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

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Beau thought she had been responsive to his growing affection for her, but perhaps it had only been her grief speaking. Had she kissed Tom before? Did they have an understanding? If so, why had she gone to London and entered the Marriage Mart?

  His life in Town seemed as distant as another planet.

  “Lord Wellingham! Mind if I join you?”

  Beau looked up to see Mr. Collingsworth, Senior. “Not at all,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him in the booth.

  “How are things at the manor today?” the vicar asked.

  “I left Miss Swinton with your son, planning the funeral service.”

  “Ah, yes. They have been the best of friends all their lives.” The man, rosy and rotund, smiled complacently. “He will be a great comfort to her.”

  Beau longed to say, “More than you have been,” but restrained himself. “My fiancée is very cut up. As you know, she and her father were exceptionally close.”

  “About that. You are still engaged, then?”

  “We are.”

  “I understand there is a scandal attached,” Collingsworth said. “You killed a man. It does not sound at all like the Miss Swinton I know to be involved in a love triangle, especially after being in London only four and twenty hours.”

  “That was the interpretation the press placed on the event. The real story was that she was attacked by thieving riffraff in the Randolphs’ garden during a ball. He had a knife.”

  The vicar settled back in his seat and looked over the edge of his pint. “Dangerous place, London.” He looked as though he doubted the story. Beau was taking a dislike to the man. “What was the gel doing in the garden at that time of night?”

  “Escaping a bore. She was in great demand that night, but very unused to London ways. I followed her out, worried that something would happen to her. As it transpired, I was right.”

  “How lucky she was, then! But what a bother for you.” The man had finished his pint, and now sat with his hands folded and resting on his considerable belly. “First, you are forced to kill a man, then you find yourself saddled with a scandal and hence a wife.”

  Annoyance plucked at Beau. The vicar needed a setdown. “It is my great honor to be engaged to Miss Swinton.”

  Amusement lit Collingsworth’s little eyes. “So much so that you are sitting in a pub in the next village, putting away ale of a morning.”

  “I find you impertinent, sir.” Beau stood, pulling out his pocket watch. “It devastates me, of course, but I must part company with you. I have been on an errand for my fiancée and am due back at the manor.”

  Walking out of the pub, he untied Thor and mounted. What an upstart and a bounder the man was! It was no puzzle why Pen disliked him. Did she really want him for a father-in-law?

  Collingsworth, Junior, may be a decent choice for a husband, but life so close to her in-laws would certainly be a trial. Anyone more unvicarlike Beau had not met. The man probably had ambitions.

  When Beau arrived back at the manor, it was to find the curate gone and, according to the housekeeper, Pen closeted with Mrs. Collingsworth, packing up her things. What a melancholy prospect—both the company and the task.

  He went out to surround himself with the roses. Should he confront her about the kiss? About her feelings for the curate?

  She had enough to deal with right now. And knowing Pen’s uncertain temper, he would not put it past her to break their engagement if he gave her any reason. In fact, he was not even certain she considered herself engaged. Would she have kissed the curate otherwise?

  Perhaps the gentlemanly thing to do was to go back to London once her aunt had arrived and leave her in peace to make her decision. Castlereagh was probably chafing at his absence.

  But if he were not here to press his suit, would she, in her grief, follow the path of least resistance? Beau was afraid she would.

  To the devil with Castlereagh. He would stay here and attempt to secure the lady’s hand.

  Since when had that become his object? Was he actually falling in love with Miss Penelope Swinton?

  But love was all a hum, remember?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mrs. Collingsworth said, “You must go see a dressmaker in Northampton as soon as may be, Penelope. You have not anything to wear for mourning.”

  “I was so tired of wearing black for Mama, I gave it all away,” Penelope said, feeling heavy with discouragement. There was so much to do, so many decisions to make. “I do not want to pack away all my new gowns. I shall take them with me, wherever I go.”

  The vicar’s wife put her hands on broad hips. “And where shall that be, my girl? To London with your aunt?”

  If she were to stay and marry Tom, she would have to live with his parents in the meantime. At this moment, she did not even want to imagine such a thing. It would be a month at least until the banns were read. And where would they live once they were married? Tom only had rooms in Downing with an elderly widow until the end of the year when he would succeed to the vicarage.

  “Probably,” she told Mrs. Collingsworth. “She has invited me to live with her.”

  “And when are you to be married to this viscount?”

  The room suddenly felt stuffy. Penelope went to the window and opened it. “I am not certain,” she said. Would he even want to marry her anymore after witnessing her kiss with Tom?

  All the uncertainties were making her head ache. Leaning out the window for a breath of air, she saw Beau strolling among her mother’s roses.

  “I cannot make any decisions today, Mrs. Collingsworth. I appreciate your willingness to help, but I am going downstairs to ask Mrs. Weston for some lemonade. Would you care for some?”

  “You cannot be feckless, my dear. This must be done! Mr. Swinton will want to claim his inheritance. There are your father’s things, as well.”

  “Mrs. Collingsworth.” She kept her temper with difficulty. “I am not going through Papa’s things before we have even had his funeral!”

