Penelope’s Pleasure (A Gentleman’s Guide To Understanding Women Book 1)

by Deborah Villegas

  Before she could react, he pulled her close and planted a hard kiss on her lips. He was insane; kissing Penelope in full view of the terrace and anyone who might venture out.

  Her lips gave way, and she settled into his frame with a sigh.

  He wasn’t just insane; he was lost. He wanted to drown in her sweetness, mold her body to his, and drag her beneath him. He stepped them into the deep shadow of a tall hedge and trailed his lips down the curve of her neck taking in the unique scent that was hers, and then retraced his way back to her waiting lips.

  When Penelope arched her hips into his, he instinctively clutched her bottom and ground his hips against her willing flesh.

  Her sharp intake of air, followed by a low moan brought him to his senses. He tore his mouth from hers and heaved cold air into his lungs. By God, if he had to wait the entire season before he could have her, he was going to go mad. His only consolation was that she seemed just as affected by their kiss. “Consider this your lesson as to why you are not to go walking with anyone but me and remember it well Penelope. I will not tolerate any other man trespassing on my domain.”

  She took a step back, but he wouldn’t let her go any farther than arm’s length and kept her hand firmly in his grasp.

  “Let me go.” Her breathing was still rapid and shallow, and her voice held a distinctive caution tinged with mortification.

  Damn, he felt like a cad. For all her St. James bravado, Penelope was still an untried innocent. He hadn’t pulled an innocent into the shadows in years preferring the stable of more experienced women who thoroughly understood the wanton liaison of a dark garden. “Not yet sweet Penelope. We will continue our walk until we are both suitably able to return. I did not intend for this to get out of hand, and I still want to talk to you. Shall we continue?”

  She turned her face from him and nodded.

  The strains of a piano played softly on the breeze followed by a clear contralto voice. Edward glanced toward the terrace noting the silhouette of a man. Probably a brother but they were too far away to worry about being overheard. He settled Penelope’s hand in the crook of his arm and continued their stroll. “I have to return to London tomorrow, and then I need to travel to Falcon’s Field to retrieve my mother and sister for the season.”

  Penelope’s hand flexed on his arm, but other than that, she did not indicate that she had heard him.

  “I expect you to behave yourself while I am gone and do not ride unless one of your brothers accompany you as a proper escort.”

  Penelope stopped and yanked her hand away. “I will not be scolded nor instructed as if I were a rebellious child. I have been riding alone for years, and I do not require, nor do I want an escort.”

  Edward smiled inwardly. Her temper was back. Good. It meant she had her equilibrium back and was once again in familiar emotional territory.

  “Normally, I would not require you to have an escort. However, there have been rumors of highwaymen in this area, and I don’t want you to come upon them inadvertently.”

  She stared at him with a shocked open-mouthed ‘Oh,’ then bit her bottom lip and sucked it between her teeth.

  He swallowed a groan and cleared his throat, deciding not to tell her he also did not want her to ride with Mr. Granger or Lord Heatherton. He would impart that bit of instruction to Reginald, whom he was sure would agree.

  Edward had spoken at length with Reginald, and he seemed just as frustrated as Edward that Penelope was to have her season before the bans were read. Reginald even argued with his father on Edward’s behalf to no avail, stating that other women had enjoyed a full season already betrothed. However, St. James had stood firm, only saying that Aunt Augustina was set against it and had her reasons—not that Aunt Augustina’s reasons had been revealed—which left both Reginald and Edward stumped.

  How had Edward gone from one end of the spectrum; angry that he’d been effectively trapped into marriage; to acting like a forlorn suitor? It did not sit well with him, and he hoped that sanity would return with separation. He still had a job to do and couldn’t afford the distraction. “Shall we return?”

  * * *

  Penelope was so surprised by what Edward had said about the highwaymen she allowed him to escort her back to the terrace without another word. She barely noticed Reginald when he stepped out of the shadows.

