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

by Deborah Villegas

  Amanda jumped to her feet, ignoring the bang of her upended chair, planted both hands on Reggie’s desk, and leaned over. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, Lord Stansworth. You have dictated what I am to wear; what is acceptable to eat; what books are appropriate to read; which topics are suitable to discuss; who I am allowed to dance with; and now, you dare dictate where I am to sleep?”

  Reginald’s rise was slow, like a predator approaching his prey until he was nose to nose with Miss Bishop. “As long as you abide under my roof, you will do exactly as I say.”

  She neither flinched nor moved away, but Penelope caught the glimmer of success, the gleam of victory, the glisten of unhappiness. “When I am no longer under your roof, you will have no say at all.”

  Amanda stepped back, skirted the desk, and slammed the door so hard she made Ferris’s dramatic exits look like those of an amateur.

  Aunt Augustina rose. “Well, my dear boy, once again, your wisdom escapes me. I’ll be most happy to assist Lord Westfield as a chaperone, and of course, Miss Bishop should accompany me. She certainly cannot stay here without proper supervision. It is obvious you have put quite a bit of thought into this, and I commend your strict adherence to propriety. I’ll go up and give Lizzy her instructions.”

  “Maggie will accompany you. She is better equipped to act as a lady’s maid to you both.”

  “But Maggie is my maid,” Penelope sputtered.

  “Lizzy will step in for Maggie. She has been training under her for a few months now, has she not?”

  Penelope found her legs. “Yes, but—”

  “Then, it is settled.” Reggie cut her off. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend.”

  Reginald left his study without further ado, and Penelope plopped back into her seat. Well, now what? No Aunt Augustina to use as a buffer, no Amanda to have intelligent and wicked conversations with at midnight, no Maggie to worry over her, anticipate her needs, and grouse about torn hems. Just Lizzy, the spy.

  Penelope smiled into the empty room. She needed to speak to Tom.

  * * *

  Edward stepped into the entry and gaped at the abundance of trunks and activity in the main hall of his townhouse. A tall and harried-looking man vaguely resembling his usually stoic and impeccably starched butler bounded to his feet and pressed a handkerchief to his forehead.

  “Thank goodness you have returned your grace. There is a woman in the grand salon insisting that she is to reside here as a chaperone to Miss Westfield and Miss Wilcot.”

  “She’s in the grand salon?”

  “Yes, sir. I refused to allow her footmen to take any of their belongings upstairs until you returned.”

  “They, as in more than one?”

  “She was accompanied by another young woman. I believe her name is Miss Bishop.”

  Edward groaned inwardly. Of course, Miss Bishop would accompany Aunt Augustina. It was perfectly acceptable for Penelope to remain under Reginald’s roof but not Miss Bishop without a proper chaperone. Damn. No wonder Reginald had jumped at Edward’s request. Two birds, one idiot. “Thank you, Smyth. I will handle it. Prepare the white room for Lady St. James, and the pink for Miss Bishop.”

  “But?” Smyth’s face tightened like improperly dried leather. He caught himself and firmed his mouth. “As you wish, sir.”

  Edward turned toward the grand salon. It was not as he wished, but for the time being, it was the best plan he could think of. He entered a roomful of giggles and a half a decanter of his prized private stock too late.

  “Edward dear,” Aunt Augustina waved him over. “We were just getting acquainted. It’s so good of you to join us.”

  Teacups lowered and giggles were squelched behind hands.

  “Aunt Augustina.” Edward bowed over her hand. He wasn’t sure her familiarity with his given name was due to fondness or a carefully calculated maneuver. “You ladies seem to be enjoying yourselves. I trust Aunt Augustina has filled you in as to why she is here. I regret I was not present to introduce you, but I’m sure you are well on your way to forming lasting friendships.” He eyed the decanter making a mental note to have Smyth hide his personal stock. Henrietta hiccupped. And the rest as well.

  “Do sit down, dear. Tea?”

