{2022 WATTY SHORTLISTER} {18+ COMPLETED}
England, 1842
Lady Hutton, otherwise known as Penelope Chapman, cares not that her husband has a wandering eye. That is, until he wanders away completely--all the way to the continent with his mistress, wh...
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It only took about two seconds before Penelope became certain that this was how she would die.
In a stinking pond in the far corner of her estate. Well, it was not even her estate. It was his estate—that wretched man. This would be her final resting place, below the lily pads and next to that damn lost ball. She should have escaped the Hutton lands while she could.
Lawn bowling was not worth death, but Penelope hadn't even considered that she might fall. Let alone not be able to get up.
She kicked her feet, trying desperately to find the bottom of the murky pool. Or something, anything that she could push off of. But she was finding nothing except her skirts. So many layers of wet, heavy skirts, which were pulling her further down.
Her arms were of no use. They didn't have the power to pull her toward the surface, not when her clothes were dead weight. She would be dead weight soon, quite literally.
Fear tingled in her fingers, threading through her body as Penelope's thoughts scattered with the inception of panic. Her lungs were bursting. Water swirled, dark and deep. Limbs tangled in clothes and weeds, and every frantic movement she made only increased the fright. All-consuming, over-taking everything.
Something had a hold on her. Something solid and unyielding. It had grabbed her, and she fought against it, striking out.
And then...air.
Penelope gasped, gulping in the sweet air as she broke the surface.
"For Christ's sake, would you stop hitting me?"
A deep voice was breathing in her ear, and Penelope realized it likely belonged to the decidedly male body, which was wrapped around her. Saving her. Not dragging her deeper.
She relaxed, allowing the man to tug her up the sloped bank of the pond because her own mental and physical state did not appear to be in operating order. Her limbs felt weightless, as if they weren't attached to her body. And water still felt as though it was clogged in her throat. There was air, but it wasn't enough.
It was so tight. Everything was so goddamn tight.
"Shit," the man muttered as an odd sound emerged from Penelope. Dear God, was she choking? On water?
Steely eyes swam above her as Penelope landed on a bed of grass. She recognized those eyes. And that sharp, tight jaw. Bleached hair.
"Colonel Ash," Penelope gasped.
Or rather, that was what she meant to say. However, she did not seem to have the air for it, so the noise that emerged from her mouth sounded nothing like that. It was garbled nonsense.
He shook his head, giving her a stern glare.
Penelope opened her mouth again, trying desperately to get something in or out, but the attempt was pinched. Cinched. Sucked back in by Colonel Ash's hands as he yanked on Penelope's bodice in an animalistic fashion. There was a dreadful ripping noise followed by a rush of air to Penelope's lungs.
