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

by Deborah Villegas

  She normally did too and if it wasn’t for the yards and yards and yards of fabric she had to accommodate, she would not have looked like a fool climbing onto an ass. It was a bloody wonder more women didn’t break their necks riding. Negotiating the stairs was equally dangerous.

  “Shall we join the others?”

  Penelope looked up with a guilty start and shot a quick glance at the rest of the party a short distance away. “Of course.” She turned Hell Spawn and trotted toward them. She made it through the morning salutations, pointedly ignoring Westfield. The man had a way of keeping up yet always remaining just slightly behind her. He was like a shadow on a rainy day she was unable to shake.

  Mrs. La Pierre was not in attendance and neither was Addison. She managed to wiggle between Garrett and Ferris. A move she hoped would keep Lord Westfield occupied with Beatrice and Claire. Amanda rode alongside Reggie a few lengths ahead.

  “I noticed you had a rather difficult time mounting your beast this morning.” Garrett said breaking the silence.

  “Why don’t you try it in a dress and see how well you do.”

  “You could have used the mounting block like the other ladies.” Ferris chided, his derisive tone a reflection of his eldest sibling.

  Penelope turned a wicked smile on him. “You know Ferris, you sounded exactly like Reggie just now. I’ll bet in a few years, no one will be able to tell you apart.”

  His angry flush was ample evidence that her barb had struck home. He turned his mount and trotted back to ride with the others.

  “That was a tad harsh, Pen.” Garrett’s tsk, although delivered softly, carried a rebuke.

  She looked back at her brother and bit her lip in consternation. She had been harsh to both brothers. But did they have to point out the bloody obvious? She was having a difficult enough time maintaining her temper without them egging her on.

  “I’m sorry Garrett and I’ll apologize to Ferris as well as soon as I have a moment alone with him.” She peered at Garrett through lowered lashes and hoped to appear duly chagrined.

  Garrett’s nod was curt. “Apology accepted, Pen. Just try to remember that we aren’t the enemy.”

  She kicked Hell Spawn into a trot. The sting of tears threatening to spill over, and she took a shaky breath. What was wrong with her? She never argued with her brothers. They had always been thick as thieves. True they teased her, but they had never been cruel, and she was sure now was no different.

  She was acting like a silly bag of emotions. She was a St. James. A St. James female, but as long as the word male was in it, she could ignore the first part. Her only recourse was to emulate Reggie. That was logical. She would be unyielding. Formal. Without emotion. That settled, she took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and pretended to be a board.

  * * *

  “Why so stiff Boots?”

  Hell Spawn snapped at Edward’s horse’s neck and it pranced away.

  “God’s teeth, Edward. Haven’t you ever learned not to sneak up on a horse.”

  Her quick jerk on the reins and stern command to “Behave Hell Spawn,” was immediately obeyed.

  Edward grinned at her use of his Christian name. Even if it was part of a slur. He liked the way it rolled off her tongue.

  “It wasn’t my intention to startle you or your horse. I was calling your name when I rode up.” He’d ridden two lengths before he realized Penelope was no longer next to him and stopped. She was in the middle of the lane with a bewildered stare. “What is it, Penelope?”

  “Why were you calling my name?”

  He stared at his companion. Her lips slightly parted, the quizzical rounded gaze, the softening of her forehead surrounded by a halo of auburn strands curling about her face. His chest tightened as he took in her beauty and a wave of desire slowly rolled over his frame.

  “Lord Westfield, are you quite alright?”

  Edward laughed. “Ah, I see we are we back to that again. Very well Boots, but I do like it when you call me Edward.”

  She bristled and gave him what he supposed was her haughtier than thou dismissal.

  He raised his hand in defeat. “Now don’t go all stiff on me again, I just rode up to tell you that Miss Bishop’s horse threw a shoe and your brother Reginald took her and her horse back to the manor.”

  “Is she alright?”

  “She did look a bit put out when your brother pulled her onto his horse.”

