Mrs. Butterfield rolled her brow into an arch that would have impressed the Romans.
Penelope might be on her fourth glass of wine, but she was a St. James, and the St. James’ had an uncanny ability to become quite foxed without looking like they’d licked the bottom of a tankard.
She scanned the table, noting several forks poised midair then directed her attention to the usurper. She wasn’t about to let the woman play hostess and neither was the Lady Butterfield. Of that, Penelope was certain. The imperceptible shake of all three of Lady Butterfield’s chins sealed her fate. Lady Butterfield expected Penelope to step into her mother’s role as Lady of the manor—a role Penelope was not eager to take on.
She wasn’t sure if it was the spirits, or Reggie’s patented tread carefully little sister warning that always signaled, when I get my hands on you, I’ll spank you—and no it didn’t matter if she were ten or her grand old age of twenty and a half. But she wasn’t about to let the troll seize her position as hostess, even if Penelope had been slightly tardy to dinner, even if Reggie was besotted with Mrs. La Pierre like Maggie had suggested, even if it meant hightailing it across the countryside. After all, it was his fault.
“We are not ready to adjourn just yet.” She picked up her fork to encourage anyone that wasn’t quite through to continue and dove into her apple crisp.
She wasn’t sure if she had a sudden sense of hyper-awareness, or if the chatter had become more animated after Mrs. La Pierre sat with an embarrassed bounce. She slanted a glance around the table and her eyes landed on Lord Westfield. Once again, she was caught in his gaze. His mouth hovered just short of a smile, but his eyes twinkled with—was it approval?
He raised his glass in salute and Penelope tore her gaze away only to run smack into Reggie’s very un-St. James like glower. Even the tips of his ears were bright red. Had Ferris ever been able to achieve that? She’d have to ask.
She finished her apple crisp, downed the rest of her wine, and glanced around the table one last time careful to avoid both Lord Westfield and her brother. “Now,” she addressed the ladies, “I think we will retire to the drawing room and let the men settle into their port.”
“Perfect timing my dear,” Lady Butterfield quipped, “Your father was just about to start in on one of his frightfully boring orations on the migratory patterns of geese. I find them to be dreadful creatures myself. Filthy things. I say we ban them from England altogether.”
The folly of Lady Butterfield’s statement brought a grin to Penelope’s face. “Indeed.”
Chapter 3
Penelope glided down the main staircase dressed in a pair of britches and skipped the squeaky seventh tread. It was late and the house was silent. She tip-toed across the marble foyer to the front door and freedom.
“Where do you think you are going?”
She whirled around, her heart jumping to her throat.
Reginald stepped out of the shadows, his Hessians echoing across the marble.
“I was just going out for some air. I thought I’d go for a ride.”
“This late at night? You’re liable to break your neck if that great beast you refer to as a horse, steps into a hole.”
“It’s a clear enough night.” Penelope shrugged.
“More likely you intended to flee.”
She narrowed her eyes but remained silent. She had thought about it. She’d even packed a sack.
“No matter, I have instructed Tom not to saddle your horse unless you are accompanied by me, Addison or Garrett.”
“What about Ferris?”
“Ferris is too susceptible to your charms.”
“I doubt that. More than likely, you two are at odds again.” Reginald and Ferris quarreled often over a sundry of topics—from the weather to horses to allowances and Ferris’ woefully empty purse. She turned on her heels and scuffed her way down the hall to the library. “If I am to be under house arrest, I might as well drink myself into oblivion.”
Reggie caught the library door with a grunt before it slammed in his face. Penelope headed straight for the decanter of whiskey, noting but ignoring her brothers lounging in front of the fire.
Reggie followed her. “You are not going to drink yourself into oblivion, Pen. I forbid it.”
She poured enough for a good-sized gulp.
“It’s not something a—” He stopped short when she turned in confrontation.
“I can drink you under the table, Reg, and we both know it.”
“Not anymore. It’s unbecoming of a lady to drink excessively.”
Penelope downed her drink in one swallow. “I’m not a lady.”
“You will be by the time we leave for London in two weeks.”
“I’m not going. You know I detest London, and how dare you use trickery to force me to attend the season.”
“Trickery?”
“Yes, trickery.”
“Now calm down, Pen.” Addison rose from the couch. “Reggie only has your best interest in mind.”
“Rubbish, He’s never been concerned about me entering society before. Why now? I’m practically on the shelf.”
“Don’t be angry, Pen. I think you’re overreacting.” Garrett chimed in. “Twenty-one is on the shelf. You still have six months.”
“I am not over-reacting and I have good reason to be angry with the lot of you.”
“And why is that?”
“First of all, you didn’t tell me there was going to be a house party. We were supposed to have a private family get together.”
“It must have been an oversight.” Ferris jumped in.
“Really? Then why did everyone else in this house—upstairs and downstairs—know except Maggie and I?” She glared from one brother to the next, satisfied with their guilt.
“I think it’s obvious why you weren’t told.” Reggie snapped. “You would have run off until the coast was clear.”
