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

by Deborah Villegas

  “But Aunt Augustina never married.”

  “Precisely. I’m not afraid of my sister. I’m afraid of my sister turning into my Aunt.”

  Chapter 19

  Penelope tore out of the molly house and dashed down the street, away from the chaos, and to the waiting hackney around the corner. She stopped out of breath, half bent with her hands on her knees. Her side pounding its protest.

  Something was wrong.

  Amanda wasn’t with her. She peeked back up the street. Bloody hell. Amanda had been caught.

  She ran back. Before she could lend assistance, an arm snaked around her middle, and a hand covered her mouth.

  “Reggie is going to tan your backside when he finds out where you’ve been.”

  Penelope squelched a scream and went limp. Where in Hades had Garrett come from?

  He let go of her mouth, and she swallowed. Garrett seldom lost his temper, but when he did, she always made a point to disappear. It didn’t matter that it was dark at this end of the street, she didn’t need the light to know that Garrett had murder in his eyes.

  Addison, out of breath, struggled to keep his bundle under control. He tossed Amanda over his shoulder and followed up with a heavy smack on her friend’s backside.

  With a tooth jarring bounce, Garrett tossed Penelope on his horse.

  She yelped when he inadvertently squeezed her side.

  He climbed up behind and turned his horse with a click and a jerk of the reins.

  Addison followed suit, and in short order, they headed away from the molly house, away from the melee, away from Ferris.

  And straight to their accountabilities.

  She hazarded a glance at her cohort.

  Amanda had lost her wig in the scuffle, and her blond curls were escaping their pins. Reggie was going to be pissed when he found out his best wig was left in the dirt.

  A swift ride, and thirty minutes later, Penelope and Amanda were dragged into the foyer. Mute seemed to be the best tactic at hand. If neither confessed, both might be spared.

  Bowers took her inelegant entrance in stride. Not that Penelope regularly tripped across the threshold, but the only boots she could rummage up were a pair of Ferris’s and his feet had grown quite a bit. She was going to be forced to purchase her own now that his feet were larger.

  “Has my brother arrived home?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I believe he is above stairs with his Grace, the duke of Berwick, in Mistress Penelope’s room.”

  Garrett and Addison grinned at each other. Not just smiles, but delightfully wicked grins that broke the planes of their almost identical faces.

  Penelope’s stomach dropped. Edward was here? In her room? This was bad.

  Addison extended his arm toward the stairs. “After you…” He lowered his gaze to her groin. “Gentlemen.”

  If Penelope was going to play the game, she was going to use all her props. She gave Amanda the nod, graced her brothers with a withering glare, and raced up the stairs. “I cannot believe you two were at a Molly house. Just wait till Reggie finds out.” She yelled at the top of the landing.

  Two stunned faces, brilliantly enflamed, stared up from below.

  She grabbed Amanda’s hand and raced down the hall. “Just follow my lead.”

  Penelope strode into her room, arrogance personified and halted mid-stride. What in the world? She had expected both men to be ready to meet out considerable consequence. She had expected both men to threaten her backside within an inch of its cushion. She had expected both men at the ready with belts in hand.

  Addison and Garrett brought up the rear and slammed to a stop at the threshold with their mouths gaping and heads swiveling back and forth at the intimate scene.

  Penelope inhaled through her nose and floated both brows toward her hairline. “At least the men at the molly house had the decency to keep their britches on—mostly.”

  Amanda half smirked. “Or lower the lights to set the ambiance.”

  Edward and Reggie sat still as stone. Red raced up Reggie’s bare chest to his neck and into his cheeks.

  Stepping further into the room, Penelope studied the tub, the clothing strewn across the floor, and the remainders of their meal. “Are we interrupting?”

  She met her brother’s green-eyed fury with calculated amusement. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away. It was so rare to catch Reginald at such an uncomfortable, undeniably awkward disadvantage, and unclothed, it would be unconscionable, not to mention remiss of her not to take the high road, the pious road, the whose-been-caught-with-their-britches-down-now road. “Is this what they do upstairs at the molly houses? We didn’t get that far.”

  “Next time we’ll have to make a point of exploring further.” Amanda’s dead-pan expression mimicked Reggie’s to perfection.