  They entered the drawing-room together on the last strains of the recital and stood at the back. She remained by Edward’s side for the rest of the evening interacting with the other guests, answering when required, and commenting when necessary, but her focus remained on the ideas that whirled with the possibilities and implications of the plan developing in her mind. As the evening drew to an end, she realized that Edward had escorted her to the bottom of the staircase.

  “Will you have breakfast with me before I leave?”

  The grandfather clock chimed the hour of one. Penelope blinked twice. “Yes, of course.” How had the evening slipped away?

  “Are you all right, Boots?” Edward watched her, concern marred his brow, and he frowned as if he wanted to say something but decided against it.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m a bit weary. The cool evening air must have tired me out.”

  His smile was soft, yet held the memory of their unspoken intimacy.

  She felt her cheeks flush. Better Edward think their lack of objective thinking had set her cheeks aflame. If he knew the real reason for her inattentiveness, not only would he be insulted that she had forgotten about the kisses—he would add injury to her bottom in the form of a thorough swatting. Of that, she was positive.

  Edward pulled her in for a hug and kissed the top of her forehead. “Go to bed, Boots. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She glowered at him and wrinkled her nose. There was no use arguing with him about her new nickname. She had a feeling it was a keeper whether she liked it or not, and she had more important things ponder.

  She was going to become a highwayman.

  Chapter 8

  Edward sat in the ducal coach on his way to Falcon’s Field wondering if he had made the right decision to leave Penelope. He had hoped to gain some perspective once back in London and had even gone to his mistress. That had been a complete disaster. Thoughts of Miss St. James had left him unaffected by Lady Meredith’s charms—and she had a cornucopia of charms. Lady Meredith did not handle their parting well. The moment he stepped into her private salon, he regretted it. He should have sent a letter, but he felt compelled to break off their arrangement in person. First, she had greeted him with open arms, and after he told her it was time to part ways, she responded with an open palm across his cheek. It ended with him opening his wallet.

  He spent the remainder of the two weeks in London at Whitehall reviewing the latest messages from their connection in France, and all the evidence lead back to the Cornish coast. Right back to the very coastline he had ridden. Were the St. James’ involved? Were the Duke and Mabrey the ringleaders? Did they use their passion for ornithology as a cover for posting as lookouts? The cliffside cave was well kept and the lamps full of oil. What about the tunnel leading to the cottage?

  Edward had spent most of Penelope’s recuperation along the cliffs with her father and Mr. Mabrey under the guise of bird watching and notating the migratory patterns of coastal birds. Not only had it been interesting, but it had also been entertaining. Both men were a font of information, and Edward discovered that he liked the study of ornithology—not just his Peregrines. If he hadn’t been destined to the Dukedom, he probably would have become a man of science. He enjoyed his studies at Oxford and excelled in the sciences. Of course, he also excelled in all of his other studies. Better explained, he enjoyed the sciences most.

  The carriage slowed and made the turn onto the well-maintained drive toward his ancestral home. A mixture of Norman, Tudor, Neoclassical, and Palladian influences. Most of the awkwardness of the monumental structur
e was either hidden by ivy or softened over the centuries. He liked the eclectic eccentricity of it. Would Penelope like it once he had her installed as his duchess? He smiled at the thought. Then he frowned. He needed to tell his mother he would wed at the end of the season. She would be ecstatic, of course. She had been subtly hinting at him to take a wife for three years.

  The carriage turned and stopped in front of the grand entrance, and he waited for the footman to open the door and drop the steps. Already he felt the ducal weight settling onto his shoulders. It always happened. As much as he loved his home and the occupants within, the formality was stifling. Before he even stepped to the ground, the servants had lined up at the entrance. He walked past them and into the grand foyer stopping only to ask where his mother and sister were. He handed his hat, gloves, and greatcoat to the waiting butler without a word and headed up the magnificent staircase to the grand salon.

