Tempting Mr. Weatherstone: A Wallflower Wedding Novella (Originally Appeared in the E-Book Anthology FIVE GOLDEN RINGS) (2 page)

E
THAN 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.”

Chapter Two

E
ARLIER TODAY,
P
ENELOPE
had managed to surprise him after all.

Now, Ethan wasn’t certain that she would keep their standing family dinner engagement.

He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like wondering if a message would arrive any moment, stating that Mr. Rutledge and his daughter were not coming. Of course, in all these years, no such message had arrived. The Rutledges had always come for dinner, unless they invited Ethan and his mother to dine with them.

Such was the way of things between their families. In this regard, they were unlike any other families in their circle. They had been closely knit from the very beginning, sharing a bond of profound loss in the same year.

Fifteen years ago, after his father had died at the family’s seaside estate, his mother moved his elder brother, Edmund, and him to a country house in Surrey. The very day, they were introduced to their new neighbors, the Rutledges, and summarily invited to dinner.

That night at dinner, he’d learned that Pen’s mother had died of a fever a few short weeks before his father’s accident. With a whisper between them, they’d offered condolences. He still remembered the look in her eyes. On the surface, they were sure and strong, but in their blue depths, he saw the despair she carefully concealed for the sake of her family. She must have seen the same concealment in his gaze, too, because a look of commiseration had passed between them, forging their friendship.

From that point on, their dinners together had become a monthly event. Soon, once a month had become twice a month. Then, during that first summer before he and Edmund had returned to school, twice a month became once a week.

Years drew on, and the closeness remained. His mother and Rutledge formed a kindred friendship, often likening each other to siblings. The Rutledge girls had their seasons. Edmund grew into their father’s viscountcy, while Ethan learned he was rather good at numbers and investments.

Three years ago, Ethan had purchased a town house just doors from the Rutledges’. It seemed the thing to do since their families were still close and would likely remain that way. Around that same time, Penelope had made her announcement of never marrying. Shortly thereafter, their dinners had become as frequent as four nights a week.

Now, after all these years of expecting the same dinner to go on in the same manner . . . this time, he wasn’t entirely certain.

Apparently, uncertainty made him sloppy. He’d gone through three cravats—
three
—before the knot was right.

As he entered the study and saw that his mother was the only one in the room, he felt downright surly. “Good evening, Mother,” he said with a slight bow, then went directly to the sideboard to pour a brandy. He murmured a perfunctory, “To your health,” before tipping it back in one swallow.

She sipped her claret and smiled over the rim. “And what has you in such a fine temper?”

He poured another finger of brandy and didn’t answer. By her amused expression and the way she always had her ear tuned to the servants’ gossip, he knew she already
had
the answer.

“From what I gather, you won’t be the only one in a foul temper at dinner this evening.”

“Not by my choosing,” he grumbled into his glass.

His mother chuckled, tsking as she shook her head. “I’m not certain Penelope feels that way, or else she would
not
have put cream all over your scones.”

The servants had a tendency to embellish facts. “She merely mixed the cream into my marmalade. The scones were still edible.” He finished his brandy, wishing his mood had improved after the second glass. Yet, as the clock struck the hour, he remained ever conscious of the fact that he and his mother were still the only two people in the study. “As for her temper, if she
chooses
to be angry because I laughed at her foolishness, then so be it.”

His mother lowered her glass, and down with it went her amusement. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said, trying not to sound like he was defending himself. “I would react the same way if she came to me tomorrow with her idea of hiring a coach to take her as far as she could go.
The very idea.
For her to do that would be the same thing as arranging for her own kidnapping. Angry or not, if nothing else, I’ve helped to save her from herself. ”

“Oh dear.” His mother sighed. “I wondered when this would happen.”

This was not the reaction he expected. Where was her alarm? Where was her outrage?

“You wondered when Penelope would concoct a scheme to set about her own ruin, did you? Well, you might have warned me.” He scoffed and thought again of another brandy.

