Page 41 of Yule Be Mine

“You know it’s entirely too early to pay a call.” Tom’s voice sounded thin through the fierce wind that blew around the stoop and the semicircle made from the front rooms of the house.

“I suppose it is, but I’m not putting this visit off until later.” Yule had passed a sleepless night, tossing and turning, worrying about his reception at the St. Claires’ home. He assumed her parents still didn’t know about his and Penelope’s afternoon activities, the only good thing he could think of at the moment. He dreaded having to tell the St. Claires why he must, at all costs, marry their youngest daughter. They would certainly not be happy, and neither would they blame Penelope in the slightest. Yule was older, he was the man, and of course he must have seduced her. Yule would be hard pressed to say who had actually seduced whom, although their first encounter had been planned and perpetrated by Penelope. He simply hoped it would not come to that.

“Well, at the least they should give us breakfast.” Tom put on his most pleasant smile as the door was opened by Stokes, the St. Claires’ long-time butler. Yule had known him as a boy. The butler must be ancient by now, a wizened little man who still stood straight and motioned both of them into the entry hall.

“Stokes, will you tell Miss Penelope I have come to call on her?” Yule tried to make it sound as if he often arrived to pay a call at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Yes, Mr. Quartermain. Will you come this way?” Unruffled, Stokes led them to a small receiving chamber. “Wait here, sirs.” Without another word, Stokes turned on his heel and left.

“His tone did not bode well, old chap.” Tom slapped Yule on the shoulder and grinned at him. “He sounds like the Grim Reaper himself.”

“Stokes has always sounded like that. He’s not improved in ten years either, I can tell you. The man always sounded like gloom and doom.” Hopefully, it was simply his normal tone and the butler didn’t have any particular knowledge of Penelope or her feelings toward him.

Yule paced up and down the tiny room, unable to even look at the paintings on the walls. They were all very tasteful, he was sure. But Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire weren’t great connoisseurs of art, or so he’d heard his grandfather say. He doubted he was missing much—except Penelope.

“Do you think they will have kippers and sausages, Yule?” Tom looked up at him seriously. “I could eat an ocean of kippers and a whole hogshead of sausages.”

“Well, don’t try to eat them out of house and home. I’m trying to salvage my marriage and you’re planning to settle in for the duration.” Disgusted with his cousin, Yule turned his back on Tom and stalked over to the window that looked out on the snow-covered parkland.

“Moping about whether or not she’s coming down isn’t going to do either her or you much good.” Tom was staring at the paintings, a puzzled look on his face. “I certainly wouldn’t have paid for this monstrosity.”

“Remind yourself whose house this is, Tom, and keep your opinions to yourself.” Irked, Yule paced back and forth across the small room. He stared hard at his cousin, who seemed unconcerned at best.

Stokes popped his head back into the room. “This way if you please, sirs. Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire wish you to come to the large family drawing room.” He led them down the corridor quite a long way, until they came to a very nicely furnished chamber, the walls done in a cool blue with white accents.

Mr. St. Claire, a short, lean gentleman greeted them with a smile. “Good morning, Yule. Good morning, Tom. I’m glad you’ve come. Penelope hasn’t eaten, hasn’t seen anyone, and has barely slept according to her maid. Do you know what it was that happened at tea the other day to upset her so?”

“I do, Mr. St. Claire.” He turned to glare at Tom. “It was my cousin’s talking out of turn that has brought this all on.”

“All my wife has been able to get out of her is that you betrayed her, that you don’t love her, and you only want to marry her to win a wager.” The mild-mannered gentleman Yule had known years ago, turned steely eyes on him now. “Is that true? And if it is, how could you do such a thing to Penelope? And if it’s not, what did you say—” He turned on Tom. “—to make her think it’s true?”

With one searing glare at Tom, Yule launched into the tale, not sparing Tom’s involvement in the least. “So that is how she came to doubt my true intentions toward her. Although I cannot believe she would think I wanted to marry her just to win a wager. She must know me better than that.”

“She’s always taken everything so much to heart, Yule.” Mrs. St. Claire spoke up, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “You may not remember it, but when Victor died, Penelope was inconsolable, sick as she was. Even worse, right on the heels of his death, we had to uproot her when we moved to Ireland. Back then, like now, she wouldn’t eat, she wouldn’t speak. She shut herself off from everything and everyone except—” She sent Yule a furtive glance. “Except for you. Because of that little doll you gave her the morning we left.”

“Mrs. Phillpotts.”

“You remember?” Mrs. St. Claire’s brows rose. “After all these years?”

“I do.” That morning had been etched into his memory, although he never understood why. Now perhaps he had an inkling.

“She loved that doll so much. Carried it everywhere. Wouldn’t hear of tossing it out when she got to be a young lady.” Her mother shook her head. “She still has it, Yule.”

From above came a quiet step on the stairs that were out of sight. Mr. St. Claire nodded to the staircase. They all turned and looked upward.

Yule held his breath, hoping against hope he would see Penelope, but moments later, her sister Charlotte appeared. Her eyes widened when she saw Yule.

“Charlotte, dear,” Mrs. St. Claire wiped a tear away and nodded to her other daughter. “Run back upstairs and tell Penelope Yule is here asking for her.”

Looking as though she’d rather face a firing squad, Charlotte nodded and returned up the stairs.

Perhaps her sister could persuade her to come and at least talk to him. If he could just sit down with Penelope and explain what had happened, surely she would understand and agree once more to marry him. Wouldn’t she?

Yule looked at Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire sitting there anxiously. Of course, there was another way. He could simply tell them he and Penelope had anticipated the wedding night. That was an understatement, of course, but just knowing they’d been intimate once would be enough for her father to insist Penelope marry him. The problem was, he didn’t want to trap her into marriage that way. He wanted her to come to him because she loved him, as he loved her. Not because someone had forced her to do so. How had something so wonderful turned out so horribly in the blink of an eye?

“Yule.”

Charlotte’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up at her hopefully.

“Penelope says she is unwell. She needs time to think about what to say to you. She wants you to come back tomorrow.” Charlotte kept her gaze on the floor. “Because she can’t see you today.”

Gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t say something he knew he’d regret, Yule made an attempt at a bow toward the St. Claires, mumbled something between his clenched teeth, and headed for the door. Penelope was better than this. She’d always been fair in the past. Why wouldn’t she give him the chance to explain?

Without waiting for Stokes to open the door, Yule pulled it open, strode over the threshold, and slammed it behind him, almost clipping Tom’s elbow as the massive door hit the frame.

“Bad luck with that, old chap.” Tom looked up at the lightening gray sky. “At least it stopped raining. That’s a good omen, don’t you think?”

Yule gave him a withering look and continued down the snow-covered path toward their waiting carriage.

His cousin raced after him. “Perhaps when we come back tomorrow, she’ll have calmed down enough to see you. I know once you see her, she’ll let you explain.”

Yule stopped, one foot on the carriage’s step. “About that I believe you’re right, Tom.” He sent a keen glance at his cousin and smiled for the first time that morning. Yule stepped back, almost bumping into Tom, then he struck off toward the right side of the manor house, leaving clear tracks in the slushy snow.

“Where the hell are we going, Yule?” Tom picked his way toward him, but Yule was through with waiting.

“I’m going to see Penelope now.” Spurred on by his own words, he mumbled under his breath. “Whether she wants me to or not.”