  “Hello, mother.” He tried to sound as if he was happy to see her, but even to his ears, his greeting fell far from the mark. The dowager Duchess sat stiff, from years of strict etiquette. His sister, Henrietta, was seated nearby with her ever-present needlepoint, a carbon copy of propriety and protocol.

  He kissed his mother’s extended hand. “You look well.” He turned to his sister. “Henrietta.”

  “I expected you a fortnight ago, Edward. Where have you been?” His mother’s punctuation of the word ‘expected,’ was meant as a rebuke.

  “I was detained.”

  He met Henrietta’s gaze, and guilt assailed him. Henrietta was his mother’s companion by default. Not an easy role to suffer. Henrietta was beautiful when she smiled, but those were very rare. He remembered when his father had been alive. The house was full of laughter, and house parties were greatly anticipated. It had been fifteen years since his death and the only guest to stay for any amount of time was Henrietta’s closest friend, the Lady Frances Wilcot. Frances was practically a member of the family and spent weeks at a time visiting with his sister.

  “How have you been Henrietta?”

  “I am well, thank you. And you?”

  “I am well.” It was always the same—nothing spontaneous, no laughter, no exciting news or chatter or familiar banter.

  The clock’s tick resonated in the stretching silence.

  The contrast of the St. James household struck a discordant note. The chaos and cacophony and casual atmosphere welcomed and encouraged both family and acquaintances to relax and feel at home. They squabbled and bickered in front of company, shared opinions—wanted or not, laughed and mocked and teased each other incessantly, and showed their dedication, fondness, and affection toward one another always. They were…happy.

  Edward cleared his throat in the awkward silence. “I have an announcement to make.”

  His mother’s sharp eyes homed in on him. Her face revealed nothing.

  “I have decided that it is time to wed.”

  Henrietta tossed her needlepoint, bounded out of her chair, and threw her arms around him. “This is wonderful news. Frances will make a lovely bride and a dutiful duchess.”

  Shock rocketed through Edward, and he disengaged his sister’s arms. “Frances?”

  “Sit Henrietta.” His mother’s sharp admonishment startled his sister, and she sat mortified by her gross lapse of etiquette.

  “I wasn’t referring to Miss Wilcot.” Edward folded his hands behind his back and schooled his features. “I was referring to Miss Penelope St. James, the Duke of St. James’ daughter.”

  Henrietta’s large signature blue Westfield eyes glazed over. “But Frances has been—”

  “Leave us.” The dowager duchess cut her off.

  Edward picked up the discarded needlepoint and handed it to his sister. She departed closing the door behind her.

  He was still reeling with Henrietta’s pronouncement.

  “I strongly object, Edward. Miss St. James is unbefitting your station.”

  His cheeks sharpened with heat. “She is the daughter of a duke.”

  “The circumstance of her birth deems her unsuitable.”

  “And what circumstance would that be?” Edward had never heard of any scandal surrounding the St. James name, and he was at a loss as to his mother’s vehement disapproval. Penelope was also the youngest sibling, so there wasn’t a question of an untimely or early arrival from the anticipation of the vows.

  “She is a bastard.”

  Edward felt his face flush. “I don’t believe you.”

  He didn’t think his mother could draw herself up any straighter without standing. “Miss St. James is the unseemly consequence of an illicit affair between her mother and her lover. It is a well-known fact, The Duke of St. James was away on a diplomatic mission during the time of her seclusion.”

  “That does not make St. James a cuckold.”

  “Before he left, he and his wife had a falling out in a very public and vulgar display. She left the ball with a man that was not her husband. St. James departed the country that very night and did not return until after the birth of her daughter.”

  Edward took a step back. The vindictiveness in his mother’s tone revolted him to his very core. He had only spent a week at the St. James country seat, but just looking at Penelope proved she was a St. James, through and through. Her vivid green eyes held the proof. He turned to the window. Unless her mother also had green eyes.

