Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1)

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Marry Beau?

  She felt as though she was in her childhood nightmare—locked in a closet and screaming, but no one came to let her out.

  “I will not inflict that upon him. He does not want to marry me. I would rather take in laundry.”

  “You do not know what you are saying, darling. Believe me, this is the best way,” Elise said.

  She and the duke were looking at Penelope with such gravity, it struck her and she sank into the chair again. Marriage. She had come to London with the idea of perhaps marrying for love. She thought back to her first meeting with the viscount in the park. A forced marriage to a man who thought her troublesome baggage was as far from her dreams as she could imagine.

  “Did you threaten him, Your Grace?” she demanded. “How could you possibly make him consent to marry me?”

  “Beau may be a dandy, but he is a gentleman. He would not leave you to a ruin he himself orchestrated.”

  Even as the dictates of the ton were trapping her, she knew she would never understand its code. All at once, Penelope missed her dead mother with a fierceness that took her breath away, nearly bringing her to tears. What would Mama have her do in this situation? “I think it would be far better if I went home and married Tom. At least we are friends.”

  “I do not know Tom,” said Elise.

  “He is a childhood friend—the vicar’s son.”

  “Has he proposed to you?”

  “No. Not exactly. But he has always assumed we would marry.”

  “People have newspapers in Northamptonshire,” the duke said. “It will take a few days for the news to travel there, but perhaps you had better look at one before you make your decision.” The duke pulled The Morning Post out of his jacket. The story was not even limited to the society column. It was the headline across the front page.

  Society Debutante Center of Deadly Love Triangle.

  Just reading the headline was enough. She could not bear to read the rest. Putting down the newspaper, she knew that Tom would never be allowed to marry her now. His father was very ambitious and hoped one day to become a bishop.

  Why did I not stay in the country? Why did I not know when I was well off?

  Chapter Four

  After the duke left him that morning, Beau went out to the stable where he found his sister currying her mare, Peppermint.

  “Well, Arabella, it looks as though you are finally to have a sister,” he said.

  She stopped what she was doing, amber eyes wide in her piquant face. After a moment, her horse complained with a nicker and a swish of his tail. Arabella turned back to her task, grinning.

  “A sister! Is this your way of telling me you have fallen in love at last?”

  “Not at all,” Beau said. “What it means is that I am to be married. Soon, in fact.”

  “You have not compromised a young lady!” Arabella stood up, mare forgotten.

  “Not in the way you mean. At last night’s ball, I was forced to kill a man who was making a nuisance of himself, and now the newspapers have made it out to be a scandalous love triangle. The poor girl’s reputation is gone.”

  “Oh, Beau.” His sister untied the duster that covered her frock. “You killed someone? The man was a spy, I suppose.” Taking an apple out of her pocket, she offered it to Peppermint. “The poor young lady. Was there blood? Was she very much shocked?”

  “No blood. As for Miss Swinton, she was trained in combat, it seems—dove for the fellow’s knees and took him down.”

  “I say!” Arabella applauded. “I like her very much already. When are you to be married?”

  “Yes, I thought she was the type who would appeal to you. I am to call on her this morning. I suppose we will be married this week.”

  “And Rosamund? Will she not be very cross?”

  It seemed that all the ton knew about his affair with the young widow, so it ought not to have surprised him that Arabella knew something of it.

  “I have made no promises to Mrs. Cuthbert. I have been consoling her in her widowhood.” Picking up Arabella’s riding crop, he spanked his thigh. “Who has been filling your ears with gossip?”

  “The servants, of course. Becky, in particular. She thought I should be prepared. Your Rosamund is not liked below stairs.”

  “That does not surprise me. She is a bit of a tyrant, I believe.”

  “Sweet as honey to you, I imagine,” said his precocious sister. Sometimes it was difficult to believe she was only sixteen.

  Flexing the crop between his hands, he changed the subject. “I go to Miss Swinton after luncheon.”

  “She will be very happy, Beau. You are a tremendous catch. But will you be happy?”

  “She is not silly, but I am afraid she is still naïve. Just up from the country. Last night was her first ball.”

  “That does not answer my question, Beau.”

  “Happiness in marriage is the exception rather than the rule, my dear. I have not any idea how we shall get on. She is certainly closer to your age than mine, however. She will make good company for you.”

  Arabella took the riding crop from his hands and hung it on its hook. She was silent so long that Beau asked, “What are you thinking.”

  “I should like for you to be happy, Beau.”

  “It is time I was married, poppet.” He pulled her earlobe, touched by her concern. “And Miss Swinton has the capacity to surprise me, so that augurs well, I think.”

  “Yes.” Arabella flashed him a smile. “You do so hate to be bored.”

  -P-

  Beau made his way to Rosamund’s home with a feeling of dread. He did not like scenes. A widow of two years, she had been his comfortable companion during most of that time. When he informed her of his duty, she shed many tears and stopped just short of turning shrewish. Whether he would have married her eventually was neither here nor there. Now he had no choice. He said farewell to her charms and wondered that it did not pain him more.

