Penelope’s Pleasure (A Gentleman’s Guide To Understanding Women Book 1)
Page 1
Praise for Deborah Villegas
Fans of historical romance will adore this fun regency romp!
Robin Kaye
Funny, fast paced, rollicking-adventure romance that keeps you turning the page and laughing out loud.
Catherine Guldemond
Penelope’s Pleasure
Book One: A Gentleman’s Guide to Understanding Women
Deborah Villegas
Independent Publisher
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
PENELOPE’S PLEASURE
Book One: A Gentleman’s Guide To Understanding Women
Copyright © 2019, Deborah Villegas.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Independent Publisher
deborahvillegaswrites@gmail.com
Amazon and the Amazon logo are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ASIN: B0826L2T33
ISBN: 9781672586795
Cover design by Catherine Guldemond, Rand & Rawson Design.
Photos by: PeriodImages/DunravonProductions/Kiera; Shutterstock/Guliveris/Seamless pattern background texture. Black and white. Branches of leaves-Illustration
Created with Vellum
For Mom and Tom
Penelope’s Pleasure
A room without books is like a body without a soul.
Marcus Tullius Cicero
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Penelope St. James galloped with the wind on the dark side of dusk toward the stately manor. She loved her home; its imposing and rigid symmetry softened by the moody, blue-grey granite weathered over centuries and flanked by formal gardens with two-hundred-year-old boxwoods standing firm against fierce winter gales.
Anticipation kept her warm. Her brothers were home for a visit and in a few months, she would reach her majority, receive her inheritance, and finally become independent. Not that she didn’t currently enjoy freedoms other females weren’t allowed—but there were drawbacks; rules, consequences, listening to long-winded lectures while scandalously hungover.
Slowing Hell Spawn to a trot near the front steps, she swung her pant-clad leg over the pommel and pounced gracefully to the ground. She adjusted her frock coat and straightened her cuffs ignoring the paint across the lace. She wore her youngest brother’s cast-offs. They were last year’s fashions but if she didn’t have to deal with endless yards of skirts and trains and unyielding feminine unmentionables, she didn’t care.
Maggie, her lady’s maid, glowered halfway down the steps.
“Someday that brute of a horse is going to kill you, my lady.” Maggie’s brogue was sharp and crisp.
“Hell Spawn is not a brute Maggie.” She watched him trot toward the stables ready for his oats. Tom Hutchins, the head groom, and Penelope’s self-proclaimed protector for as long as she could remember, raced out of the stable. He was the only hostler Hell Spawn would tolerate. No one else ventured near his stall.
“He’s spoiled rotten, and as temperamental as his mistress.”
Tom pulled his cap off and waved.
Maggie ignored him. As if the entire household didn’t know they were sneaking behind the stables at their great age.
Tom grabbed the reins and Hell Spawn allowed himself to be led into the stables—and that was the God’s truth. The fact was, Hell Spawn did pretty much what he wanted. If he wasn’t ready to go into his stall, there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to make him move. He was a cross between a Percheron draft and a thoroughbred. Black as pitch and eighteen hands, with a deep chest, and a short back. Too broad to be lean, and long legs. Hell Spawn was bred to be a gentle giant, but instead he was a giant with the arrogance of a duke.
“Has everyone arrived?”
“Yes, my Lady. I prepared a bath. We need to get you cleaned up and looking presentable. You can’t go in looking as you are.”
Penelope raced up the steps taking them two at a time. “Nonsense.”
“But my lady, wait.” Maggie followed her mistress through the front door. “You need to put on a dress.”
Penelope stopped in the middle of the foyer and gaped. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“You’re half past twenty and nary a man has looked at you. It’s high time you started acting and dressing like a lady.”
Waving her off, Penelope continued down the hall toward the formal drawing room. “I don’t want a man, and I haven’t worn a dress since my father carted my brothers and me off to church as penance after we stayed up all night drinking and lamenting my first womanly flow with great debauchery.” She barreled into the well-lit drawing room on the last word, came to an abrupt halt, and stared at a dozen faces gaping in her direction.
A heated flush worked its way up her neck.
The air was thick.
The silence roared like the crashing waves along the coast.
Reginald Stansworth St. James, fourth Earl of Stansworth, and heir to the Dukedom, her eldest brother, fondly known as Reggie, stood brilliantly displayed against the marble hearth, his elegant frame, ensconced in the latest fashion and glowered down his nose as if she were a puppy that had piddled on his new boots. The message in his less than amused stare was an affirmation that indeed, everyone within had heard her pronouncement.
“Reginald, darling, this rag-a-muffin isn’t your sister, is it?”