  * * *

  Penelope sat in the darkness sheltered under a copse of trees wearing her brother’s cast-offs, a big hat to hide her hair, and pistols at the ready. She had doused Hell Spawn’s forelocks with flour after crossing the creek so it would stick and then wash off once they re-crossed on their way back home. It was a brilliant disguise for Hell Spawn in case anyone remembered to take a good look at him.

  So far, she had ridden out thrice and coaxed five purses totaling almost one hundred pounds out of their owners.

  She frowned as she thought back to her first quarry. She’d had quite a surprise when her closest neighbor Lord Clive De Chevalier, the Marquis of Lansdowne, newly arrived from France after inheriting the title from his uncle, bounded out of the coach followed by the troll. What was Alice doing out with the Marquise when Penelope had bid her goodnight after escorting her to her bedroom door not three hours prior? Did Reginald know? Of course not. Reginald was too blind to see through the rosy fog of the besotted.

  Was the troll hedging her bets just in case Reggie came to his senses? Penelope didn’t care for the Marquise. He made the hairs at her nape stand and not just because he was French.

  After Edward left, Penelope had taken to riding Hell Spawn in the early morning hours before the house began to bustle with daily chores. Twice she had spotted Alice hurrying back to the manor as the sun crept over the horizon. Unfortunately, Penelope couldn’t confront Alice without revealing her nightly escapades, so Penelope was forced to bide her time. With any luck, the troll would out herself. It was, however, fun to slide a taunt or two in her direction and watch her squirm.

  The horde left three days after Edward, leaving Penelope to play hostess to Alice La Pierre until they departed for London at the end of the week. Amanda was to join Penelope as a guest at St. James House in Mayfair for the duration of the season under Aunt Augustina’s patronage. Miss Bishop seemed just about as excited to attend her first season as Penelope. Misery did love company and all that rot.

  Penelope shivered in the saddle and readjusted her seat. Her backside was numb. It was well past midnight, and if a coach didn’t happen along soon, she would have a cold, hard, two-hour trip home empty-handed.

  Her second night out, she had fumbled her gun just as another horse and rider came out of the bushes. She wasn’t sure what was worse; recognizing her groom Tom, or Tom witnessing her almost drop her weapon. Penelope was grateful for the moonless night that hid her heated embarrassment. He had taught her the finer points of pistols, and she prided herself with her flawless handling and execution. He had remained silent through
the exchange of pleasantries, offerings, and salutations, but once they were well away, the tongue-lashing he gave her was worthy of a duke. A St. James Duke. It took the entire ride back to the manor to persuade her groom not to tell his tale and convince him it was for a worthy cause.

  Now her unwilling accomplice waited just inside the trees across the lane. He was to stay hidden unless there was a complication. So far, her benefactors had been most agreeable, which made up for the chastisement she was forced to endure every time her groom rode out with her. It was apparent he did not like her new hobby. He wouldn’t even look at her—unless it was to grace her with a sour-grapes glower.

  Tom motioned from across the lane.

  Penelope froze. The sound of a carriage wasn’t far off. Adrenalin flooded her veins in anticipation of another altruistic donation.

  At fifty paces, she bolted into the center of the dark lane and flashed her guns. The four horses screamed, and the sturdy traveling coach halted not three feet away.

  Penelope pointed her pistols at the driver and barked in her deepest voice. “Off with you.”

  He scurried down the steep side and stood trembling next to the coach. From within, squeals and chatter and shrieks pierced the air.

  A rotund gentleman bounded out of the carriage. “What is the meaning of this?” He huffed out his chest with indignation then grunted as he was pushed aside by a half dozen females. He rounded on his entourage. “I told you to stay put.”

  “We want to see too, Papa.” The chorus would have been melodic had they been in tune.

  “Get back inside.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “How come you get to have all the fun?”

  “I want to watch.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Are you a robber?”

  “Of course, he is you ninny.”

  All six misses pushed, shoved, and collided with one another for front row viewing.