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

by Deborah Villegas

  Any man but him.

  She turned but kept her eyes lowered as if waiting for permission to look at him.

  He ground his teeth in irritation until she lifted her gaze. “Miss Wilcot.” He left the door wide open and strolled to the center of the room.

  “Your mother said you wished to speak to me.”

  Edward silently fumed. Not only had his mother disobeyed his command, but she had also put him in an awkward situation. She had deliberately forced him to confront and inevitably hurt a young woman’s feelings and dash her hopes of becoming the next Duchess of Berwick. When he caught up with the dowager duchess, she would witness the full wrath of his fury. Fury that was so close to the surface, he could taste the bile at the back of his throat.

  “I wish to clear up a grievous misunderstanding that I have only recently been made aware of.”

  Miss Wilcot wilted like a flower a week past its full bloom and sat on the settee gripping the arm. “I understand.”

  Edward felt like a cad. He took the seat next to her and placed her hand in his. “I am sorry, Miss Wilcot. My mother has played us both for fools, and her unconscionable disregard for your feelings will not go unpunished. I sincerely apologize for any misconceptions my mother has ingenuously led you to believe, and I will speak to your father immediately.”

  Miss Wilcot pulled her hand from his as if his touch burned.

  Her eyes blazed. “And what will you tell my father? The entire county believes we are to wed. I will be a laughingstock. My father…” She turned her face away but not before Edward caught a glimpse of terror in her eyes.

  She stood abruptly. “I will leave this house at once and never return.”

  Before he could say anything else, she rushed from the room.

  Edward stood and paced. The terror in Miss Wilcot’s eyes remained with him, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Would her father beat her? Would she be disgraced? He needed answers. He yanked the bell-rope.

  Thirty seconds later, he turned his temper on the footman. “Bring me, my mother, even if you have to drag her here by her hair.”

  The footman blanched and retreated post-haste.

  He sat and watched the clock. With every minute that ticked by, his blood cooled, chilled, froze. Thirty minutes later, his mother still had not appeared, and his fury was a solid block of ice.

  If his mother refused to come to him, he would go to her. He stood and left the grand salon. By the end of the day, the entire household would know of his displeasure. No one, not even the dowager duchess would dare defy The Duke of Berwick.

  When he arrived at his mother’s private salon, he slammed open the door with such force it splintered the frame.

  Henrietta sat across from their mother with her needlepoint pressed to her bosom.

  “Please leave us, Henrietta. I wish to speak to mother privately.” Aside from the violence in which he opened the door, he kept his tone quite docile.

  When Henrietta scooted past, he rested his hand on her arm. “Will you wait in the grand salon? I wish to discuss Miss Wilcot with you.”

  Her stiff nod fanned his temper. He let her go, and she fled.

  The dowager remained seated as if his sudden volatile appearance was an everyday occurrence.

  He took his sister’s vacated seat, leaned back to cross his legs, and steepled his fingers. “What am I to do with you?” He posed his question as if he were considering the weekly menu.

  “You failed to announce yourself.”

  “I do not have to announce myself. You, however, are required to come to me when I request your presence.”

  “You forget to whom you are speaking.”

  In an instant, the tea service flew across the room, and Edward leaned over his mother, gripping the arms of her chair.

  “You forget your place.”

  For the first time in his memory, he witnessed a crack in her indomitable veneer. He pushed away and paced. “You will remove yourself to the dower house by weeks end.”

  “You would banish us?”

  Edward turned on her sharp intake of air. He knew full well who the collective ‘us’ referred. “Only you, mother. I came home to escort you and Henrietta to London for the season. However, your unconscionable machinations leave me no choice but to require you to remain here. Or rather at the Dower house. I intend to close the main house and leave only a skeletal staff until I see fit to return.”

  His mother was on her feet in an instant. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. I am your mother. I only did what I thought was right.”

  Edward rounded on her. “You thought to force a marriage through coercion. What type of understanding did you have with Miss Wilcot and her father?”

  “Miss Wilcot is the last in her bloodline on her mother’s side of the family. If you remember, her mother was the daughter of the Earl of Bamburgh. Once Miss Wilcot marries, her first-born son will inherit the earldom, and since Miss Wilcot is an only child, her dower includes the entire Wilcot estate as well as the lands—lands that border ours. It is a spectacular match.”

  “And what does Miss Wilcot get out of this match?”

  “A title, of course.”

  “Does she not require anything else? Most young ladies dream of love matches. Has she not thought of the prospect of marriage and all it entails?”

  “Powerful families don’t arrange marriages on such flighty notions that dissipate faster than the first winter’s snow. It is not Miss Wilcot’s decision as to whom she marries. She is young and does not have the wisdom to choose wisely—”

  “And what of her happiness?”

  “What woman would not be happy to be the Duchess of Berwick?”

  Edward stared at his mother. “You only have to look in the mirror to have your answer.”

  * * *

  Penelope sat in her spacious bedroom at the family townhouse in Mayfair dreading her coming-out ball. Maggie toiled away at Penelope’s obnoxious hair mumbling through the pins in her mouth. The damp London air foiled every attempt at a fashionable coiffure.