  Penelope’s brows arched. “Not Miss Bishop. Her horse. Miss Bishop is obviously a skilled horsewoman if she was given Persephone to ride.”

  Edward tilted his head. “Persephone should be fine once the farrier puts a new shoe on her.”

  Penelope glanced back in the direction they had come. “No doubt Reginald will have a word or two or six to say about neglecting my duties as hostess. Bloody hell.” She bit her lower lip and then sucked it into her mouth.

  With a slight cough, Edward shifted in his seat.

  “Maybe I should return.”

  He purposely held her gaze and when he spoke, his tone was soft and low. “If you must, but I’d rather we continued with our ride. We’re almost to the coast and I’d like to see the bluff.”

  Hell Spawn snorted and pawed the earth to let his preference be known.

  Penelope patted her horse’s neck. “As you wish, sir.”

  Edward wasn’t sure whether she responded to him or her mount. The outcome was all that mattered at the moment, but damned if he wasn’t just a tad bit jealous of her horse.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eyes as they continued. Penelope rode with the assuredness of a man. She even used a man’s saddle that had been fashioned for her. Her skirts hiked up her calves when they cantered, and he hoped for a stiff breeze. It was childish, of course but the tantalizing silhouette of her when she walked away from him in the moonlit garden the night before had stayed with him in his dreams and he wanted to see more.

  “Why are you smiling Lord Westfield?” Her question caught him by surprise, and he felt his cheeks redden.

  The horses crested the hill and Edward pulled up sharp on the reins. Before him lay the sea. He walked his horse to the edge of the cliff and looked down to the beach a good distance below then back in the direction they had come. The country lane ended with an abrupt drop-off. An unsuspecting rider or carriage could plummet over the edge without ever knowing the danger that loomed ahead. In fact, had he gone out the night before that was precisely what might have happened to him.

  “You seem somewhat pale, Lord Westfield. Perhaps you should come away from the cliff before you swoon.”

  The hint of amusement in Penelope’s voice chafed. “I don’t swoon, Boots. But I do find it disturbing that you were not forthcoming about the abrupt end to the lane.”

  “The lane doesn’t end. It turns sharply and continues along the cliff.”

  Edward scanned the lane more closely. Indeed, it did turn down and continue.

  “Clever, is it not?” Penelope urged Hell Spawn closer to the edge. “My forefathers used this lane as a trap for their enemies. During battle they would pretend to retreat. When their opponents gave chase, our men would turn sharply to the left as soon as they went over the rise and continue down the lane which curves back on itself about a quarter mile down. The first flank usually went over the cliff, the middle stopped just in time, only to have the rear push the middle forward. By the time the enemy realized what had happened our men would have them trapped.”

  The gruesome image of horse and rider plunging to their death on the sharp rocks below sent a chill up Edward’s spine. “Am I the enemy?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Do me a favor, Boots. Let me know when you make up your mind. I think having you for an enemy could be catastrophic to one’s health.”

  “Why on earth would I ever want to do that, Lord Westfield? Then you would be on guard.”

  Edward nudged his mount closer until his knee brushed Penelope’s leg a
nd spoke just above a whisper. “In that case, my dear, I will consider you mine enemy and keep you close at hand.”

  A bright stain slashed her cheeks, but she didn’t so much as flinch.

  He had to give her credit for courage. Most men would have backed off—not to mention wet themselves.

  “Would you like to continue our ride to the bluff now?”

  Other than her pink cheeks, she appeared unaffected by his mild threat. He threw his head back and laughed. Miss St. James’ tenacity delighted him. Any other female would have turned her horse around and headed straight to the manor. “By all means, Boots, lead on.”

  The tightening of her lips was the only indication of her peaked irritation. She surveyed the ridge line and arched a determined brow. “Would you like to race, Lord Westfield?”

  “That depends. Are you going to try to push me over the cliff?”

