Tempting Mr. Weatherstone: A Wallflower Wedding Novella (Originally Appeared in the E-Book Anthology FIVE GOLDEN RINGS) (3 page)

He grinned at the small victory. Tucking her arm in the crook of his, he strode across the room to the open area in front of the wide doors that led to the garden.

“I was only fifteen at the time, as you well know,” Pen grumbled when they stood facing each other.

“A very awkward age, if I remember correctly.” He grinned when she glared at him, the moonlight behind him casting a glow over her freckles. “What type of dance would you like, Mother?”

“A waltz of course,” she replied, adding a delicate trill of the keys. “I want to see all those swirling butterflies and snowflakes for myself.”

Pen straightened her spine and elongated her neck until she looked as proud as a queen before she deigned to rest her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t recall you were any more graceful at eighteen.”

He drew her a half step closer with the slightest pressure on her waist. “Dancing takes two, Pen.” His hand curled over her waist, his fingertips settling into the small of her back.

Strange, he didn’t remember her being so slender at fifteen. Or perhaps it was that he didn’t notice the subtle flair of her hips before now. Through the soft silk of her blue gown, he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

It was in that exact moment when Ethan realized he’d made a grave error in believing everything was still the same.

This—
whatever this was
—was not the same. Not at all.

She slipped her hand into his, and he was suddenly very aware of the softness of her fingers and how delicate and cool they were against the warmth of his palm.

Anger receded from her gaze, replaced by what he would call uncertainty, as if the same vague sense of grave error had fallen upon her as well. “Aside from my dancing master, you were my first partner. I thought between the two of us, at least you would know what to do.”

The music began.

It was too late to turn the clock back to a few minutes ago. Too late to undo the challenge he had issued her by asking her to dance. Far, far too late.

As if by rote, he stepped forward, moving with meticulous precision. He held her fluidly, yet firmly, just as the dance demanded. Her carriage was equally exact, her steps just as precise. She felt sublime in his arms, supple and graceful. They moved together as one, in perfect harmony. And yet . . .

All at once, he wasn’t sure of himself, either as a competent dancer or as Ethan Holbrook Weatherstone. His entire world shifted in the space of single moment.

You were my first partner.

Those words were his undoing, shooting through him like a cataclysmic event, destroying everything inside of him that he knew to be true.

This was Pen. By all accounts, she was his best friend, a fixed structure in his life. She was the one he teased just so she would her wrinkle her nose at him. She was the one whose laugh he could pinpoint in a crowd. She was the one person he knew better than he knew himself. He counted on the stability of
knowing.

Yet now, he wasn’t sure of anything.

The music picked up, and so did their steps. He swept her across the floor, swirling in circles. Every breath he took was filled with her familiar scent. Roses and orange blossoms, all fresh and clean like springtime . . . and
Pen.

His body trembled with the effort to move with the dance, when all he wanted was to stop this madness. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her against him. He wanted to kiss those lips that were parted in wonder as she gazed up at him right now—

The music ended.

Ethan huffed from exertion and relief as they stopped. A sheen of perspiration cooled the back of his neck.

Penelope was out of breath as well, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. “That was . . .”

“Yes. Quite.” He wished he hadn’t noticed her lips. Now, he was unable to look away, even as they curved into a smile.

“It seems you’ve worked up an appetite,” she said with a small laugh. Her eyes were filled with light again, like stars on a blanket of midnight. When he questioned her with a lift of his brow, she supplied, “You’re licking your lips again.”

He took a step back, struck again with the certainty that nothing would ever be the same from this point on.

Chapter Three

T
HE NEXT MORNING
at her needlework, Penelope was determined to branch out and try something new. Her stitched flower arrangements seemed stifled, suffocated even, to the point where she didn’t think she ever wanted to stitch another flower again.

Now, in the draper’s shop, she stared at a collection of colored thread, hoping a new color would inspire her. However, disappointment washed over as, yet again, her hope for something different failed. She’d already used every color here.

Last night after dinner, she’d hoped for something different, too. And for a while, it had happened. She’d danced with Ethan for the first time in ten years.

Their first time, she’d been horribly awkward and uncharacteristically shy. In fact, she was surprised her clumsiness hadn’t maimed him. Back then, she couldn’t understand it. She’d danced well enough with the dancing master. But with Ethan . . . it was as if she’d noticed her limbs for the first time, and she wasn’t quite sure how they were all supposed to work together. Months of instruction flew from her head like dandelion fluff on a summer breeze. Unfortunately, her feet were not quite as light. Fluff might have left her brain, but fieldstones seemed to have filled her shoes.

Thankfully, no permanent damage had been done during the dance; instead, Ethan merely used her tromping all over his feet as a basis for teasing her.

He teased her until she was eighteen and began her first season. Then, at their family dinners, he’d teased her more, asking if she’d managed to stay on her feet or her partner’s. He continued to tease her even when she’d turned two-and-twenty and had ended her fourth and final season with the declaration that she would never marry.

Now, three years later, he was still teasing her.