  She walked out of her bedroom, heading for the stairs, Wordsworth running on his stubby legs to keep up. The vicar’s wife followed her.

  “Are the rooms ready for your aunt and the duchess?” the woman asked.

  “I am certain Mrs. Weston has seen to all of that.”

  “Would you like me to check, to be certain?”

  “No,” Penelope said, grinding her teeth. “I am persuaded that our— my excellent housekeeper has the matter in hand.”

  Once downstairs, she rang for Mrs. Weston and asked for some lemonade to be brought out on the terrace. It was a lovely day, and she hoped to persuade Beau to join them.

  “I am going to sit on the terrace, ma’am. Would you care to sit with me?” she asked her guest, opening the French doors.

  “I shall. Where has your viscount disappeared to, my dear?”

  “He is in the rose garden. Perhaps he will join us.”

  -P-

  Beau came upon them drinking lemonade as Mrs. Collingsworth was carrying on about her daughter, Lizzie, who was married and living in Northampton.

  “Please join us for lemonade, Beau,” Penelope invited.

  Her fiancé was dressed in shades of celery and off-white today. He inclined his head toward the vicar’s wife, and Penelope introduced them.

  “How goes the packing, my dear?” he asked.

  “It will wait,” Penelope said. “I suppose I need to determine when Mr. Swinton wants to take possession.”

  “I believe the will has got to go through probate, first. You have time, Pen. There is no need to do everything at once.”

  “Oh! That is a relief.” Her eyes filled. “There is so much to be decided, but all I can think of is dear Papa.”

  Sitting at her side, Beau put a hand over hers. “Of course. Do not worry. Everything else will sort itself out in time.”

  She felt his eyes on her, and they were gentle. She smiled a little to herself. For the first time, it occurred to her that the irate man from
Green Park had gone. He was so changed.

  Mrs. Collingsworth, on the other hand, looked ready to burst with disapproval. “This lemonade is too tart,” she said.

  “I am sorry,” Penelope said. “That is the way I like it. Should I ask Mrs. Weston to bring some sugar?”

  The matron stood. “No. If you are not ready to travel into Northampton to order your blacks today, I must go. There is plenty to see to at home.”

  Penelope and Beau stood. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Collingsworth. Thank you for coming,” she said. “I will show you out.”

  “I can find my way, thank you!” It seemed her neighbor was determined to leave in a huff, and she did.

  As much as Penelope disliked the woman, she was uneasy that her departure left her alone with Beau. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “So did you go exploring this morning?”

  “Found the pub in the next village.” He strolled the terrace as he spoke. “Your vicar joined me for a pint.”

  “Oh? The Collingsworths seem to be everywhere.” Penelope twisted her glass.

  “Yes, they do. Are you truly considering allying yourself with that family? Your curate seems a good man, but his parents are poisonous.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “I do not know, Beau. But I am sorry you came upon Tom and me this morning. That kiss was his doing, I am afraid.”

  “They are insinuating themselves into your life, Pen.”

  “No. They are already part of my life. They have been as long as I can remember.”

  “And you feel more comfortable with them than you do with me,” he said flatly.

  She winced. “It is not you, Beau. It is rather the life you represent. It is as I told you in my note: I do not think I am meant to be the wife of such a distinguished man as you.”

  “What has happened to your pluck, Pen? Are you so willing to settle for being the wife of a country vicar?”

  His words flicked her on the raw. “Are you so willing to have an indiscreet wife who may harm your career and even endanger your life? Once we met, practically the first thing you were called upon to do was to defend my life. The second was to kill a man. The third was to marry me because of the scandal I was embroiled in.”

  Instead of replying, Beau walked to where she stood, took her into his arms, and kissed her. Very different from Tom’s gentle kiss, Beau’s was hot and passionate. His mouth moved over hers, drawing in her lower lip and teasing it. Penelope felt everything within herself soften. He drew her closer, holding her tightly to his broad chest. She put her arms around his neck, hanging on fiercely as her knees weakened. His lips went from her mouth to her cheek, her jawline, her ear, now soft as a whisper.

  Finally, he seemed to come to himself and pulled back, looking down into her eyes. “That is how you should be kissed. I would ask you to forgive me, but I am not at all repentant. I have been wanting to do that for some time. And we are engaged, are we not?”

  Penelope summoned her wits. “Um . . . I do not know.”

  “Do you want milk, Pen? Or do you want wine?”

  Turning, he walked into the house and disappeared. She collapsed into her nearby chair. She could not have followed him if she wanted to.

  Is that how kisses were meant to be? Wine, indeed! Penelope wondered how long it would be before the strength came back to her legs.

  When she did manage to walk back into the house, Evans informed her that Viscount Wellingham had gone back to his inn. He had left her to herself for the remainder of the day. Penelope’s thoughts were so jumbled she did not even try to make them out. Instead, she threw herself into her bedroom’s most comfortable chair and relived the kiss—over and over.

  Oh, Mama! When you were my age, I think you would have fallen for Beau.

  -P-

  It was nearly eleven o’clock before she woke the next morning. She rose refreshed, having slept better than she had since returning from London.