The lilting voice ended on a note of censure and Penelope glanced at the petite woman standing next to her brother. Had the woman not spoken, she probably wouldn’t have noticed her.
Penelope focused on the small figure clutching her eldest brother’s arm. Silky-soft white-blond hair piled artfully atop her head. Lackluster grey eyes accentuated by a thin layer of charcoal across her lashes. Skin stretched sharp across parchment cheeks. The muted shade of her gown resembled a watercolor left outside in a heavy rain.
Everything about the woman was pale.
Conscious of the scarlet heat that was now taking up residence in Pen’s cheeks, she postured a pose as impressively arrogant as Reggie’s. She had practiced it often enough. The foot slightly forward, knee bent just a wee bit. Shoulders back to thrust the chest, and the piece-de-resistance, the pedigreed, pampered, Lord of the land, tilt of the chin that angled the nose like a pointer hound.
Reginald cleared his throat.
Penelope’s attention snapped back
to her brother.
“Well Pen, I see you managed to find your way home. You look like you’ve been bandying about the countryside spending too much time in a coaching inn’s common room.” His eyes flashed with the cut.
Penelope’s gaze traveled over her brother’s attire. From the silken heeled pumps, up his turquoise pantaloons, to his mauve coat with bright silver buttons, and the flurry of lace around his neck. “You look like a peacock.”
A booming laugh erupted from the other side of the room and her father hurried over to greet her—or diffuse the tense moment. “Ah my Penelope, forever losing track of time.”
“I was putting the final changes on a painting. I had to wait for the light.”
“Is this painting my birthday present?”
The happy twinkle in his eyes smoothed over her like a silken feather. She adored her father. From his slightly rumpled jacket to his round spectacles and his ever-present smile. He was shorter than his sons but by no means a small man and still he managed to tower over Penelope’s five-foot-five frame. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Ah well, you can count on me to act the part when I see it my dear. Now run on up and change. We’ll hold dinner for you.” With a quick kiss to her cheek and a squeeze of camaraderie, Penelope made a hasty retreat.
* * *
By the time Penelope made it to her room, she had achieved a full head of steam. “Why the bloody hell wasn’t I informed there would be a houseful of guests?”
Maggie glared at the wide-eyed maids sitting in the corner. “Save your temper for your brothers. I wasn’t informed until this afternoon either. I’ve had a devil of a time trying to find a suitable gown for you to wear this evening.”
Penelope glanced at the maids, each of whom had a dress in their laps, and silently fumed. Her brothers knew she would have high-tailed it to their eccentric Aunt Augustina’s home until the coast was clear.
Penelope hated society and all the accoutrements. Not because she had ever actually been part of society, but because her mother had been shunned by the very people she had grown up among.
Maggie poured hot water into a tub set before the hearth. “There’s no use trying to escape the inevitable. Your Aunt Augustina will be here in the morning.”
“I’m not planning to run.” If Penelope sounded petulant so-be-it. She shrugged out of her brother, Ferris’, cast-off topcoat and flung if across the room, then with a very unladylike manner, sat on the bed and dragged off his boots. Correction—her boots.
Penelope had been wearing boy’s attire since she turned six and learned how to escape the nursery. She had secretly traipsed after her brothers whenever they went on one of their many adventures. After the first several escapades, her brothers decided to let her tag along for fear she would end up lost or hurt. After that, the five siblings were inseparable. Reggie had come up with the brilliant idea of dressing her as a boy, being that it was much easier for her to manage. They taught her how to ride and hunt and fish and climb trees. They even scaled the very cliffs in her painting. She’d been determined to do everything her brothers could do—and do it better.
She sank into the bath with a resigned sigh. “Tell me everything you know Maggie. Who are all those dreadful people invading my home?”
Maggie poured water over her mistress’s head and washed her striking red hair. “Well, let me think. There are your brothers, Reginald, Addison, Garrett, and Ferris. Your Father and his friend, Mr. Mabrey—he brought his niece, Miss Amanda Bishop with him. I believe she is newly arrived from India for her first season. Then there is the Lady Butterfield and her two daughters, Beatrice, and Claire. You remember them, don’t you?”
Penelope groaned. Her father had been great friends with their father the Earl of Worchester. The last time she had seen them had been just before her mother’s death. They had been visiting and she had talked Beatrice and Claire into cooling off in the duck pond. Unfortunately, neither could swim and after the two sisters almost drowned, Penelope had spent the remainder of the week in her room.
“Who is the petite blond woman?”
Maggie’s fingers stilled for a moment then continued to massage Penelope’s scalp. “That would be the widow, Mrs. Alice La Pierre. She arrived with your brother Reginald.”
“And?” Penelope waited until Maggie rinsed her hair then turned to look at her.