“For good reason.”
Reggie shook his head. “You can’t hide from society forever, Pen.” His anger was gone in the soft reply.
She hung her shoulders. “Why not?”
“Because I won’t allow it.”
“It isn’t my rightful place.”
“You are a St. James, Penelope.” Garret chimed in with his usual gusto.
She bit her lip. “What if the old rumors surface again?”
“You know of them?” Addison asked.
Penelope nodded but remained silent in her humiliation.
“Then it’s time we put them to rest once and for all.” Reggie stated with his usual authoritarian if I say it is so, then it is so, attitude.
“I’m still not going to London, Reggie, and you can’t make me. I’ll tell father I don’t want to go. He won’t force me if it makes me unhappy.”
“I’ve already spoken to father and he happens to agree with me. It’s time you made your debut.”
“I won’t go.”
“You will go. You will wear suitable clothing the entire time we are in London, and you will behave like a lady and attend balls and teas and dinner parties as well.”
Penelope stomped her foot then proceeded to pace the ranks. “Fine.” She stopped and glared at her brothers. “I will attend one season only and I get to bring Hell Spawn.”
“You won’t have any need for that great beast in London. You will use the St. James carriage as conveyance, or a proper mount better suited to a lady if you choose to go riding in the park.”
“Either Hell Spawn goes, or I stay here.”
“Just let her take the bloody beast.” Ferris cut in before his eldest brother could object. “It’s a reasonable request and if it makes Pen happy, I don’t see a problem with it.”
“Fine. Take the bloody beast if you must. But you will use a proper side saddle.”
Penelope wasn’t going to argue further. She’d gotten more than she’d hoped for.
“One more thing,” Reggie scowled, “From now on you are not to wear britches. You will dress like
a lady and act the proper hostess for the duration of the house party.”
Penelope ground her teeth but remained silent. This was Reggie’s payback for embarrassing the troll at dinner.
“Fine.” She stomped over to the door, but just as she touched the latch, a sinking notion came to her. She turned once more and surveyed her brothers.
“What is it?” Reginald asked.
She licked her lips. “I just have one more question.”
“Go on.”
“Why did you decide to have a house party in the first place?”
When none of her brothers spoke, she knew she had hit on the one question they did not want to address.
“Was it intended to be a test to see how I would do once we arrived in London?”
Bright red stains slashed across the four faces she most adored. The resounding silence confirmed her suspicions.
Ferris flung his hands in the air. “Bloody hell, Pen,” he groaned. “Don’t look at me like I killed a kitten. I told them it would be a disaster if you found out.” He pointed at his siblings. “I also told them it wasn’t necessary to have a trial party. But Reggie insisted on testing the waters, for lack of a better phrase.”
“Thanks a lot, dear brother.”
“I’m not going to be on Pen’s blacklist. I told you she’d be furious with us.”
Pen was furious. But when she looked at them, she realized she was more hurt and disappointed then angry. “I’m not furious. I’m just…” Her throat closed and she slid her gaze away.
Reginald walked up to her and put his hand under her chin. “I’m sorry, Pen. I just thought you might want to get your feet wet a little before plunging headfirst into the ton. I thought if you knew a few young ladies before we arrived in London then you might not think it was so bad.”
She nodded too afraid her voice would betray her emotions and left the library.
She headed for the drawing room and let herself out the French doors. If she wasn’t allowed to ride, then she’d take a walk in the garden. She stepped out onto the terrace, took a shaky breath, and swiped a tear. She would not cry.
* * *
Edward Westfield, Duke of Berwick, moved away from the library window and stood in the shadows watching Miss Penelope St. James, fight her inner demons. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She whirled to face him and just managed to stifle a cry. When she recognized him, she glanced back at the door as if ready to flee. “No, I mean, you startled me.”
“I didn’t mean to Boots.”
Her face flushed. “Don’t call me that.”
He moved closer into the faint light of the moon. He preferred anger over tears. “Why not, Pen. It fits you.”
“It does not, and you do not know me well enough to address me so.” Her chin shot up with indignation.
“I’d like to.” He kept his voice low and watched his words play across her face. The blush conflicted with the interest in her eyes.
“Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The moon is full, and we would be in plain sight if any of your brothers were to glance out the window.”
She looked longingly at the path.
“You will be quite safe with me. I promise not to frighten you again.”
Her head snapped back, and she squared her shoulders. “I’m not afraid.”
He bowed and motioned for her to precede him down the steps. “After you, Lady Boots.”
She rolled her eyes and took the steps two at a time.
They strolled in silence through the formal garden for several minutes, always staying within sight of the terrace. He wanted to let her choose the topic of conversation, so he waited for her to speak first. She started then stopped several times as if she were deciding what dress to wear only to toss it aside in favor of another.
“Lord Westfield, how long have you known my father?”
“Ah, we’re going to talk about me, I see. Very well, but please call me Edward.”
She stopped. “I couldn’t possibly. I mean it wouldn’t be proper.”
