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

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Penelope considered this. “Beau intimidates me, though I do not like to admit it.”

  “I can see where that might be, dear,” said Aunt Clarice. “But I do not hold with the belief that women are inferior creatures. You are blessed with a beautiful face and form. Not only that, you have a very good head on your shoulders. You are a talented artist, you are compassionate, and you have a knowledge of natural history that sets you apart from the average member of our sex. In short, you have what it takes to be an Original, like the duchess, or Sukey, or me. Originals do not quail before society, they advance it.”

  Penelope absorbed her words like a sponge taking in water. “Really? I should like very much for my life to make a difference. That is one reason why I thought I should stay in the village. At the one ball I attended in London, it seemed the ladies were very artificial.”

  “And you are not,” said Elise. “You are genuine. It will out. Tell me truly, Penelope, do you think you might fall in love with Beau?”

  Memory of his kiss assailed her. She brought a hand to her lips and once again felt weak at the thought. If he had kissed her for a moment more, she would have turned witless. It had been an experience from another realm—one where the sensible Penelope had not thought to dwell.

  “I do not know. I am more comfortable with Tom. That counts for something, surely?”

  “You have more courage than that, girl!” said Aunt Clarice heartily.

  “It is a big decision, Aunt. The woman who takes on Lord Wellingham will have her life’s work before her.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beau was walking in a nearby wood. He was not familiar with this type of frustration. In the society he was accustomed to, he had only to make his interest known, and women virtually fell at his feet. His feelings for Penelope were a new experience.

  That kiss! He hoped he had not frightened her, but once he had begun, he had difficulty reining himself in. The woman—and she was a woman, not a girl—had drawn him to her like iron to a magnet. He had scarcely been able to tear himself away. This powerful attraction had not figured in his plans.

  He slapped his riding crop against his boots and looked around him. To his surprise, he had come upon a meadow of bluebells. This particular variety were surely the color of Pen’s eyes. Damn! What would he do if she decided to marry the curate and stay here in her home village?

  He wouldn’t take it well, that he knew. Beau had thought about returning to London after the funeral to take up the business of St. Croix and give Pen her freedom to make her choice, but now he felt he could not leave her.

  Could Lady Clarice and the duchess perhaps persuade her to come back to London again? To give it another try? He could take her to the British Museum to see the Elgin Marbles. Surely she would enjoy that. And the Kensington Gardens? She could set up an easel and sketch. And, of course, the Royal Menagerie at the Tower would interest her. Had she ever seen a lion? Pen would be fascinated. He needed to show her that there were advantages to living in London.

  Turning his back on the bluebells, he strode back to the manor. He would speak to Lady Clarice about it immediately. Perhaps she could bring it up with Pen after his fiancée had a chance to recover from the emotions of the funeral.

  -P-

  Dinner that evening was a somber affair. Pen was clearly exhausted. But what troubled him more was that she wouldn’t meet his eyes or even speak to him directly. It was their first encounter since their kiss. Was she shy of him? That didn’t seem likely, knowing her forthright nature.

  It was more likely that she was trying to pretend it never happened and that she was not attracted to him. To do her justice, he realized that her grief was hanging heavily on her. All he wanted to do was to pull her into his arms, draw her head down on his shoulder, and comfort her.

  “I am reading the most delightful novel,” he said. “I found it by Sir Gerald’s bedside.”

  “Oh!” Pen was clearly startled into speech. “That is Elise’s novel.”

  “Duchess? You write novels?”

  “Such as they are,” she said, a humorous glint in her eye. “I have a nom de plume.”

  “Did you model your vicar on Mr. Collingsworth?”

  “Who?”

  “Pen’s vicar.”

  She laughed. “No. But he must be a type. Is Mr. Collingsworth ambitious?”

  “Very,” said Penelope. “It is the worst thing, but I cannot seem to like the man. Fortunately, his son Tom is quite different. He is a curate at present and will be doing the funeral service tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that is good,” said Lady Clarice. “If Mr. Collingsworth, Senior, is anything like Mr. Hedstrom in Elise’s novel, it would be very hard for you to have him do it.”

  “The younger Mr. Collingsworth is a decent fellow,” said Beau. He hoped his voice sounded even and respectful.

  “When shall you go back to London, Beau?” Lady Clarice asked.

  He took a gamble and said, “Whenever Pen is ready to go.”

  “Oh!” his fiancée said. “You must not wait for me, Beau. Why, I have so much to do! I must get the house ready . . . and oh, I do not even want to think of all the things! I cannot seem to get anything done. I find myself drifting, thinking of Papa and Mama and all the times we had together in this house. My whole life! I must say good-bye to it properly. And I cannot begin to do that until after the funeral.”

  His heart dropped. Of course she would feel that way. How wrong of him to try to hurry her. He could not stay gone from London indefinitely, but how could he go and leave the field to young Collingsworth?

  “We will talk about it tomorrow, shall we?”

  “I realize I sound muddleheaded, but I do not think I am ready to make any decisions yet.”

  “That is certainly understandable, my dear,” said her aunt. “I am entirely at your disposal. We will get everything done up right before we leave.”