  But that fact did not make him any more thrilled about entering marriage with the plucky debutante. He was one and thirty. She was barely twenty, if that. The picture of innocence and naïveté.

  But she had stood up to Devereaux. And to him. At least she was not silly. Beau had been devoted to his mama but had been aware that his father found her to be brainless. The truth was that his father’s severe aspect had reduced her to simpering. In their later years, Beau had acted as their go-between more often than not.

  He considered what he knew of Miss Swinton. The girl sketched. She was beautiful. She was the niece of one of the most eccentric women in London, and due to a certain vicar’s son’s education, he suspected Miss Swinton was rather unconventional herself.

  Beau had never thought much about what he wanted in a wife. The time of his marriage had always seemed far distant. He was a viscount and he needed an heir, it was true, but there had always been plenty of time to think of that.

  Rosamund had suited him in some ways, but their affair had grown tedious. He could not say that he was in love with her. In fact, he had never yet fallen in love and strongly suspected that it was all a hum.

  All thoughts of marriage aside, he was still trying to deal with the guilt over having killed a man. It had been required of him before, but it was not something one grew used to. Devereaux had not been a very good man, but he was a human being, nevertheless. Beau reminded himself repeatedly that the Frenchman would have killed Miss Swinton if he had not acted. The responsibility for the death still weighed heavily on him, however.

  Knocking on the door of Blossom House, he put a hand up to straighten his cravat. Today, he wore lime green with a silver waistcoat. Beau forced a smile. He did so enjoy disconcerting the ton with his outrageous choice of apparel. It gave him an advantage, he found, for everyone tended to underestimate him. Although after last night’s show, he doubted very much that anyone was taken in by his foppish pose.

  He was led by the solemn-faced butler, Pursley, into the same dark blue room he had been
in many times before. Today, however, it was not Lady Clarice whom he was calling on. Her niece stood as he entered the room. She was alone and looking far from her best.

  The drab sprigged muslin or possibly a sleepless night washed out her delicate coloring, and her hair was pulled back rather severely. She did not look like a young woman anticipating a marriage proposal. He had not thought that it might be as unwelcome to her as it was to him.

  Feeling a sudden spurt of concern for her, he took her hand and squeezed it with both of his own. “I am so sorry to have drawn you into my affairs and into this position we now find ourselves.”

  “You have no need of apology, my lord. Your quick thinking saved my life,” she said, her voice firm. “I am not likely to forget it.” She remained standing.

  An awkward silence descended. Squeezing her hand between his, he restored it to her and paced to the fireplace where he rested one hand on the mantle and the other in his pocket.

  Her chin came up. “You should not have to suffer for your good deed.”

  “What do you mean ‘suffer?’” he said, a little amused at her dramatics.

  “Being forced into marriage against your will.”

  “If that is suffering, then you suffer equally. Believe me, I see that I have quite ruined your great success of last night. I imagine, had Devereaux not intervened, you could have had your pick of husbands, higher born and wealthier than I am.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You think that is what I was looking for? Wealth and a grand title?”

  “Isn’t that every young woman’s dream?”

  “If it is, I do not share it.”

  “Tell me, then, what is your dream?” he asked, amused. “Do not tell me you expected to marry for love.”

  “All right. I will not tell you that. But I did at least expect friendship, respect.”

  Her words shamed him. What sort of man did she think him? “You do not think we can be friends?”

  She turned her back to him and stared out the window at the front garden where he could see scarlet tulips lining the walkway. “We are from different worlds,” she said. “I do not even know your interests, except that you are something in the Foreign Office and have an unusual taste in dress.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “And you are very brave.”

  “You tolerate eccentrics remarkably well, though. I have always found Lady Clarice and Miss Sukey a bit on the unusual side.” He was surprised at himself. Was he actually trying to talk her into marrying him?

  “I will let you go your own way, you know,” she said, still facing the window.

  Surprised, then irritated, he asked, “What the deuce do you mean by that?”

  “I have no way of knowing what your life is like. I do not expect you to change it in any particular just because you are being forced into marriage with me. I should not want you to grow to resent me. We could never be friends in that case.”

  He gave a little laugh. “You are very lucky you are being forced into marriage with me and not some other rascal. Aside from my espionage activities, my life is fairly tame. I do not gamble nor drink to excess. Have you not given any thought to what you deserve?”

  She turned around and challenged him, her eyes looking straight into his. “I expect my husband to be straightforward with me. I require your respect. My parents had a happy marriage. They were the greatest of friends. While I do not expect that at first, I would hope that it is a state we can work towards someday. In order for that to happen, you would have to give up your rakish ways, however.”

  Coughing slightly, he said, “Have you not heard the saying that reformed rakes make the best husbands?”

  “I have never heard such twaddle. Lord Wellingham, I am not still wet behind the ears. I do not believe for an instant that there are not women in your life.”

  “You expected that I would save myself for you, perhaps?” He smiled at her. “Let us cease this pointless discussion, shall we? We are to be married, are we not?”

