XXV
FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
CHATTINGHAM CASTLE
HARRY was not much of an artist, but that did not deter him. He wanted to get this right. If he closed his eyes hard enough, he could still see the portrait of his mother that once stood on his nightstand, the one his father had confiscated. If he could only sit down and concentrate, perhaps he could recreate it. Harry had settled outside in the gardens, where he thought he might be safe.
This was his first mistake. It didn't matter where he was, he must always keep an eye out. He was never safe. The kick against his back wasn't particularly painful, it was surprising. It hoisted Harry off the bench where he sat and into the grass. A boot stamped against his back. Now, this was painful.
"Arthur, stop it," Harry wheezed.
"Why did you tell Papa I stole his brandy?"
"Because you did."
Arthur ground his boot deeper into Harry's back. "I didn't do anything of the sort. You did."
Harry tried to wiggle out of Arthur's grip, but it was futile. "You know I didn't do it. It was you." He felt himself growing angry. "I would never steal any of Father's things. I don't even drink." Well, the last sentence was a lie. Just last weekend, he and Solomon had gotten obliterated with drink. But it had been the Duke of Burberry's gin (which Harry thought was awful), not with his father's spirits. Harry would never dream of stealing from him.
"No, you're lying," Arthur sneered. He beat his boot against Harry, earning a groan of pain. "You're the liar. The thief. The bastard. You took the brandy. It was you."
"It was not," Harry croaked.
"I already told Papa as much." Harry could hear the smirk in his brother's voice. "And he believes me. But I've decided I can't let you get away with lying. So, you're going to go to our dear Father and tell him it was you that stole the brandy, not me. You're going to tell him you lied because—"
"--I will not!" Harry shouted. It didn't matter how many times they—Charlotte, his father, his stepmother, Arthur—pegged him as a liar. He would not lie.
Arthur pressed his boot harder still. "Do you like being beaten, Harry? Is that it? Because that is what will happen if you continue to say no."
"You are the liar. The thief. The bastard," Harry hissed. "I won't lie for you. I don't care what you do."
Harry felt Arthur shift his weight and lean closer. "Do you know that it's possible to get beaten to death?" He paused, allowing the words to sink. "I will thrash you so thoroughly your heart will stop. And once you're dead, I'll tell everyone that you started it, that I was defending my life." Arthur drew even closer. "Do you know that everyone would believe it? There isn't one soul that would miss you, well, besides your pathetic friend. Everyone would believe me. That is what will happen if you do not apologize."
Harry's heart pounded. He knew it was true. Arthur was a burly, tall man of eighteen years and Harry was still a scrawny boy of fifteen. He was aware of the damage his brother was capable of inflicting. Moreover, Harry was acutely aware of his position within the family—the scapegoat, the pariah, the mistake. None of them would question how he passed against Arthur's word, let alone miss him. Fear coursed through his veins, and yet, he refused to be cowed. It did not matter if anyone else recognized that he was a boy of principle, as long as he knew it for himself. "Do whatever you want, Arthur. I won't apologize."
Arthur's boot lifted from Harry's back, and Harry closed his eyes, relishing the brief relief before the storm. And then, he heard a rush of wind and the slam of two bodies. For a moment, Arthur had joined him on the ground and two delightful punches had landed on his cheeks. Harry got up and stared at the brawl in wonder. On top of his step-brother was Solomon, who was even shorter and scrawnier than he, beating the living daylights out of Arthur. Or trying to at least. Two of his blows did indeed land, but Arthur got the better of himself in minutes and soon began to give Solomon a proper beating.
Harry attempted to stop him, but Arthur, rather proficient in his art of bullying, was able to subdue both of them before stalking away.
The two of them did not say anything for several moments, they could only do their best to catch their breath.
"You should not have done that," Harry said, after several gulps of air.
"Why not?"
"You are just as tall and thin as Charlotte. He could've killed you."
Solomon spit out a glob of blood. "He would not have killed me, but he might've killed you. What kind of friend would I be if I did not step in?"
"A smart one."
"Wrong. It would make me no friend at all."