  Pen’s brow furrowed, and she looked down at her plate of mutton but did not eat. Beau saw that he must talk to Lady Clarice and warn her that their plans might not stand against the draw Pen felt to her home village and Tom.

  After dinner, they adjourned to the drawing room, Beau forgoing his port.

  The duchess said, “My dear Penelope, you look as though you could do with an early evening. You do not need to entertain us. This is not an ordinary visit. Let me go up with you and see you off to bed. Beau and Aunt Clarice can have a comfortable coze.”

  Pen did not protest. Rising, she kissed her aunt good night and gave Beau her hand, which he bowed over. She left the room with the duchess.

  “Oh, I am worried about that girl,” Lady Clarice said. “I do not hold with all this business of entails. One day, in a more enlightened age, it shall be done away. Most women I know are far more fit to inherit than their spendthrift brothers about Town!”

  Beau hid a smile. A proper Radical, Lady Clarice. She probably believed women should have the vote, as well.

  “My lady,” he said. “We have things to discuss.”

  “Oh?” She turned her eyes on him. “Is something amiss?”

  Beau proceeded to explain Pen’s difficulties in making a decision to leave Northamptonshire behind. He concluded by saying, “This curate wants to marry her.”

  “And are you bound to let him, then?” she asked.

  Standing, he cleared his throat and paced to the mantle. “I am more inclined to marry Pen myself than I have ever been. I find I have grown quite fond of her. The trouble is, why should she take on the ton and all of what she sees as the disadvantages of my position when she feels happy and at home here?”

  “The duchess and I have been trying to persuade her in favor of London, as well. Under the proper conditions, I believe she could thrive there. And so I have told her.”

  He clenched the fist that resided in his trouser pocket. “I do not want her to marry the curate, but I must allow her the freedom to do whatever she wishes. I will play the part of the jilted suitor, if I
must. I only wish for her to be truly happy.”

  She looked at him, a glimmer of understanding in her eye. “Am I mistaken or do you sound like a man who is in love?”

  He tapped the mantle briskly with his knuckles. “Confound it, Lady Clarice. I think you have found me out.”

  “I will observe this curate tomorrow, and then I shall give my niece the benefit of my counsel. What do you suppose Sir Gerald would have wanted?”

  “He liked me well enough, I believe. I do not know what his opinion of young Collingsworth was, however. He did send Pen to you so she could find a husband in London.” He brooded a moment.

  “Leave it to me to fancy the one woman in England who would rather marry a penniless curate in an obscure village than a viscount with a comfortable fortune.”

  Lady Clarice smiled at him. “I do not know that the title or the fortune will tempt her, but the fact that you love her might.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Tom concluded the prayer over Papa’s grave while tears rolled down Penelope’s cheeks.

  It was impossible to make sense of the grief and worry whirling through her head. She refused to perform the ritual of throwing soil on the casket and simply walked away from the gaping hole in the earth, holding on to Aunt Clarice’s arm. Beau walked on her other side, his hand at the small of her back. Part of her wanted to grieve in private, but the other part was afraid that loneliness would completely devastate her.

  She stayed for only a few moments in the dining room where Cook had laid out a buffet of cold meats, cheese, bread, and vegetables. Tom, Beau, the vicar, Aunt Clarice, and Elise hovered about her, but she could not contain her tears and had no appetite. She did not want to be downstairs when the new owner of Beeches appeared. That she could not bear today. He had been at the funeral—at least, she thought the dour stranger near the vicar had been Mr. Swinton. Excusing herself, she fled to her bedroom.

  She collapsed in her armchair by the welcome fire. It had been a cold and windy early May day. Penelope was just glad the rain had held off. Wordsworth whined at her feet, and she patted her lap for him to climb up.

  “What would I do without you, you beautiful boy?” She ruffled his fur and scratched him behind the ears. The homely action grounded her. There had been entirely too much drama in her life in recent weeks.

  But her life as someone’s child was over. Soon, she would leave her childhood home behind. If she could ever get past her grief, she would have to embrace her life as a woman with hefty decisions to make. The most important decision a woman ever made in her lifetime was who she would marry. That choice determined where she would live, what she would wear, even what she would eat and who her friends would be.

  Tom’s tribute to her father had been lovely. He was a gifted speaker with a tender heart. Surely she could do worse in a husband.

  Now the rain spattered against her window, and she heard the wind in the trees. She could sit here and mourn over the fact that this room was not destined to be hers much longer, or she could force herself to consider the future.

  Really, considering her station in life, she was very blessed to have two suitors who wished to marry her. What would Mama advise her to do?

  Her mother had made a statement with her own choice. She had held out against the importuning of many titled, wealthy gentlemen. Would she put Beau in that camp?

  Penelope’s situation was different than her mother’s. Tom was not precisely the love of her life. She was comfortable with him. She knew exactly what their life held should they marry.

  Beau was the wild card. That kiss! How could she ever forget that kiss? Was that the kind of attraction that had lit her parent’s marriage? Thinking back, she thought perhaps it was. Her parents were always touching one another in little ways. And there was that passionate kiss she had caught between them in the still room.

