ease, he picked her up into his arms.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I am sure it will be fine,” breathed Penelope, even though she had no desire for Marchford to put her down. He carried her down the side stairwell without catching his breath.

  “You will permit me to remove you from this location to a safer place.” He adopted his usual reserved manner, yet she had witnessed the fire beneath the cool exterior.

  Penelope wished to protest on principle, but she knew he could carry her faster than she could walk, and leaving their current situation was of utmost importance. More importantly, she liked being in his arms. She liked it a lot.

  They returned to the main floor, the noise of musicians and people laughing loud in their ears after such quiet above.

  “Let us go here, so I c
an evaluate your injury.” Marchford carried her into a small side parlor, which was thankfully unoccupied. The room was decorated in rich tones of gold and scarlet and was dimly lit by two wall sconces.

  Marchford gently set her down on the couch. “Would you allow me to inspect your injured foot?” he asked with all reserved politeness.

  Penelope smiled in response. The formal nature did not correspond with the intimacies they had shared. Since he had already inspected her lips, her bottom, and her breasts, she figured he might as well have a go at the ankle as well. “If you must,” complied Pen, wondering how to reconnect with this man, and yet at the same time wishing to push away the temptation.

  She should not wish for something that would always be outside her grasp. Dukes may amuse themselves with insignificant companions if the opportunity arose, but they certainly didn’t marry them. And Penelope Rose was not the type for whom options other than a respectable marriage would be entertained. She held her back straight, even as she swung her legs up to the couch to allow for better inspection. Her ankle was already beginning to feel better, and she guessed the roll was a momentary hurt rather than a long-term injury.

  Marchford kneeled on the ground beside her and took her foot in hand. He carefully removed her slipper and felt around her foot in a manner that shot tingles up her leg and beyond. She did not wish him to stop.

  “I cannot feel any swelling,” said Marchford.

  “That is not the foot I injured,” confessed Penelope.

  Marchford gave her the look of aristocratic displeasure. He cleared his throat and took the other foot in hand, giving it the same treatment. This time it was tender to the touch, yet still, she could not complain about the way he caressed her.

  “I believe there is no serious harm,” said Marchford, focusing on her foot. The harm was not to her foot; the harm would be to her heart if she tarried any longer.

  “I am glad of it.”

  Silence filled in the gap between them, stretching out the moment. What could she say now? Was she simply to pretend the wardrobe never happened?