“I insist. Besides, there’s no need to be formal. No one else is around.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again, and started walking or marching rather. He liked not having to narrow his step or slow down, and Penelope seemed to need to stomp off her irritation with her brothers. He’d overheard their conversation, and even though he agreed with Reginald, Edward thought all the brothers had handled their sister poorly. Not in spirit, but in their actions.
“Let’s see,” he folded his hands behind his back and strolled along. “I’ve known of your father for several years but was only formally introduced to him a few months ago.”
“Was it at one of his Ornithological Society meetings?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I wouldn’t take you as the sort of fellow who enjoyed bird watching.”
“No? Why not? It’s a gentlemanly pursuit.”
“Well yes but—” She blushed again.
“Go on.”
“You seem to be more the outdoors-man type.”
“Bird watching takes place out of doors.”
“Well yes of course, but—” She hesitated, and he tilted his head.
“You seem like the type that would rather shoot them than count them.”
Edward burst out laughing. “There is more to bird watching than counting them.”
“Well of course there is. There’s cataloging them, studying their habitat, and migrating patterns.”
“Don’t forget their mating habits.”
“Yes well, there is that too, I suppose.” She looked down the path as if to route her escape. “What kind of birds do you study?”
“Birds of prey.”
“Do you specialize in any one species?”
“Falcons. My family has kept them for over a century. Our crest has two falcons on it and the family seat is called Falcon’s Field.”
“Oh, well I guess it does seem to suit you.”
“I’d love to show you Falcon’s Field someday. And the rookery as well. I’m quite fond of it.”
“Which? The rookery, or Falcon’s Field?”
“Both, Boots.” He laughed.
“I’m sure my father will be most impressed.” She frowned at the use of his pet name.
“I was hoping that you’d be impressed.”
“Not likely. I have the same opinion about birds as the Lady Butterfield.”
“I wasn’t referring to the rookery, Boots.”
“Would you please stop calling me Boots.”
Edward cocked his head. “I suppose I could come up with another pet name. How about britches?”
“Britches?”
“Or Penelope prickly pear. No, no. That’s too long.” He fingered his chin and shook his head. “Nothing else seems to fit except Pen Puss, and that one’s taken. It will have to remain Boots.”
“You are the most infuriating man I have ever met. And since you insist on trying to vex me, I see no further reason to continue our walk. I bid you good night Lord Westfield.”
He waited for about a dozen steps then let his voice trail after her. “Good night, Boots.” Her step hitched as if he’d swatted her backside. And it was a lovely backside.
Edward watched her with amused resignation until her silhouette disappeared inside. He shouldn’t tease her, but the emotions playing across her face were fascinating. Most women of his acquaintance were well schooled in keeping their emotions hidden behind carefully contrived expressions of serenity. But not Miss St. James. When she spoke, everything about her was animated. She made him feel alive.
She wasn’t the classic beauty like Alice La Pierre. Penelope’s mouth was too generous, and her skin wasn’t pale and translucent. Instead, she had a healthy glow, sun kissed and warm. She was taller than the average female, the top of her head just brushed his chin. Most women only came up to his shoulders. It was her eyes that held him captive though. Ever since she had walked in
—no strutted into the drawing room wearing britches, she had entranced him. Her eyes were alive with happiness and excitement. If he could ever get her to look at him like that, his heart would probably stop.
He frowned, not liking the turn of his thoughts. What was he thinking? He wasn’t interested in Miss St. James, or her misty green eyes. He was here to do a job for Whitehall, not court some blasted female.
He glanced up at the heavens and headed back to the house. The moon was too bright to check out the bluff and surrounding coast. No smuggler would attempt to come ashore on a night like this for fear of being spotted. He’d have to try again tomorrow night.
Chapter 4
Penelope hurried out the front door into the misty morning. A quick glance at the assembled group proved just how late she was. Everyone was already settled on their mounts except Lord Westfield, who was holding both Hell Spawn and his mount.
Once again, she had been stuffed into a hurriedly refitted, outdated, outfit that had been her mother’s. It was too tight across the bodice, too loose through the waist, and far too short to be an acceptable length. The amused smile on Lord Westfield’s face confirmed her summation. She was not going to let him bait her.
“Good morning, Lord Westfield,” she huffed, out of breath. She took her reins and attempted to step into the stirrup. Missed it entirely the first time, hooked it and her skirt the second time, and ended up hopping after her horse the third time when she got her foot caught. “Hold still you bloody beast.” She hissed.
A chuckle from behind was her only warning before a pair of large hands spanned her waist and vaulted her onto the back of her horse. She hit the saddle with an “Om-mph.”
Penelope glared down at her handler with a scowl. “Thank you for your assistance, Lord Westfield.” Civility before breakfast was over-rated.
He broke into a heart-stopping grin. “You are welcome, Boots.”
The man was too handsome for his own good—or hers. She pressed her lips tight to keep her tongue firmly behind her teeth and watched him gracefully swing onto his mount. She had to admit; he sat a horse very well. Very well indeed.
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