  Today, Elise and Aunt Clarice were scheduled to arrive. When would she see Beau again? Calling her maid, she decided upon a bath. She would have to wear the black evening gown again with the white lace fichu. Black and white were not her best colors, making her look even more pale.

  Penelope had more energy than she had since her father had died, but her middle was unsettled. Her spirits were by turns up and down. Beau was never far from her mind, but neither was Papa.

  After having her hair arranged in a chignon more intricate than anything she normally wore in the daytime, she went downstairs to await the arrival of her only remaining family. She found that Beau had called that morning and, upon receiving the news that she was not yet receiving, gone away again. She did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

  Before she had much time to ponder, she heard the arrival of a carriage. Hastening to the door, she went out on the front stoop. Thank heavens. It was the Ruisdell carriage carrying her aunt, the duchess, and Queen Elizabeth the Siamese.

  Penelope went straight to the carriage steps so she could embrace her aunt and the cat in her arms. Wordsworth ran in circles and gave small yips as he recognized Queen Elizabeth.

  “Aunt Clarice! It seems years since I left you. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I would not stay away at such a time, dear one,” she said. “I am so sorry about Sir Gerald. You must be heartbroken.”

  Elise came down the steps, strikingly beautiful in spite of her long journey. Her midnight blue eyes were tender. “Penelope, darling! You are looking far better than I expected.”

  “Seeing the two of you is the best medicine,” she said. “Let us go in to luncheon.”

  With the arrival of her family, Penelope felt less at odds with herself.

  “Where is dear Beau today?” asked Aunt Clarice over the asparagus soup.

  Penelope knew she blushed poppy red. “I was late arising this morning. I missed him, but I did expect him for luncheon.”

  “And here I am!” said the man in question. “Unpardonable to be late. My apologies, ladies. How was your journey, Your Grace, your ladyship?”

  Both women lit up at his presence and regaled him with tales of their journey.

  “. . . and so this dreadful man was making eyes at the duchess all evening,” said Aunt Clarice. “We so wished the duke could have been with us to give him a proper setdown. I was very nearly afraid of him.”

  “I am rather surprised the duke allowed you to travel without a gentleman escort,” said Beau.

  “We had two footmen,” said Penelope’s aunt. “But, of course, they were not dining with us. And we never expected the private parlors would be occupied. Such an annoyance.”

  “My husband fully intended to come, but there was a crisis in the government and he was obliged to stay.”

  “What crisis?” asked Beau.

  “It seems there is a French spy loose in London. He has been causing havoc. It was supposed that he turned a Cavalry Lieutenant who returned wounded. Apparently, the officer only pretended to have turned to set a trap for this Frenchman, but the spy determined what was going on and murdered the poor soldier. The duke is leading the hunt for him. He had dealings with the man once before, on the Peninsula.”

  “It must be St. Croix,” murmured Beau. “I had a brush with the man myself.”

  Penelope was alarmed. “What happened?”

  “Nothing that need concern you, my dear. He was not quite the challenge that Devereaux proved to be.”

  She shivered. “I am very glad you are here and not there,” she said.

  He gave her a penetrating look, and she blushed again, noticing that Elise bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

  “Well, dearest,” said Aunt Clarice, “now that we are here, you must have things we can help you with.”

  Remembering the reason for their visit, Penelope’s spirits plunged again. How could she have forgotten for a moment that Papa was dead? “Perhaps after the funeral is behind us, you can come with me to Northampton to order my mourning clothes.” Looking at Beau, who
was clothed in dove gray, she said, “You do not intend to wear pastels to the funeral, I hope?”

  “Dearest, I assure you I have an appropriate suit of blacks. You need not worry over me.”

  “That is all right, then.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I intend to weave a wreath of roses for Papa’s grave. Perhaps you ladies can help me with that. I have never done one before.”

  “If you tell me the roses you want cut, I can dethorn them for you,” said Beau.

  “That would be helpful,” she said.

  -P-

  Penelope, Elise, and Aunt Clarice spent the afternoon doing the flowers for the funeral. When they were certain that Beau had taken himself off to the baronet’s library to tend to correspondence, Aunt Clarice said, “What are your plans, Penelope? I am hoping that you will come home with me to London.”

  “I am in a quandary, Aunt. The vicar’s son with whom I grew up is curate in the next village. He has asked me to marry him. I thought at first that I would, but now I am not so sure. It seems that Beau actually wants to marry me, as well. I do not know which marriage would take me to the life I should lead.”

  “Have you no feelings for Beau, then?” asked Elise. “I am certain that I detect a degree of tenderness on his part, and he is not known for his gentler feelings.”

  Penelope flushed again. “I have to be practical, though, do I not? How long will those feelings last if I continue to make faux pas upon faux pas among the ton? I know village life.”

  “Of course you do,” said Aunt Clarice. “And if you marry Beau, you must remember that much of his life is spent at his estate in Somersetshire. He lives on the outskirts of a lovely village there. You could have the best of both worlds.”

  “If he does not strangle me in the meantime.”

  “I came from Shropshire, my dear,” said Elise. “It was an adjustment to marry a duke, to be sure. But he was the man I loved above all others, and I still love him. That is not to say he cannot be imperious at times, but I have learned how to bring him about.”