Normally, she didn’t mind the teasing, but lately . . . he irked her to no end. And it wasn’t just the teasing that irritated her. His propensity to want everything to remain the same was about to drive her mad.

Didn’t he ever long for something new and exciting?

For a moment last night, she thought she’d recognized a kindred spirit in the way his eyes blazed with light. There was something positively molten in them. His dark pupils expanded, pushing the pale tea color to a rim along the outer edge, where it seemed to glow from within. She’d had a wondrous notion that something monumental was about to happen.

But she’d been wrong. In the very next moment, he’d taken a step back. The heat in his gaze diminished in a blink, making her realize it had only been a trick of the moonlight. Everything was the same as it had always been.

It was maddening.

Once, just once, she’d like to see him ruffled. Or at the very least, unsettled. Because that’s how he made her feel. And after so many years, Penelope Alexia Rutledge was tired of it.

The truth was—a truth she never admitted aloud—he was the reason she hadn’t accepted the proposals she’d received. Of course, she hadn’t known it at the time. Not entirely.

She’d had her first inkling after she’d danced with Ethan’s brother at her debut. She feared that her clumsy, gangly limbs would return. Yet, for some reason, dancing with Edmund was simple. It was nearly like dancing with her instructor. Or like dancing with a brother. Since their families were so closely knit, it had always been easy to imagine Edmund as an older brother.

For years, she’d tried to think of Ethan as a brother, too.

She’d tried . . . and she’d failed.

Especially last night.

For a moment, she’d thought for sure he felt it too, but she was wrong. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if, all this time, Ethan thought of her merely as a sister.

She sighed, trying not to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on her reason for being here.

“I think I’ll take the deep green, the peacock blue, and the black,” she told the clerk before she turned toward a selection of ribbons.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice.

Standing beside the display was none other than the source of all her angst and frustration. As usual, Ethan looked perfectly groomed, his cravat perfectly pleated, his shoulders perfectly straight. His unruly curls were tamed into submission. His pale camel coat made his features appear darker and accentuated the color of his eyes. This morning, she noted how they were an interesting mix of tea and firelit copper.

However, she was sure it was simply another trick of the light coming through the shop’s window. “Good morning, Ethan.”

“Good morning, Pen.” He grinned, flashing his pointed teeth as if laughing at his own private joke.

She didn’t know what to make of that grin and didn’t particularly like the way it made her aware of how her heart fluttered. “Surely, you haven’t run out of handkerchiefs and are here for a fresh supply.”

His grin remained. “Surely not. I have an entire drawer dedicated to the handkerchiefs you’ve given me over the years.”

Ah yes. He
would
like that she’d given him the same gift each year. If she didn’t already know his middle name was Holbrook, she’d almost believe it was Same. Ethan Same Weatherstone. “Then why are you here?”

He blinked at her terseness. “As I said, I knew you would be here.”

She saw her own sameness as a mark of failure. When was
she
going to branch out? When was she going to alter
her
routine?

Soon,
she promised. Very soon. “Yes, of course.”

As a matter of fact, she was one step closer. After hailing a hansom cab for this morning’s excursion, she proceeded to ask the driver a few important questions. She soon discovered that her idea of a private coach would be far too costly. However, the helpful driver made a quick suggestion of traveling by mail coach and offered to take her to the nearest posting station. Now, she had a new plan and the list of stops along the mail coach’s route tucked inside her reticule.

“I knew you would want plenty of supplies for your needlework before we left for Surrey the day after tomorrow,” he supplied, as if this somehow made her predictability more acceptable. One of her regrets would be missing their combined families’ Christmas and the winter months in the country. When it snowed, their neighboring estates shared an expanse of land that resembled what she imagined heaven would look like if it drifted down to the earth.

“I’m out running errands as well,” he continued.

This was her cue to ask even though she already knew. His mother had spoken of the jewelry last night at dinner. “Oh?”

“Mother is giving Edmund’s wife a portion of my grandmother’s jewelry for Christmas. She’s asked that I take it to the jewelers to have it cleaned and polished. I thought you would accompany me.” He gave her a look of uncertainty, as if this was the first time he thought of her not agreeing. “Unless you have another engagement.”

If only.
“No, of course not. I’d be happy to accompany you.”

Ethan approached the clerk at the counter, asking to settle her full account. He knew her father would have seen to it, yet each year he paid for her needlework supplies. There was no use trying to talk him out of it. She’d tried before without any success.

She would almost say he was generous to a fault, but she could find no fault in this particularity of his. Years ago, he’d explained that this was his gift to her. That, because she enjoyed her needlework so much, he could think of nothing better to give her.

Her heart had tripped at the time, or perhaps even still.

Foolish, foolish heart.

Most likely, he did it because it was easier than shopping for her. Their families always celebrated Christmas together, and they exchanged small trifles. By doing this, Ethan didn’t have to worry about wrapping anything for her. Each year, he merely held her gaze for a moment and gave her a nod before he proceeded to unwrap his embroidered handkerchiefs.

For him, it was probably simpler this way.

Yet for her
and
her foolish heart, it made her think of him each time she held her needle and thread. With each stitch, she knew she was holding his gift in her hands. His thoughtfulness. His generosity. Perhaps even his regard for her, little though it might be.