  The muscles flexed across Reginald’s chest, and he sat forward, examining Miss Bishop with an agonizingly slow rake from head to toe. “You were at a Molly House?”

  Penelope shrugged as if it were a common occurrence. “Someone has to keep an eye on Garrett and Addison.”

  Garrett, wide-eyed and Adam’s apple bobbing, sputtered. “We were just—”

  Addison cut him off. “We never stepped foot into that den of iniquity. We didn’t even have a chance. When we arrived, men were bounding through the front door like a pack of dogs escaping their kennel. We spotted these two in the thick.” He glared at his sister as if he were on point.

  Oh, the endless opportunities that were open to her. It was like tossing breadcrumbs at pigeons and picking them off one-by-one. She matched his stance and poised the inferring question. “Why were you at the molly house?”

  “Why?” It was Addison’s turn to blanch.

  “It’s shocking enough to discover one’s brother, and one’s almost intended having a quiet interlude in one’s bedroom, but to find out that one’s other brothers are equally attracted to—well, not the opposite sex is rather—”

  “Disturbing?” Amanda supplied. Her tone could turn toast to dust.

  Penelope frowned. “Puzzling actually. Do you think it might be a St. James trait? I did enjoy our kiss as fleeting as it was.” She propped a casual hand against the bed post, the other on her hip, and crossed her boots. The action adjusted her balls.

  “You’re clinking.” Amanda snickered.

  “At least both of mine are still intact.”

  “You weren’t groped upon entry.”

  Penelope adjusted a cuff. “Which is why your potato slipped out of your hose. We’ll have to get you smaller britches so there won’t be any more mishaps.”

  Reginald’s mouth dropped open. “Those are my clothes.”

  * * *

  “Out. Everyone. Get out.” Edward had heard enough. He had seen enough. He had, had enough. No one, especially Penelope, was going to suggest that he strolled Sodomites’ Walk—even for a bit of amusement at his expense.

  She tugged her wig off and tossed it onto her dressing table then shrugged out of her half coat. “This is my room.”

  “Except for you, Miss St. James.”

  Penelope stepped back. “Your room is down the street.”

  With a firm grip on his drying linen and a firmer grip around Amanda’s upper arm, Reginald propelled her out of the room.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my room, Miss Bishop. You will put the clothes you stole from me back where you found them, then I am going to paddle you into the New Year, and after that, I am going to pen a note to your uncle, attach it to your pelisse and put you on the next coach to the Cornish coast. Mabrey can deal with your wayward transgressions.”

  Reginald’s bedroom door slammed shut, and Edward watched Penelope bite her lower lip.

  “I believe our work here is done.” Addison quipped, popping Garrett on the shoulder.

  Garrett shrugged on his way out. “I thought Reggie liked Miss Bishop.”

&nbs
p; Edward shut the door, turned the lock, and leaned against it. If the insanity of the St. James household was the norm, he was going to book a room in bedlam.

  “It’s time to hand over your bullocks, Boots.”

  Penelope paled and turned to the window.

  How anyone could mistake her for a man was beyond him. Her curves, her backside, the nip of her waist. The sway of her hips when she walked. A dead man would sit up and take notice.

  She fingered the curtains as if she was nervous. “You think I don’t know what Reggie’s agenda is?”

  “I don’t care what it is.”

  She flung the drapes and whirled on the balls of her feet, red faced and ready for a fight. “He wants to hand me over to the highest bidder, and you happen to be in the front of the pack.”

  “Your brother wants what is best for you.”

  “And you’re falling right into his trap. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “I happen to agree with him.”

  Penelope’s green eyes shone brightly against the red of her cheeks. “I won’t marry you. I turn twenty-one in three months. If I am not married, I will inherit a fortune. I will be independently wealthy, and no one will be able to tell me what to do anymore. I won’t have to answer to you, or Reggie, or what society and the ton dictates.”

  “I don’t care about your money.”

  “I do.”

  He closed the gap between them in three giant strides and pulled her close. “What are you afraid of?”

  She tried to push away, but he tightened his hold.

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  He kissed her temple. “You’re lying, Boots. And your trembling.”

  “I am not. And if I am, it’s because I’m not going to—”

  He kissed her. Kissed her like a dying man clinging to the last breath of life as it rattled out of his lungs. “Not going to what? Fall in love?”

