Page 19 of Yule Be Mine

Why couldn’t he be this wonderful all the time? Penelope dropped her gaze, suddenly bereft of a conversational starter. What had Charlotte counseled her to talk about? Literature. “I’ve just finished reading Dickens’s A Christmas Carol again this year. I read it each Christmas to put me squarely into the Christmas spirit.”

Not the best segue into a topic, but it was the best she could do with her nerves fraying further by the minute.

“Is that a favorite of yours then?” He seemed distracted and Penelope couldn’t decide if she was diverting him, or simply off-putting to him.

“It is a favorite at Christmas, although during the rest of the year, I must profess a fondness for Oliver Twist.” She giggled. “Such an adventurous orphan.”

“And such a villainous villain.” He sent her a side-wise look and waggled his eyebrows, sending Penelope into further peals of mirth.

“Oh, yes. Bill Sykes is a terrible man. He makes Fagin seem positively saintly by comparison.” She smiled pleasantly, dreading the lengthening silence that progressed after that last salvo. “Though Mr. Scrooge in A Christmas Carol is both villain and hero. I think that rather clever of Mr. Dickens. Don’t you?”

Yule rose abruptly. “Would you like some punch?”

Penelope blinked. He shouldn’t have answered a question with a question. What was wrong with him now? “Yes, please. Thank you.”

“I’ll be just a moment.” He strode off toward the serving table where footmen were constantly coming and going with trays of drinks. Why hadn’t he simply waited for the footman to bring the drinks to them?

“You’re ‘it,’ Penelope.”

She jumped as Tom appeared out of nowhere. “For goodness sakes, Tom. Announce your presence before you make me swoon from fright.” Not that she could be angry at the handsome, grinning face. “What do you mean, ‘I’m ‘it’?’”

“We’ve decided to play Blind Man’s Bluff and I volunteered you to be It.” The glee in his face made her sigh and wonder what might happen if she felt for this gentleman what she did for Yule. Life might be very different. Unless he truly was the horrible rake Yule painted him. With his boyish smile, it was very difficult to think of him as a debaucher of women.

“Why didn’t you volunteer yourself? And who’s ‘we?’” She thought she knew, but it was always better to know more rather than less in these games.

“My cousins and I. We all agreed it would be much more entertaining if a young lady were the first one to have to find a victim.” He nodded toward the corner where several gentlemen were still huddled.

“Oh, very well.” She didn’t mind being the first victim. The game was amusing and hopefully this would be her only turn as “It.” “Where are we to play? I don’t want to knock into the duchess’s fine China.”

“We’ll play down at the far end of the room. There’s less to break there.” He grabbed her hand and began towing her toward the spot where his cousins stood. “Penelope is willing, gentlemen. I told you she would be. Who’s got a clean handkerchief?”

The gentlemen began hunting in their pockets and Julian pulled his out first. “There, Miss Penelope. I believe that will do. Shall I tie it on for you?”

“Isn’t anyone else going to play?” She looked at the little groups where her sister was talking animatedly with the other ladies. “We don’t want to be rude, surely. Will someone invite them to play?”

“Julius?” Tom raised a brow. “I did my part.”

“Very well.” Julius started toward the others and then her eyes were covered.

“Stand still while I tie this on you.” Tom’s voice was so close to her ear, she almost jumped.

If he wasn’t flirting with her, he was giving a convincing performance of it.

“Now we turn you three times…” He put the words into action and spun Penelope, not quickly, but enough to disorient her. She’d glimpsed where people were standing before the handkerchief descended, but her head was spinning now and she had no idea where anyone was standing. He released her and she wobbled a moment, getting her bearings, then took a hesitant step to the right.

Pray God she didn’t bump into a priceless urn or a crystal vase. Her mother would lock her away in her room for a year. Another tentative step to the right, then she stopped and listened carefully. There was conversation still going on, but it was farther away and she managed to disregard it. Concentrating on sound alone, she began to discern slight noises—rapid breathing, the creak of the floorboards, the subtle rustle of clothing as someone shifted position.

Suddenly, Penelope lunged toward the place where she’d heard the floor screech. A burst of laughter and the shuffling of shoes on the carpeted floor said she’d been close. Carefully, arms outstretched, she circled to her right, listening with all her might. A sudden rush of air to her left made her turn that way and spring toward where she believed a person was standing.

She fetched up against a hard, masculine chest, the fabric under her fingers soft and expensive. The gentleman grunted and rocked backward. There was a soft curse and Penelope gasped. “Yule!”

Tearing the handkerchief off her face, she stared up into his disapproving face, brows lowered in a frown, mouth pursed. In his hand he held a dripping cup of punch, a puddle of the beverage at their feet. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d come back.”

“Of course, you couldn’t know.” He shot a glare over her head, and she turned to find Tom grinning at them broadly, as though he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

A footman scurried forward, took the cup from Yule, and bent to scrub at the carpet.

“I’m so sorry about your coat.” She pointed to his jacket where the punch had made a large round stain.