“Ethan, you must remember that Penelope is a lot like you.”

Like him? Hardly.

He was about to correct her when she held up her hand. Not wanting another woman to storm out of the room, he politely bit his tongue.

“She finds comfort in the things that remain the same day after day,” she continued, staring at him pointedly. “Yet she has also watched her younger sister discover love and happiness in a new life of her own making. Eugenia was young when she leapt into the unknown. She didn’t know what she risked leaving behind if her leap fell short. However, Penelope knows.”

He was still waiting to see a shred of surprise, but instead all she did was make excuses for Pen’s lunacy.

His mother drew in a deep breath. “Above all, she fears risk. She catalogs all that could possibly go wrong and whom she could hurt in the process. She also fears abandoning her father, not wanting him to feel as they all felt when her mother died so many years ago.”

“Then there is no question,” Ethan said, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “The way she felt when her mother died—that fear of loss—is still very much a part of her.”

Their mutual loss was what had drawn him to Penelope when they were younger. Somehow, she helped fill the void. He was only thirteen when he discovered he could talk to a ten-year-old girl about the most painful experience of his life. That pain wasn’t anything he would have ever wished on her, but it was an undeniable part of both their lives. And, as much as he hated to admit it, this was the first time he ever thought something good might come of it. Because if she feared leaving, then she would abandon her foolish idea.

He hated to admit it, but this time, he was afraid she meant to go through with it.

He looked down into his glass and willed the brandy to help restore his mood. Then he willed the knot in his stomach to unwind.

“You may be right,” his mother said, all too cryptically.

He didn’t like the inevitable “but” that was sure to follow. The knot tightened further.

“
However,
there comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to make a choice.” She held her hands aloft like balancing scales. “You can choose a life of the sameness you hold dear, or you can charge blindly into the unknown, never knowing what may come of it but all the while hoping to find true happiness.”

True happiness.
Penelope was happy, wasn’t she? Essentially, she was free to do what she pleased. She went shopping and to parties. People thought highly of her, even cared for her. She didn’t have to worry about her father’s being alone in his house. Her sister was well provided for and, by all accounts, happy in her marriage.

In addition, if Penelope were ever struck by a female inclination to nurture a baby, she could always visit Eugenia. While Ethan had never been struck with the desire to have his cravat crumpled or puked on, he knew that if he ever was, Edmund had children aplenty to see to the task. Truly, what else could she want?

A
T A QUARTER
past the hour, James Rutledge and his daughter arrived for dinner. Rutledge graciously blamed their tardiness on his old bones, and Ethan kept his doubts to himself. Shortly thereafter, the usual dinner went off without a hitch. Well, almost.

Apparently, his mother had forgotten Penelope’s aversion to asparagus. So before they entered the dining room, Ethan spoke secretly with Hinkley and asked if a hasty addition could be made. Perhaps a bowl of cook’s special pickled beets? He knew they were her particular favorite.

After that, dinner proceeded smoothly. Penelope sat in her usual place to his left, fidgeting with the napkin across her lap. The soup course came and went with the usual compliments to their cook. And when the beets were brought to Pen, her lips curved in her usual smile of delight.

The knot in his stomach was a mere memory now.

“Superb wine, Rutledge,” he commented with a salute of his glass to the opposite end of the table. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost believe the lamb fed from this very vintage, with how well they complement each other. Wouldn’t you agree, Pen?”

“I would,” she offered graciously though lacking his enthusiasm. Her attention seemed engaged on her plate, where she cut her potato in imprecise cubes.

He felt his brow furrow as he watched her and wondered if she was brooding over their earlier argument. She was quieter than usual, or at least it seemed she was. Then again, perhaps he was looking too closely, the memory of his mother’s words lingering like smoke after an explosion. But why should it bother him if Pen chose to stew over his reactions?

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if all he could expect from her were these two words, or if he should draw her out further. Wondered if the return of his good humor was premature.