  “It seems I have no alternative and should be grateful to you for honoring your duty as a gentleman.”

  He had a feeling that such a statement went severely against the grain with her. “I would like to see a little more enthusiasm from you, my dear Miss Swinton.”

  “I am sorry, but I am not feeling enthusiastic. I understand too well that I am not your choice.”

  “Just as I am not yours.” Walking to her side, he tilted her chin up with his fingers. “But we can at least try to make the best of it. Put off that Friday-face of yours and think of jewelry. What kind of ring would you prefer?”

  “I do not have a preference, my lord.”

  “Please call me Beau, now that we are engaged. We shall shop for rings tomorrow, and meanwhile I will put the notice in the Post of our betrothal. It will be a nine days’ wonder, and undoubtedly we will be invited to a great many entertainments, but there we are.”

  She looked up at him, suddenly diffident. “There is my papa to consider,” she said. “We are devoted to one another. Since he is bookish and has little taste for current events or society, he may not hear of this before we can reach Northamptonshire. But I must insist that we tell him the truth.”

  He found himself wishing very much that she did not sound as though she were facing the executioner. “Very well, we shall tell him the truth. How do you suggest we travel? It is a two days’ journey on horseback. More by carriage.”

  “Elise and the duke have said they would accompany us. It will be good for all of us to be out of London when this news is known.”

  “I am certain you are right. Shall you be ready to leave in the morning?”

  She raised her chin once more, and he found himself thinking that, despite her lack of sleep and the horrible gown, she was very appealing.

  “I shall,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  Penelope had worried lest the long ride to Northamptonshire to see her father would put an intolerable strain on her novel relationship with the viscount. She had no idea what to say to him over such a long time and distance. He, however, solved the problem: Lord Wellingham and the duke traveled on their horses as outriders, leaving Penelope, Elise, and Wordsworth the privacy of the carriage. Elise’s maid sat up next to the coachman.

  “How are you feeling about all this, dearest?” asked Elise as they were drawing through the outskirts of London.

  “I am still shocked by it all,” Penelope told her. Her corgi lay on the seat beside her, his head in her lap. She drew comfort from stroking him. “I still cannot take in the killing, much less the scandal. And the fact that I am to be married to Lord Wellingham for the rest of my life is completely beyond me.”

  She gazed out the carriage window. It was impossible not to be impressed by the strong figure he made atop his black stallion. He had powerful thighs and easily held the reins in a sure hand. Studying his profile, she realized once more that he was a handsome man. She had known the furious glare of those blue eyes when they were focused on the spy Devereaux, as well as their softness during their one unforgettable dance. Now he rode tall on his stallion, and she could only guess at his expression. Resigned? Vexed? Bored?

  Penelope had been so wrapped up in carrying off the scene the day before with some degree of composure, she had not noticed much about him at all as they discussed the situation they had fallen into.

  “Tell me, Elise, is he known to have a bad temper? The first time we met, he was furious with me for simply existing.”

  “On the contrary. He is known to be very even-tempered. Are you talking about when he found you in Green Park? I imagine he was furious because of the danger you were in.”

  Penelope turned to face her cousin. How grateful she was that she had Elise to see her through this.

  “Yes. He blamed me for being in the park at that early hour.”

  “His job involves being clandestine. He was probably chagrined that his plan had been faulty—that he had not taken into account every possibility.
Londoners are not accustomed to the country habit of rising with the birds and enjoying the morning hours. For him, and most of London, that hour was far safer than late at night.”

  Penelope thought about this. “I think you are right. I was so anxious to get outdoors and experience London that I did not even think of my appearance, unfortunately. I had on the old bonnet I wear when I go sketching on the estate. It was habit, I guess. He did not even think I was of the proper gentry because he did not see my maid at first.”

  “I believe the two of you probably had all sorts of false impressions about one another,” Elise said gently, taking her gloved hand in hers.

  “I knew right at first that he was a dangerous man. And he proved to be one.”

  “He does have something of a reputation. The duke says it is because he practices some odd foreign form of fighting. But he is quite dotty about his younger sister, Arabella. He has had the task of raising her since their parents died when she was only six. He was just down from Oxford. You will like her, Penelope. She is a delight and a credit to him.”

  “What happened to his parents?”

  “It was horrible, really. His father was killed by footpads one night on his way home from White’s. He was a prominent member of Parliament, and Beau worshipped him, according to the duke. It happened while he was at Oxford, and my husband says that is why he learned to defend himself in such an unusual way. There was apparently a tutor at Oxford who had traveled all over the Orient, picking up odd bits and pieces of practice.”

  Penelope considered this. “How terrible for his lordship.”

  “His mother suffered from bad health after Arabella was born so late in her life. She succumbed to inflammation of the lungs after her husband was killed. Some said she had no more desire to live. Very hard on poor Arabella.”

  “Are there any other siblings?” Penelope asked, stroking Wordsworth, who rested contentedly.

  “I am not certain, but I believe there are two brothers. I have never met them. I do not believe they live in London.”