  But they had shared many interests as well. And Mama knew exactly what her life would be like in a small village. She told Penelope that she had purposely chosen that life. The marquess had kept his family in London most of the year. After seven Seasons, Mama had longed for a quieter life.

  As Penelope sat stroking her dog, she gradually let go of her attempt to order her thoughts logically. This wasn’t science. There was another factor here that she was leaving out: she was overwhelmingly attracted to Beau, and he to her. Closing her eyes, she laid her head on the chair back, recalling how he had stirred her body and soul with his caress. Was she falling in love with Beau?

  She suddenly knew that her Mama would assure her that she was. Despite her grief over her parents, there was a warm and happy place in her heart when she thought of him. That place felt a lot like home.

  The realization was stunning. She must think it through. Could she, after all, adapt to life in London if she married Beau?

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Startled, she called out, “Who is there?”

  “It is I, Elise. I hate to bother you, but I have an important message.”

  Penelope opened the door to find the duchess, her forehead creased in apparent distress.

  “Come in, Cousin. What is amiss?”

  “Do not worry. It is only that Beau wishes to meet with you for a few moments in the morning room. He told me to tell you he has been recalled to London by Lord Castlereagh.”

  Penelope’s hands flew to her hair. “Oh, my goodness. I am certain my hair is falling down. And my lace has come undone.”

  “I will help you with your hair. Here, let me see to your fichu.” She adjusted Penelope’s lace. “There, now. Sit down, and we will just fix your chignon a bit.”

  “Oh, dear, I look really dreadful. My eyes are red, and my face is white.”

  “Beau does not expect anything else, Penny. He can guess at the depth of your grief.”

  “He has been quite wonderful, has he not?” Penelope asked. Then Elise’s words registered in her mind. “Oh, dear. He is really going to London. I shall miss him exceedingly.”

  “That is why he wishes to say good-bye in person.”

  “Of course.”

  Beau was striding in front of the mantle when she entered the morning room. He looked almost completely unfamiliar in his blacks. His blond hair was mussed, as though he had been running his hands through it.

  “Pen!” he said. “There you are, love. I am sorry to disturb your solitude, but I did not want to leave without saying good-bye.”

  Without a second thought, she ran straight into his arms. Though clearly startled, he embraced her. All her swirling emotions came together in one desire: to kiss him again. She lifted her face to his.

  His kisses were gentle at first. “I am sorry I have to leave you at such a time.” Then he deepened the kiss, and she felt warmth and a new kind of excitement course through her.

  When Beau ended the kiss, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart. “I will miss you. I know your business must be important, but I was looking forward to your dealing with Mr. Swinton. I cannot think that I will like him.”

  “He is here in the drawing room. I was speaking with him before the courier came. He will do well by the estate, I think.”

  “I am glad you think so.”

  He stroked her cheek. “Nothing less than a direct summons by Lord Castlereagh could take me away, I promise you.”

  His words reassured her. “I am sure you are pining for London and all the amusements there, but your presence has been such a comfort to me. I do not know how I should have borne Papa’s death without you here.”

  “You are stronger than you think, love. You can stand up to anyone, including the redoubtable Mrs. Collingsworth.”

  “I do not know that I can stand up to you when you kiss me like that,” she said with a little sigh. “Will you please do it again?”

  He obliged her, and his passionate mouth stirred her and swept her away from the morning room and all her humdrum expectations of lif
e.

  “Do not worry,” he said. “I am equally at your mercy.”

  “I shall follow you to London when I have seen to things here,” she told him.

  “You think you can be happy there?”

  “I am presenting it to myself as a challenge,” she said, smiling up at him. “I generally do well with challenges.”

  “You shall not pine for your village and your curate?”

  “Not as long as there are more kisses to be had.”

  “Always,” he said, and the idea thrilled her to her slippers.

  “Is your mission in London likely to be dangerous? Does it involve that French agent?”

  “I do not know for certain, but I imagine that it will.”

  “You must take the greatest care, Beau. I could not bear to lose you.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. “I will not do anything foolish, I promise you.”

  “I shall write to you, and you must write me back.”

  “Yes, love. I shall do so with pleasure.”

  “Perhaps Arabella could write, as well. I long to know her better.”

  “I am certain she would enjoy that.”

  Thunder cracked outside the window. “Must you ride in the rain?”

  “I am afraid I must.”

  She put her arms around his waist and held him tightly. “Godspeed, Beau.”

  “You will be ever in my thoughts,” he whispered. “But if I do not leave now, I will not be able to.”

  She walked him to the door and, as they were in the sight of Evans, gave him her hand to kiss. He brought it to his lips and gazed over their hands into her eyes. “Be well, my love.”

  Fighting tears, she let him go and then ran to the library window to watch him ride away.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thoughts of Pen and plans for their life together occupied Beau during his ride home. What had caused her change of heart? Perhaps she would never admit it, but he rather thought that it must have been the challenge of his kiss. It was altogether pleasing that she liked kissing. She had certainly shaken up what he now saw as his own life of ennui.