“While my fondness for Minerva’s pickled beets is unparalleled,” she continued, oblivious to his momentary angst as she laid down her knife with care, “I must admit that her parsley potatoes are running a close second in my esteem.”

Ethan felt his brow unfurrow, and the corner of his mouth hitched upward. Pen was back to her usual self after all.

“I couldn’t agree more,” his mother added, dabbing her napkin to her lips, all evidence of potatoes gone from her plate. “They came from our garden in Surrey—Oh, how I look forward to returning. The country is so lovely this time of year.”

Rutledge offered an easy grin that went well with his nature. “In three more days, you will have your wish. I daresay, there isn’t parcel of land in all of England as lovely as the rolling hills and thicket of trees that our neighboring properties share.”

Ethan was looking forward to the trip, too, though he kept the sentiment to himself. He enjoyed the quiet of the country, particularly in the mornings, when he and Pen inevitably found themselves walking together.

Dinner conversation went on as if nothing had happened between them earlier. And if she wasn’t going to bring up their earlier argument, then neither was he.

When dinner ended, they retired to the music room for dessert and listened to his mother play the fortepiano.

It seemed everything was as it should be once again.

“You play so beautifully, Abigail,” James Rutledge commented from one of two winged chairs that banked the hearth. He gave his glass of brandy an absent swirl in the firelight. “Each time you play one of those trilling little notes, I can imagine a pair of dancers floating along with the music.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Penelope said, her mouth curving in a dreamy smile as she closed her eyes briefly. “When you play, I feel transported.”

His mother blushed at the compliments. “Transported? Why that is high praise, my dear. And where did you go on your journey?”

Ethan tried to remain relaxed, with one arm draped over the carved back of the settee, but the instant he discovered that Penelope was imagining herself somewhere else, all his earlier tension returned.

“A ballroom at first, with candles glowing all around. Then a lush meadow alive with butterflies. And at the very end, I was on a mountaintop, with the first flakes of snow falling,” she said, her smile remaining. When she opened her eyes, it was as if they were strewn with stars, glittering with a light from within.

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. All this talk about being transported, and journeys, and hiring coaches was positively maddening. Why was she so determined to vex him?

“It has been ages since I’ve played for people dancing. It always brought me such pleasure,” his mother said, her face glowing with a newly formed plot, no doubt. In fact, he was sure she was about to ask him to dance with Penelope in her next breath.

He was trying to come up with an excuse when she interrupted his thoughts—

“James, would you indulge me this once and take your daughter for a turn?”

Ethan jerked his gaze toward his mother, to see if this was also part of her plot. But for all the world, it looked as if she hadn’t even considered him as a viable partner for Pen.

Rutledge gave an apologetic shake of his head. “I haven’t danced in so long I’d surely end up crippling one, if not both, of us.”

A small laugh escaped Penelope as she looked over at her father with affection. Ethan’s mother resumed playing as if the matter were settled.

Still, no one regarded him.

He was trying not to be offended. Clearing his throat, he stood. “I’d be happy to indulge you, Mother.”

His mother’s face fell, and the notes ended with a sharp discord. “Oh, Ethan, please do not suppose I did this to corner you. We are all aware of how much you dislike dancing.” From her expression, he could now tell that she truly hadn’t been trying to manipulate him.

Now, he actually was offended. “I don’t dislike dancing.”

Speculative eyebrows rose from everyone in the room, but it was his mother who spoke. “And yet you managed to avoid dancing with Penelope during each of her seasons.”

“That’s simple,” he stated with a shrug, fixing a mocking grin to his lips as he crossed to one of the winged chairs. “The reason for that was because I had no desire to repeat that first dance.”

Penelope scoffed and ignored the hand he offered her.

“Afraid that you’ll tread all over my feet again, Pen?”

The stars left her eyes in a flash when she glared at him, leaving nothing behind but midnight blue. Taking his challenge, she stiffly slipped her hand into his and stood.