***
PRESENT
SOLOMON could not remember when he had started drinking. All he knew was that he could not stop. He could not stop drinking until he finally decided what he would do to the man that had ruined his life. Before today, he had already had a plan. Solomon memorized Harry's schedule and learned when he would visit the village and when he would take an isolated footpath which would make an attack possible. There would be no more time for words or cowardice, only a single bullet, and then everything would be over.
It had all started at breakfast that morning when his mother had slid him a wedding invitation.
"Her name is Paulina Stone. She's getting married to a commoner," Violet said distastefully.
"Alright," Solomon said.
"She's a close friend of Penelope's." Violet's voice was curdled with hatred.
"Oh." Solomon felt nothing more for Penelope than flaccid distaste. So far, he was impressed that his mother hated Penelope so passionately. He supposed it had more to do with being embarrassed than with slighting her son. There was nothing the Dowager Duchess hated more than humiliation.
Violet pushed aside her crumpets, her appetite likely waning with the tide of the conversation. "That girl is serving as a bridesmaid. Can you imagine?"
Solomon was slightly surprised, but it only meant that Penelope had a steadfast companion. Lucky her. "That's abominable," Solomon offered.
"Abominable indeed!" Violet exclaimed. Solomon winced at her raised voice. He'd just like to sip his tea in peace. "That's not even the worst of it."
"What's the worst of it?"
"They're inviting that creature to the wedding too. I cannot imagine how Lady Stone could allow such a thing."
Solomon set down his teacup. His anger began to rise. "What?"
"They're inviting Lord Hawthorne to the wedding."
And now the issue had forced him into the worst drunkenness of his life. His date to murder Harry was a week from the wedding. But he could not endure food and drink and song while he resided in the same room as his mortal enemy. Worse yet, he could not endure food, drink, and song while Harry sat with the woman who was supposed to be his. It was too much for Solomon to bear. He had to die before then.
But when? Where?
The answer came to him somewhere between sleep and acute inebriation—Harry would be killed at the wedding. And it wouldn't be with a gun or with something as womanly as poison... No. In the morning (or maybe the next morning when Solomon had truly recovered his wits), he'd buy the sharpest dagger he could find.
It wasn't a kitchen cleaver, but it was the closest to justice that Solomon could achieve.
***
"COULD we actually have some sherry tonight?" Penelope asked.
Harry made a face. "Sherry?"
"Must we always drink brandy, Harry?"
"I thought you said it was delicious. I hadn't realized you'd grown tired of it."
He sounded sulky and petulant. Penelope did her best to stifle her smile. "It's delicious. I haven't grown tired of it...I'd just like to try something different." Harry regarded her with a displeased gaze. "If we keep drinking it, I might just grow tired of it."
"Fine, you can have sherry then."
Penelope ventured to his tray of intoxicants and uncapped a wine bottle. She poured two glasses. "We are having sherry. You cannot always have brandy."
"I can if I want to."
Penelope handed him his glass. "Not tonight." She clinked her glass against his before they both took measured sips. Her tongue tingled from its sweetness. "Isn't this nice?"
"I prefer port if we're going to drink wine."
Penelope winced. "We drank your port the last time. It was infernal."
"No, this is infernal."
Penelope nudged him. "Stop complaining." Unfortunately, some of her red inadvertently spilled on his shirt. "Christ."
Harry smirked. "You're always spilling things."
Penelope dabbed at the wet spots with her kerchief. "Do you ever shut up?"
"You've spilled something on me and you want me to shut up?"
"If you would be so kind. You're making it hard to clean up."
"How?"
"Your complaining is distracting."
Harry's smirk grew. "You're sure it's my complaining?" An errant finger lifted her free wrist and began to trace into her skin.
Penelope focused her gaze on the stains on his chest and refused to look into his eyes, which weren't far away... "Yes."
He leaned closer. "You're sure it's my complaining? Not my presence? Not the fact that we're so close?" he murmured.
"You think too highly of yourself, sir."
Harry cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to his. "Harry."
"Harry. Right."