  “Thank you, no.” Edward took the remaining seat and lounged superiorly in an affectation of boredom.

  “We were just discussing the requirements of a husband, and I assured the ladies you would be most accommodating.”

  “Accommodating? In what way?”

  “We have decided to create a ‘Dear Aunt Agony’ box. Questions delivered anonymously of course for you to read and offer advice from a gentleman’s candid perspective. I think once a week should suffice.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Just the usual topics women ponder. Fashion. Gentleman’s preferences. Income requirements. For example, should a young lady in her quest for a husband require that he have a yearly income of three-thousand pounds or is that too low? And what is most appealing, a lady who shows her intelligence or hides it behind a fan?”

  Henrietta perked up. “I think a husband would be sorely put out if he chose a wife and found out she was smarter than he. Wouldn’t you agree, Edward? But to put the coin in the other pocket, I for one, do not want a husband that does not appreciate my intellect.”

  Aunt Augustina sat back and surveyed the ladies in her care. “Well said Henrietta dearest. What about you, Frances?”

  Miss Wilcot pinked under the surveillance. “I would acquiesce to my husband’s wishes.”

  “That is the dowager duchess speaking.” Henrietta set her teacup on the tray. “You would be miserable. The point of this exercise is to select a suitable husband that we can live within agreeable peace and harmony.”

  Miss Bishop poured another cup of tea and added a rather generous dollop from the decanter. “I am firmly entrenched in the belief that the more one knows about one’s quarry, the better-prepared one is to ensnare, or rather handle said quarry. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Westfield?”

  The room had grown so quiet; he felt as if he, was the ‘said’ quarry under close scrutiny. “I am but one man to offer advice, and my preference may differ from another.”

  The ladies seemed to deflate, and Aunt Augustina pursed her lips as if in deep concentration, then brightened suddenly with a wicked glint worthy of her name. “You are correct. I think we will enlist my nephews as well. Brilliant idea, Edward.”

  Edward stifled the squirm. Aunt Augustina was an accomplished agent provocateur, and if this leaked out, he would be barred from White’s for life. He stood and bowed. “Ladies, as interesting as this interlude has been, I must beg your forgiveness and take my leave. I have other pressing though less-entertaining matters to attend.” The most pressing, a drink, alone, in his library. He had a feeling headache powders would become a nightly ritual.

  Chapter 12

  Penelope sat astride Hell Spawn at the far end of Hyde Park near the grove and stifled a shiver. The early morning mist was close to becoming a cold drizzle, and Tom sat hunched a dozen yards away on his steed with his collar pulled close.

  The note she’d found tucked under her pillow instructed the time and place for the rendezvous, but her co-conspirator had yet to arrive.

  She heard the hooves before she saw the rider. Drat.

  “A bit early for a ride, isn’t it, Boots?”

  “Not at all, it’s the only time I can enjoy a bit of solitude.” She hoped her clipped tone would hasten Edward on his way.

  He drew closer, brushing his knee against hers, and bent forward, taking her reins. “You are not riding. You are waiting. What are you up to?”

  No such luck. She would have to use the St. James snub. It was just as well. She’d been practicing in her looking glass for a week and needed to try it out. Lord Westfield would make a worthy test subject.

  She looked him in the eye, just a quick glimpse, then lowered her gaze to his cr
avat to inspect the handiwork of his valet. With the slightest lift of the side of her lip, a quick inhale through the nostrils, a small turn of her chin on her exhale as if the air was suddenly unpleasant, and the final coup de grace—the lean away—not much, just a hair back and to the side.

  Edward’s eyes widened before hovering on the shut, and she felt his hand slip under her skirt and clasp her knee. “I’m almost disappointed you’re not wearing britches, Boots.”

  With a quick squeeze, he removed his touch and handed back her reins. “You may keep your secrets for the time being, but just remember, I’ll be watching, and I don’t share.”

  With a horseman’s bow, Edward moved off and continued down the path. No salutation, no backward glance, and definitely no opportunity given to vent the last word. Double drat.