  Her smirk drew his attention like a magnet, and he wanted to kiss it away, leave her breathless and panting and needy, and then spank her because pushing him over the cliff, he suspected, was exactly what she wanted to do.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She tossed a dismissive wave. “That would be entirely too easy. I would much rather come up with a more fitting demise.”

  “In that case, would you like to make a friendly wager?”

  Penelope tilted her chin until she appeared to be looking over her nose and regarded both horse and rider. Edward’s horse, Zeus, had caught a stone on route to the St. James’ estate and he’d had to borrow a horse for their early morning ride. “All right, see those trees in the distance?”

  He surveyed the landscape. The trees were approximately a quarter mile away.

  “One-hundred pounds if I win.”

  “One-hundred pounds?” Was she daft, diabolical, or hoping he’d turn her down?

  “You wanted to make a friendly bet, my Lord, but if you don’t think you can win…”

  Her voice trailed off with a distinct I dare you to decline hauteur, and she leveled her misty green eyes on him. There was nothing coquettish in her gaze—it was bold, brash, and decidedly wicked. She egged him on, daring him to accept the wager, and damned if he wouldn’t.

  He nudged his horse closer until they were now thigh-to-thigh and leaned toward her. “And if I win, you must give me a kiss.”

  A flush streaked across her cheeks and she pulled her horse back a step, so they were no longer touching. “That is not a proper wager, Sir.”

  “True,” Edward relaxed his shoulders. “A kiss certainly isn’t worth one-hundred pounds, so in addition,” he ignored the sputtering from his companion, “If I win, from now on, you must also call me Edward.”

  He took wicked delight in watching the warring emotions play across her body. From the quick flash of fire in her suddenly bright green eyes, to the slight flare of her nostrils, her plump bottom lip protruding outward with indignation and the inevitable rise of her bosom pulling the third button between the valley of her breasts on her short coat tight. All-in-all, causing his loins to push painfully against his trousers.

  “Agreed, Lord Westfield.” She enunciated his name as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth. “First one into the tree line wins.”

  “It’s settled.”

  The words had barely left his lips and Penelope lunged forward taking advantage of his inattention.

  He turned his horse in hot pursuit. The little witch. He galloped behind, bombarded by clods of dirt. Her hat flew off and he dodged the felt projectile. He urged his mount forward and soon they were side by side.

  Penelope’s hair had escaped its pins and her skirts bunched around her waist and flew out behind displaying long alabaster legs above her boots. When she glanced at him, his breath caught in his chest. Her look of pure exhilaration reminded him of what it must be like to soar on the wind.

  With a quick slash of her riding crop to her horse’s flank, it surged forward.

  Less than one-hundred feet to go, he used his crop as encouragement. His horse whinnied, Penelope’s horse faltered, and it gave Edward the edge he needed to shoot past her and win.

  He’d galloped a good twenty paces when he heard a high pitched shriek and craned his head back just in time to watch Penelope vault off her horse and stomp out a string of expletives. She tossed her reins and grabbed Hell Spawn’s harness, jerking the horse’s head down so they were eye to eye.

  “We lost!” she yelled at the horse. “We bloody lost because you threw the race when that stupid mare cried out. I should have your bullocks chopped!”

  Hell Spawn stomped his forelocks, yanked his harness out of his mistress’s grip, and cantered away bucking and kicking the air with extreme agitation.

  Edward stared transfixed on the scene. Mount and mistress blowing puffs of air, tossing their manes, and kicking the earth.

  Then to his horror, Hell Spawn charged.

  Edward’s heart landed in his seat.

  Penelope stood rigid, hands on hips, feet spread, head tilted forward as if ready to butt heads with her horse.

  He was too far away.

  The blood drained from his face.

  Penelope would be trampled.

  It happened too fast. One moment, Hell Spawn barreled forward and the next, he practically sat on his butt and skidded to a halt a hairs breath from his mistress. He let out a loud nose-to-nose whinny, blew her hair back with a snort, then shook his head with vigor and pushed his nose into her chest.

  Penelope fell onto her backside.