He bent lower. Penelope continued to wipe at the spots of wine. "Are you sure this isn't distracting?" he asked. His breath was too close. She could feel it against her skin.
"No." She could barely get the word out, it died on a rasp.
Harry pressed a kiss against the crook of her neck. "What about now?"
The feather-like wings of desire brushed inside her stomach. "No."
Kisses snaked down the length of her neck. "And now?"
The wings within her stomach began to swell. The kerchief balled between her fingers fell to the floor. "No." Her voice was barely audible.
His lips dotted along her collarbone before he bit into a tender corner of flesh. Penelope gasped. "And now?" She was no longer capable of engaging in their sweet farce—Penelope could only manage to mutter incoherencies. "Hm?"
"Harry," she whispered.
"Yes, love?"
"Don't tease."
His lips grazed over her ear. "Or what?"
"You won't get what you want." Harry released a slow, sinful laugh. Penelope's eyebrows creased. "What?"
He kissed along the length of her jaw and stopped at her lips. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Can I have what I want?" he breathed against her lips. "What we both want?"
Penelope looked into his eyes and drank in their dark, tantalizing depths. "Only because you said please."
His mouth covered hers in seconds—aching, searching, devouring. His hands expertly undid her nightgown and gently traced down her back, her flank, and the beginnings of her buttocks, over and over again. "You're so beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."
It was a compliment that had been paid dozens and dozens of times. Penelope had stopped blushing at those words when she was six. But, these words from his lips? It made Penelope feel desperately weak. She busied herself with the buttons of his shirt—and she wasn't gentle. Several buttons popped out of their holes.
Harry laughed gently. "There is no rush, darling."
"I want you now." He'd already denied her all of him during their midnight picnic. Her master was always doing that, denying her. This man had no idea how badly she wanted him. Honestly, Penelope believed he was completely clueless.
"As do I."
"No." Penelope traced a finger down the length of his jaw. Mine, mine, mine, she thought madly. "I want you Harry, I've always wanted you. Ever since I saw you at the lake, I knew I had to have you."
"You have me," Harry whispered as their lips crushed together in a smoldering song. "You will always have me."
Harry continued his feathery breath stroke kisses downward and gently tugged down her dress, revealing two dark, taut peaks. "Gorgeous," he muttered. He enclosed his mouth over one and gently tugged on the other. Stars swam over Penelope's eyes. His tongue swirled over its ridges and valleys before gently flicking the mountaintop. Penelope felt as if she might explode. Harry lavished serious attention to the left, then the right, before peeling away. Penelope frowned at him.
"Don't you dare stop."
Harry smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it." He gently lifted her skirt, and let a knuckle gently stroke the inside of her thigh. Penelope quivered against him.
"Christ," she muttered.
"I haven't even begun." Whisper-like kisses trailed up her legs, a stubbled jaw brushed against her thigh, a sigh vibrated against her sex. And then kisses—sweet, sultry kisses—along her most sensitive possession. A skilled tongue swirled with delicate precision against her tender nub, eliciting jolts of electricity through Penelope's body.
He continued with excruciating sloth until she was at the tipping point of her crisis, before pulling away.
"Stop teasing," she cried.
"I'm not."
Harry jerked the remainder of her gown at last. Naked breasts melded against his chest, lithe legs locked around his waist. "Are you ready, love?"
"As ever."
He buried himself into her slick heat and then began to thrust, again and again. Each plunge sent her further and further into an intangible abyss. Penelope rocked her hips forward, matching his rhythm, and the pleasure pulsing inside of her began to bloom. "Penelope," he growled. Was there a sound more divine than her name from his lips?
"Harry, please," she pleaded achingly. "Please." There'd been romps behind secret doors, hushed trysts in corners, illicit couplings in fields. Penelope had never regarded them as anything more than a means to a glorious time. But this...this... She had never felt anything like it. She had never felt this close to anyone in her life.
They moved against each other faster, harder, until they both shattered into a thousand, glorious pieces.
A/N: Who's excited for Polly's wedding? (I am!)