The old nursemaid pursed her lips. “You know I don’t like to say anything bad about anyone, my lady.”
Penelope raised her brow and glanced askance at the maids, both of whom were evidently hanging on Maggie’s every word. Maggie liked to gossip and had a knack for getting juicy tidbits out of even the most tight-lipped servants. She was good at it, which made it even more surprising that Maggie had not known about the impending arrival of what Penelope could only describe as the invasion of the Huns.
“Spill it, Maggie.”
“Well, she’s a ripe one, she is. As soon as she arrived, she started ordering the staff about as if she were the lady of the house.” Maggie tilted her head toward her enthralled audience. “Lizzy was helping unpack her trunks and the widow sent her running from the room in tears.”
“Whatever for?”
“She didn’t do anything wrong if that’s what you think. She just offered to mend a few unmentionables. Mrs. La Pierre grabbed them and scolded Lizzy never to touch any of her things.”
Penelope furrowed her brow. “She sounds like a troll. Don’t worry Lizzy, Maggie can come up with things for you to do to keep out of her way.”
Sitting back in the tub, she mused. “I’m surprised Reggie would allow her to be so unkind.” Her brother might be as pompous as the ceremonial end of a horse—either end worked, but it wasn’t like him to turn his head at an unkind deed. Especially if it had anything to do with a person in his employ. Reggie was firm, but fair. If there was a grievance, he listened to both sides. His servants were paid well, and he even made sure the children at all of his estates learned to read, write, and cipher.
“I’m sure he hasn’t a clue. All you have to do is look at the man to see he’s besotted.”
Penelope sat forward sloshing water. “You mean he’s in love?”
“I’m not saying that, but I’ll bet a year’s wages that Mrs. La Pierre would like to become the new Lady St. James and she’ll do whatever it takes. She’s a gold digger, that she is. She plans to become the new lady of the manor and God help us all if she does.”
Penelope quickly finished bathing and her old nurse wrapped her in a warm towel. She sat at her dressing table and Maggie went to work on her tangles. Penelope hated her hair up. It was too thick, too heavy, and too curly to be fashionable. She normally held it in a Queue and let it hang down her back.
The dress lying across her bed caught her attention. “Where did you get the gown?”
Maggie didn’t bother to look up and mumbled through a mouthful of pins. “I had to rummage through the attic for one of your mums. May the good woman rest in peace.”
Penelope craned her head for a better view.
“Hold still girl, or I’ll have to start over, and we don’t have time for any more dilly-dallying.”
When Maggie was satisfied with her handy work, she pulled Penelope to her feet and the three maids descended. By the time the last button had been secured, Penelope was in another temper. “Why on earth must women’s attire be so confining?”
She turned and the women gasped in unison.
“What now?” Penelope tromped to the looking glass and gawked at her reflection. “Oh, my goodness, I can’t wear this.”
Maggie smoothed the skirt. “It’s a mite short, but it will have to do.”
“Short? It’s too bloody tight. I am not going downstairs like this. You will have to inform my father that I will be dining in my room tonight. Tell him…tell him I have a headache.”
A swift knock was all the warning Penelope had before her brother, Ferris, sailed in on the high tide of irritation. “Wha
t’s taking you so long Pen? Reggie is furious.” His voice trailed off when he spotted her. “Good God. What are you wearing?”
Enough. She stomped over to her dressing table and sat with a huff.
Ferris’ eyes bulged at the birds-eye-view of her bosom and he turned swiftly away, his face the color of Madeira.
“I’m not going down. You’ll have to make my apologies.”
Ferris recovered—somewhat and kept his eyes above her chin. “No bloody way. I’m in enough hot water with Reggie. You’re coming downstairs now.” He clasped her upper arm and propelled her toward the door.
“Wait.” Maggie held up a pair of slippers.
Penelope grabbed a slipper and tried to shove it on her foot, then threw it over the bed. “It doesn’t fit.”
Ferris paced a quick trip around the perimeter of the room holding the bridge of his nose. “How can it be that none of your clothes or shoes fit?” He asked in what Penelope considered a stab at patience. She however did not appreciate the condescending tone that only the St. James men could muster.
She set her jaw. “I wear your cast-offs. Harry sends them to me once you are through with them. I haven’t purchased a dress in over two years.”
It was quite interesting to watch her brother’s face change from utter astonishment to indignation when he recognized an old pair of Hessians on the floor.
“I will dismiss him for this.”
She grabbed a boot and shoved it on her foot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t actually send them to me. He sends them home to be stored. I just go through them to replenish my wardrobe when I need to. I’m going to have to start buying my own boots though. Yours have been too big for the past four years.” She shoved the other boot on and stomped. Now the blasted dress was too tight and too short.