  She had spent the last two weeks shopping and attending various teas, luncheons, and making exhausting house calls. Aunt Augustina knew everyone and once word spread that they were in town; the calling cards arrived in droves. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the youngest and only female St. James.

  Aunt Augustina had proclaimed Penelope the season’s sensation, and it hadn’t even officially begun yet. Other than her appearance at the Royal Court of Saint James—no relation—and meeting the Prince Regent, Penelope considered Hell Spawn’s arrival the highlight of her stay thus far.

  Maggie placed the final pin and stepped back. “There you go, my lady. As long as you don’t stray out onto the terrace, your mop should cooperate.”

  Lizzy entered the room after a swift knock. “Ooh, you should see the festivities. All of London must be gathered downstairs. His Lordship sent me to inform you all is ready, and you may come down now.”

  Penelope rose, her nervous flutter turned into a decisive rout. She hadn’t been as nervous when she stopped her first coach. “Where is Reggie?”

  “He’s at the bottom of the stairs waiting to escort you into the ballroom.”

  Penelope studied her reflection one last time in the looking glass, adjusted her pearls, and smoothed her ball gown. She was taking a serious risk wearing a striking color, a blue watered silk confection, but the muted tones and washed-out muslins that were so popular, made her skin look sallow and warred with her complexion—not to mention the color of her hair. That and she felt just a tad rebellious. Mrs. Alice La Pierre was in attendance, and the last thing Penelope wanted to do was look anything like her new nemesis. The more Penelope had to suffer the woman’s presence, the more she resented her.

  Reginald was a complete idiot. The troll couldn’t string an intelligent sentence together long enough to remember the topic at hand. She spent her time and Reginald’s money shopping.

  Penelope had taken it upon herself
to request his accompaniment on every outing. So far, her ploy had worked. Of course, Aunt Augustina went out of her way to encourage Reginald’s attendance as well whenever appropriate, and they had thus far thwarted the troll’s efforts to be seen on Reginald’s arm at the most important events. Unfortunately, Mrs. La Pierre was downstairs at this very moment—probably scarfing up the petit fours.

  The clock struck the hour of nine, and without further ado, Penelope left her room.

  Beatrice, Claire, and Amanda stood at the bottom of the stairs next to each of her brothers. Aunt Augustina and the Lady Butterfield had decided to have all the girls come out at the same time, and Penelope’s brothers had agreed to be their escorts.

  Reginald took her hand and kissed it when she hit the bottom step. “Late, as usual, Pen. You clean up reasonably well.”

  “I thought about bolting, but there seems to be a guard outside my window.”

  “Just a precautionary measure. Here.”

  Reggie handed her an intricate fan with a tassel and a card attached.

  “What’s this for?” She examined the card.

  “The fan is a gift for your coming out, and the notecard is from Lord Westfield. He had dance cards printed with your name on them.”

  When she heard Edward’s name, the butterflies in her stomach turned to bats. Was he here? She hadn’t seen him since she waved him on his way after their breakfast over a month ago. Five weeks, and two days to be exact—not that she was keeping track or anything. It was more like counting down until the end of her purgatory, also referred to as The Season. “Half the dances are filled in.”

  “Garrett, Addison, Ferris, and I are entitled to the first four dances.

  “Yes, but Lord Westfield’s name is filled in too.”

  Reginald grinned. “I thought that bit was rather presumptuous. He had his name printed next to the waltz, but I am inclined to ignore it.”

  “On all of the cards?” How many cards did he print? She was going to have them reprinted—sans Edward’s name. The lout.

  “As I said, presumptuous, but ingenious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my dear sister, the waltz is the only dance that allows partners to get close—within reason, and Lord Westfield intends for everyone to know that he is your intended, even if Aunt Augustina insists on waiting until after the season is over to read the bans.”

  The bats were replaced with a knot of irritation and Penelope drew her brow into the condescending St. James we’ll see about that arch. Presumptuous indeed.

  “Are you ready?” Reginald’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mirth and if Penelope wasn’t mistaken, pride. Well didn’t that beat a dead horse.

  Flanked on all sides to ensure she wouldn’t bolt; they entered the ballroom. After they were presented to the ton, she spent the next hour in a swirl of nameless faces congratulating her and welcoming her into the elite world of the upper crust, entitled, and entailed.

  * * *

  Edward handed his beaver hat and greatcoat to the butler at the St, James residence in Mayfair. Their townhome was just a short walk from his. Five houses to be exact. He had avoided the Season like the plague for ten years, and now it seemed he was going to be seen everywhere. Not that he hadn’t been to balls and dinner parties, but he had always been very selective and spent his time in the card room or talking to the men. Never women. Never dancing. Never veering too close to the mother-in-laws in waiting.

  Now it looked as if he would be escorting at least six young ladies onto the dance floor at every ball; the ladies, Beatrice and Claire, Miss Bishop, his sister, Henrietta, Miss Wilcot—if she would allow it, and Penelope. The first three were duty-bound. Two carried the weight of guilt, and one was definitely driven by ownership. At least until their dance cards filled up without his encouragement. He ground his teeth. Penelope was another matter entirely.