  After Edward turned the bend, another rider cloaked in a gray riding-habit emerged from the stand of trees and approached at a walk.

  Amanda scanned the empty path. “What did Lord Westfield want?”

  Penelope held onto the memory of the warmth against her knee, and half-smiled. “You are late.”

  “Merely biding my time. Lord Westfield is an earlier riser than your brother.”

  “When I left the house at dawn, my brother had not yet been abed.”

  “How is the St. James household?”

  “If you are referring to Reginald, he has been prowling the parlor like a bear with a bad tooth.”

  “And Ferris?”

  “On the mend. He’s enjoying Reggie’s ill-temper.”

  Amanda’s brow lifted with amusement. “And why is that?”

  “Someone else has peaked Reggie’s ire, and Ferris is determined to find out who the benefactress of such a sublime gift is.”

  “Is he sure the giver is female?”

  “He thinks it might be Mrs. La Pierre. The troll made a house call without an invite, and when she left, Reginald stomped into his library with a very UN-Stansworth-y slam of the door.”

  “Your brother is blind.”

  Penelope smiled. “All men are blind, but that is a grand topic for another day’s amusement. To which brother are you attributing this affliction today?”

  Amanda stopped her horse with a jerk. “I am here in this dreadful country for one season and one season only. Then I will return to India.”

  Her fierce mien and determined jaw didn’t hide the depth of unhappiness Penelope saw in Amanda’s eyes before she turned away.

  Penelope reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Then, we must work together.”

  Amanda took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. “Someday I will show you my beloved India. We will ride through the jungles on giant elephants, walk the stalls of the markets, inhale the spiced air, and make pigs of ourselves on dates and figs and carambolas.”

  Penelope sensed it wasn’t the fear of never seeing India again, but the dreaded marriage noose of the English nobility that threatened to choke Amanda’s spirit. The common bond they both shared. The need for freedom—a drug as addicting as opium and proving to be as allusive as catching the wind.

  Penelope clicked her horse forward to a sedate walk. “How is Lord Westfield’s household?”

  Amanda shrugged off her bad humor and almost forgot to temper her smile. “Lord Westfield has an interesting assortment of birds.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I met his sister Henrietta and her dearest friend, Miss Frances Wilcot.”

  “And?”

  “Henrietta will do for a sister-in-law. She hides not only her intelligence but her talons behind her spectacles. Miss Wilcot is driven by the demands of her age.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She was Lord Westfield’s intended.”

  Penelope jerked her head up. Her surprise registered by a quick inhale.

  “Lord Westfield wasn’t aware of the arrangement. Apparently, his mother, the Dowager Duchess, didn’t feel the need to inform him.”

  “Was Miss Wilcot aware?”

  “The dowager was grooming her for the role.”

  “And now she is residing under his roof under the guise of a companion to his sister.”

  “And guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “How much do you know about Lord Westfield?”

  Penelope considered the question. “Not a lot. He enjoys falconry. How much do you know?”

  “How much do you want to know?”

  Hell Spawn sidestepped, and Penelope tightened the reins. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “You should come to tea this afternoon. I’m sure you will find it most enlightening.”

  “How so?”

  “Aunt Augustina has pressed Lord Westfield into service.”

  “What type of service?”

  “Matchmaker, adviser, consultant…”

  “Intriguing…”

  Amanda’s lips parted, slow and wicked. “If there was anything you could ask a man, anything at all, what would you ask?”

  * * *

  “More tea dears?”

  Penelope watched Reggie scowl at Aunt Augustina from the far side of the Grand Salon. The men: Garrett; Addison; Reggie; and Edward, stood gathered together, like the first line of a brigade about to face enemy fire. After her brothers’ initial shock when they realized the teapot contained hot buttered rum—Aunt Augustina’s self-proclaimed preemptive medicinal remedy to ward off the chills—and not Darjeeling, they decided to abstain.