  With a high-pitched neigh, Hell Spawn trotted away, throwing his head from side to side as if he were laughing at a great joke and completely satisfied with the outcome of his prank.

  If Edward hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed the story told. Did Penelope’s brothers know how unpredictable and quite frankly dangerous, her horse was? Did they have any idea the extent of their sister’s insanity? That was the correct terminology, wasn’t it? Did anyone even once attempt to tame the shrew? Or was it just easier to let her have her way. Out-of-sight and all that. It was apparent when he’d first seen her that she had been left neglected on the wild Cornish coast to do as she pleased. But by God, if he had any say, her behavior would be severely routed, and he was just the man to do it.

  * * *

  “Come back here, you great, black, bloody beast.” Penelope shrieked at her horse and pounded the dirt with her fists in a fit of temper.

  Hell Spawn neither acknowledged her command, nor veered off his course. He hit the lane and cantered in the direction of the stables.

  A shadow fell over her and she looked up at the dark silhouette of her tormentor.

  “Do you always lose arguments with your horse?”

  Penelope stilled and heat flooded her face. She sat, legs sprawled, skirt bunched around her knees, and prayed for the ground to open and swallow her. “Hell Spawn will have his oats rationed for a year.” She rolled to her knees, forgoing the offered hand, and stood. There was no use pretending she wasn’t caked in dirt and didn’t bother smoothing her wrinkled skirts. She huffed what she hoped was a dignified dismissal and walked in the wake of her horse.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Boots?”

  “My hat can go to Hades.”

  “What about our wager?”

  She stopped. Her heart thumped against her ribs. The kiss. She ground her teeth and turned. “You would require me to satisfy a wager, knowing full well that my horse threw the race?”

  He stood there, impeccable, arrogant, waiting. His mount raised its head from cropping the tufts of grass and looked on expectantly.

  A stiff wind blew across the bluff shoving against her back and molded her skirts to her legs as if prodding her forward. Her hair whipped around her face tangling in the wind and she dragged her hand over unruly locks.

  “Are you going to welsh on our bet?” The lift of his brow challenged her.

  “Welsh?” She sputtered and stomped out a pace. How dare he? How dare h
e suggest that a St. James would ever renege on a bet? She straightened her spine and strode up to him stopping so close her skirts wrapped around his legs. So close that if she didn’t steel herself, the buffeting wind would propel her into his chest. “Fine, My Lord. You may extract your payment.” She pinned him with as icy a glare as a proper St. James could muster, then tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and waited.

  And waited.

  She opened her eyes.

  Edward stared at her, amusement hovering on his lips. “I believe the wager requires you to kiss me.”

  The muscles of Penelope’s face tensed like dried out leather and she stepped back. Kiss him? How? She had never kissed anyone—or been kissed for that matter, except of course by her family and she was sure that wasn’t the kind of kiss he was expecting.

  Then again, the wager hadn’t specified what kind of kiss, only that she kiss him. She leaned in on tiptoes, dropped a quick peck on his cheek, and stepped back. That should suffice.

  Lord Westfield’s surprise more than compensated for her defeat.

  He drew a scowl and his lips thinned. “That is not appropriate recompense.”

  She sucked on the inside of her cheeks to bite back a laugh. He looked thoroughly put out and frustrated. “Of course, it’s appropriate. It’s exactly how I kiss my brothers.”

  Before she could retreat any further, he draped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his chest. “I am not your brother, and you damn well don’t share any brotherly affection for me.”

  His lips came down on hers so fast she couldn’t catch a breath. She tried to pull away, but his hand held the back of her neck forcing her to remain locked in his kiss.

  His tongue slid across her lips and slipped into her mouth.

  With a moan, she leaned into him, relaxing against his chest and her arms encircled his neck. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. Heat flooded her body wherever they touched, and her nipples hardened against the friction of his chest. Hands skimmed across her back and lower, cupping her bottom and pressing her against his hips and a well-defined bulge.