  He spotted his quarry with her brother Ferris near the French doors leading onto the terrace. The party had turned into a crush. Instead of traversing the masses, he made a beeline to the card room, stepped onto the terrace, and took the doors leading back into the ballroom on the other side in time to hear the first strains of the waltz.

  He walked up behind Penelope, slid his arm scandalously around her waist, and whispered into her ear. “I believe this is our dance.”

  She turned, and he let her step back just far enough for propriety.

  His groin tightened. God, she was beautiful. Her auburn curls piled high with diamond-studded pins winking in the light threatened to cascade over her shoulders and down her back at any moment. Her cheeks were flushed—from dancing or excitement, he wasn’t sure, but the way her lips parted as if she were breathless and panting from a lover’s caress drew him like a starving man to a feast.

  “I do not care for the waltz, My Lord. I am not sufficiently tutored in the steps to recommend the advisability of a public performance.”

  Edward took her arm and led her toward the terrace. “Then I will have a private performance on the lawn. Ferris, you will act as a chaperone.”

  Penelope’s sputter was drowned out by her brother’s guffaw.

  “Certainly, Edward. We wouldn’t want to embarrass Penelope. As long as they aren’t my toes, I am perfectly willing to watch and take on the role of Aunt Augustina.” Ferris rolled his R’s for effect.

  * * *

  Before Penelope could object, Edward had her out on the lawn beyond the terrace and swung her into the dance. His hand slid up her back, and Penelope felt his heat clear to her toes. If she weren’t so happy to see him, she would tread on his feet just for spite. Edward was an accomplished dancer, and she felt as if she were floating on a sea of green.

  “How are you Boots?”

  She stiffened. Maybe happy was too strong a sentiment. “I am quite enjoying myself. It is a lovely evening.”

  Edward drew her closer. “You make the evening lovely, Penelope.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Where have you been?”

  “Did you miss me?”

  “I haven’t had time to think about it, so I suppose the answer would be no.”

  “I see you received my present.”

  “The dance cards? Yes. They are quite scandalous. I will have to have them reprinted.”

  “Unless you want half of the ton’s eligible bachelors to live through the season, I’d suggest you don’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  Edward yanked her against his body on a twirl away from Ferris and held their chests pressed tight. Her heart rabbited.

  “I forbid you to dance the waltz with anyone but me, and I will call out any man who does so.”

  Penelope yanked her chin high. “You don’t own me, Edward.”

  A smile slid over his mouth with lazy indulgence. “Yet. My dear. And when I do, I will teach you the more intricate steps of the dance.”

  Edward twirled her back to the terrace, and Ferris, on the last strains of music and handed her off to her brother.

  Penelope re-entered the ballroom on Ferris’s arm, and Edward bowed his retreat.

  He left her with a distinctive limp and made his way to a group of men. “Beware, gentlemen, the lady Penelope is a superb dancer, save for the waltz.”

  Penelope’s face flamed. “I didn’t tread on his feet.”

  “Of course not. Lord Westfield is just making sure no one else dances the waltz with you.”

  She stared after the man as he made his way to Reggie’s side. “Why that cad.”

  Ferris’s smile split his face in half. “Be careful Pen. Not only is Lord Westfield a crack shot, but he is also equally adept with a rapier and twice as deadly at subterfuge. His last parry was exquisitely executed.”

  Penelope turned and squared off with her brother. “Why are you here and not getting your own toes broken?”

  “I drew the red-tipped stick.”

  “The what?”

  “Reginald is paying us. Every night at precisely five minutes after the ho
ur of seven, we are required to meet in his library, toast two fingers to fortification and a united front, and pull a stick out of a can. The red-tipped stick loses—I mean wins.”

  “Which is it and how much?”

  Ferris rocked back on his heels. “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whoever draws the red tip receives ten pounds.”

  “But—”

  “Whoever draws the red tip also has to stick to you like paint on canvas.”

  His eyes lit like a candelabra. “It’s a win-win actually.”

  “How?”

  “Because, whoever is pulling overprotective brother duty doesn’t have to worry about getting intercepted by a swarm of mobilized mamas maneuvering an unsuspecting, unattached, gentleman into matrimony.”

  “Win-win…” Penelope curled her lip and put her hand out. “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  He drew his brows together, mimicking a giant woolly worm. “Why?”

  “Because I am earning it.”

  “Earning it?”

  “Yes. I am keeping you out of the matrimonial noose.”

  “No way, Pen.”

  “Fine. I will go tell the Lady Beaufort that you are looking for a bride.”

  Ferris glanced over his shoulder and paled. Miss Beaufort bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Buck teeth, disappearing chin, and all. His shudder was visible as he slapped the note into her hand. “You are cruel.”

  “I am industrious.” She surveyed the room and the occupants in all their finery. There was enough money walking around that collectively they could purchase the moon—or make a sizable donation to her worthy cause.

  Mr. Archibald Granger approached. “Miss St. James, May I have the next dance?”