  Penelope knew better than to imbibe. Aunt Augustina’s remedies always included a two hundred proof main ingredient.

  Edward had arrived late and, upon noticing that the men had chosen not to partake of the tea, had offered them cordials instead.

  As far as Penelope could tell, Edward was in an etiquette quandary. This was Edward’s home, but Aunt Augustina wasn’t quite a guest, yet neither was she family and to rebuke her meant overstepping Reginald’s domain and accepting responsibility for Aunt Augustina—and her actions.

  Penelope almost felt sorry for Edward.

  Henrietta hiccupped then began chirping between giggles muffled behind her hand.

  Frances sat with the rigidity of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  Amanda held out her saucer. “Please.”

  Reginald raked his gaze over the women perched around the silver service. “I think you ladies have had quite enough tea.”

  Amanda set her cup down with a clatter and a clang, almost upending the remnants of the sandwich tray. “You are quite right, I am beginning to see two of yous, and one of yous is more than enough to contends with.” She stood, pitched forward, and Reggie caught her before the fall.

  “Oh, my,” Aunt Augustina frowned at the teapot. “Maybe we should have cut the third pot.”

  “You should have cut the first, Madam.” Reggie scooped Amanda into his arms. “Tell Maggie to a have Miss Bishop’s trunks made ready. I will have my footmen retrieve them on the morrow.”

  Augustina glanced up with a frown from studying the inside of the pot like a seer reading tealeaves that weren’t cooperating. “Where are you taking Amanda?”

  “Home, where she belongs. Miss Bishop is still under my authority, and I will not stand by and allow you to corrupt her with your eccentricities.” He turned to Edward. “Lord Westfield, I give you leave to scold my aunt and to readvise her of her duties as chaperone—or give her the boot.”

  Aunt Augustina set the teapot down with a crash and rose to her full illusionary height of a great, stalwart, oak. “Don’t be ridiculous, nephew. It is better for young ladies to learn their limitations in private rather than tossing their accounts into the nearest potted plant in the middle of a crush. I was merely giving them the opportunity to discover what their limitations are.”

  Reggie’s complexion mottled until he resembled an over-ripe tomato. “You got them drunk on purpose?”

  After a quick study of the stunned male occupants, Penelope decided that a show of feminine unity was necessary and jumped into
the middle of Reggie’s frayed nerves.

  “Don’t you dare act higher than the almighty. You were the one that taught me my limitations. At least Aunt Augustina used cups, and they won’t wake up naked in the middle of a meadow in the morning.”

  Garrett and Addison emerged from the wallpaper shaking their heads and grinning from sideburns to sideburns. “She’s got you there, big brother.”

  Edward paled. “You got drunk and ran naked through a meadow in the middle of the night?”

  She shrugged with the St. James imperious nonchalance. “We all did. It was hot. We went for a swim in the pond.”

  Henrietta hiccupped again and touched her palm to her cheek. “It is rather warm in here.”

  Edward swung a scowl at his sister and paced the fireplace. After a few quick turns, he stopped directly in front of Penelope. “Reginald, I will trade you, Miss Bishop, for your sister. It is apparent to me that she will be better off if she has proper supervision from a proper lady and I do not want my future bride attached to any more of the St. James’—eccentricity. My mother will act as a chaperone for the rest of the season.”

  “Done.” Reginald capped the word with an exclamatory nod.

  Penelope swayed and gripped the edge of the settee. “You can’t be serious, Reggie.”

  Henrietta shot to her feet. “I will not remain under the same roof with mother.”

  “You will do as I say.”

  “I will not.” She hiccupped between words. “If you send Aunt Augustina away, my temper tantrums will make yours seem like a mild pout. You are not the only Westfield capable of destroying a tea service. I have lived under the shadow of the dragon longer than you.”

  Edward’s smile curled into a snarl. “I am the dragon, dear sister.”

  Henrietta’s complexion faded with her bravado, and she plunked back onto the settee.