They left the shop and strolled together down the damp walk. The air was misty and cold, but not so much that it would force them to take his carriage. He told his driver to go on ahead and wait for them at the jeweler’s a few doors down.

Outside the shop ahead of them, stood a mother with her two children, and another woman a step apart, who Penelope surmised was the nurse. The two little boys in their caps and coats beamed up at their mother with cherubic grins as they each twisted a peppermint stick in their mouths.

“A treat, indeed,” Ethan murmured quietly, bending his head so that his comment was only heard by her. “No wonder they’re behaving.”

She looked up at him from under the brim of her hat, a smile tugging at her lips. “Is that all it took for you when you were young?”

“Sometimes, but not as often as mother would have liked, I’m sure.” He chuckled and touched her elbow, guiding her steps around a puddle. “Unfortunately, Edmund and I were very good at discovering trouble. I’d even go so far as to say we were scholars of mischief.”

As much as she liked the thought of his younger self, she laughed and shook her head. “You? Abandoning yourself to chaos? I can hardly believe that.”

His grin faded, and his eyes were suddenly cast in a far-off look. “Yes, well, those were the follies of youth.”

He said it in such a resolved way that it caused her to understand immediately. He’d been a hellion, but only before his father had died. After that, and since she’d known him, he’d left behind his
scholarly
endeavors.

Penelope had gone through a similar transformation, choosing to leave behind her childhood rather abruptly when her mother had died. This was why she understood Ethan. She knew he liked order and structure because he could count on it. He liked the control it gave him.

Until recently, she’d looked to Ethan for
her
structure. He was so regimented that it was comforting for her to know that she could count on him always staying the same.

Only now . . .
she’d
changed.

It wasn’t his fault. It was hers. She didn’t want
same
any longer. She wanted more.

“We are fortunate in that regard,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. After a curious glance from her, he continued with an absent gesture to the children as they passed. “We don’t have to worry about mischievous children, tears, or sticky hands. We can spoil our nieces and nephews with peppermint sticks to curb errant behavior, then hand them over to their parents.”

She nodded thoughtfully, realizing that a few years ago she would have agreed with him without question. However, since her sister’s last visit, she wasn’t entirely sure.

In fact, she believed that her uncertainty was one of the reasons behind her restlessness and her need to get away. She was sure that if she had a moment to look at these feelings, from a distance, she could begin to understand and overcome this terrible disquiet.

“Yes, in a few years, when my sister’s children are older, I may offer them a sweet to earn a plump-cheeked grin,” she said, as they neared the jeweler’s shop window. “However, I can tell you this with certainty, when my nephew scraped his knee last week and ran crying into the room, it wasn’t into my arms but into his mother’s. There is a profound difference in that, I’m afraid.”

Ethan opened the door for her but stared at her quizzically as if her response was something he’d never considered. In a sense, she’d just spooned cream into his marmalade again.

However, their conversation ended abruptly as they entered the jeweler’s. Wearing an apron over his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the bearded shopkeeper greeted them. Ethan went straight to the business at hand, asking if his grandmother’s jewelry could be cleaned tomorrow since they were leaving for the country at the week’s end.

The shopkeeper looked at Ethan, then pointedly down to his wares beneath the glass, a gesture that even Penelope recognized as a request for a favor in turn.

“We are so fortunate to find such a lovely selection and so close to Christmas,” she said, coming forward and placing her gloved hands on the glass, her face crafted in a mask of delight. “I daresay, Mr. Weatherstone, your mother would love a pair of these emerald earbobs.”

Ethan caught her eye and nodded in understanding, transforming his brusque business manner into one of cordiality. “I do believe emeralds are her favorite. Might I see the pair?”

“Yes, of course,” the shopkeeper said with grin, and chafed his hands together. “These are very special. Not another pair like it. All my jewelry is one of a kind.”

She’d heard those words before at other jeweler’s shops, each one vying to appeal to a woman’s vanity and desire to stand out from the crowd. However, it would hardly serve Ethan’s cause to point out that she’d seen similar pieces on her friends. “These are lovely, as well.” She pointed to a pair of pink coral clusters suspended from an inverted silver urn.

“One of my particularly favorite pairs. They would complement your coloring—”

“Miss Rutledge doesn’t have pierced ears,” Ethan interrupted.

She never knew he’d noticed. Self-consciously, she reached up to touch one bare lobe and realized he was watching her. “Do you think I should?”

His wolfish grin came out to play again, as if he was enjoying his own private joke. Surely, there must be something different with the light this morning to cause his eyes to smolder like copper over a fire?

Leisurely, his gaze seemed to take in every detail of her face, sweeping over her lashes, down the bridge of her nose—slowly as if cataloging every freckle—and then to her mouth. Here, she could almost feel his gaze on her flesh, like a phantom kiss. A kiss they’d never shared.

Finally, he looked from one bare lobe to the other. He pursed his lips slightly as he swallowed. “No,” was the only answer he gave, but something in the way he said it made her feel quite warm.