  * * *

  Love? Her heart raced a country mile. “Relinquish my balls.”

  Edward chuckled. “Sweetheart there is only room for one set in this relationship and mine are attached.” He swept her into his arms and carried her to the hearth.

  Was she falling in love? She couldn’t be. It was just his proximity. Just his scent, his size, his dominant demeanor that made her stomach clinch and flutter and caused her to feel lightheaded when he was too close. And right now, he was too close. Too close to her heart. Too close for her to think straight. Too close to the tub.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t you dare.”

  Too late. Water splashed over her, around her, dunking her to her chin. She came up sputtering. “My Boots!”

  Edward laughed and tugged one off, poured the water out, then proceeded with the other. “If you don’t stop splashing there won’t be any water left in the tub.”

  She stood despite his warning. Her hair hung in soaked ringlets. Her waistcoat ruined, her linen shirt clinging to her arms, water dripping everywhere like a broken spigot. She pulled out her watch and waited for the water to drain between the face and the glass. “How dare you.”

  Edward tugged her cravat. “You need to learn how to tie a better bow. Boots.”

  She slapped at his hands, but it was no use. He ripped her waistcoat off, unbuttoned her shirt, dragged it over her head, and tossed the sodden lump aside. There was nothing left to do but… her throat constricted, and she swallowed the lump. “Damn you, Edward.” She cried. She never cried. St. James men never, ever, ever cried.

  He opened her fall and dragged her britches down to her ankles, careful of her side, which fortunately was healing well. The billiard balls splashed into the metal tub with a plunk. “I love you too, dearest. Step out of your pants.”

  She held onto his shoulders and did as she was told. Mortified that she was crying. Horrified that he had stripped her of her sodden clothes revealing an inadequate female form. Weak, soft, and oh good gracious—stupefied when he stood up and removed his robe. Muscles everywhere, tanned to the waist as if he spent too many days at sea, a dark trail of hair dipping to his own set of the very thing she would never have. Her downfall. The lack of necessary equipment that would automatically install her in the hallowed halls of Whites.

  She sank into the tub of tepid water, curled herself around her knees and hung her head. “Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.”

  Edward poured the buckets left by the hearth into the tub, warming the remaining water then stepped in. “Move forward.”

  Heat flashed across her face. “What are you doing?”

  “My bath was interrupted by your brother. I’m just finishing it with you.”

  “But—”

  He scooted her forward and sat behind her with his legs extended and pulled her back against his chest.

  She flailed her arms and grabbed the edges of the tub.

  “Relax, Boots. I’m not going to hurt you.” His hands snaked through the water in front of her, and he caught the soap. “I’m going to bathe you.”

  Half turning, she sliced him with a glare that fell short when she sniffled and bloody hell, she started to cry again.

  “What’s wrong?” He paled and then turned her, so she sat on his thigh. “Did I hurt your side? I’m sorry. I forgot.” He inspected the pinked flesh around the healing graze and frowned. “I don’t like the look of it.”

  “I’m fine. It’s not hot, just tender.”

  “I think we should send for the doctor.”

  “I’m fine.” She’d had worse gashes. She might be a bloody female but she sure as hell wasn’t going to have the vapors over a scratch.

  “Are you sure?”

  She sat back between his legs and swiped at her tears, annoyed by his concern, not sure why, and determined to ignore the tightening in her chest.

  She’d endured her share of a good scrubbing down by Reggie when she was little. The polecat incidence—resulting in several scrub downs with harsh soap. Refusing to bathe an entire winter—a bet with Ferris that had gone awry when Reginald returned home from Oxford for Boxing Day, taken one whiff and carried them both to the stable for a thorough dunking in a very cold trough. The mud fight—again, the trough.

  But this was different. This was not a scrubbing down. The was more of a rubbing down, and if this was how Hell Spawn felt when she gave him one, it was a wonder he didn’t faint from sheer bliss.

  Soapy hands splayed over her back and shoulders, rubbing her arms and around her torso, being extra gentle across her side, then up her ribs and under her breasts. His fingers played around her nipples, then slid south. She squeezed her thighs together and clinched her teeth, burning with embarrassment, aroused by his closeness, itching to run her hands over his flesh in the same manner he touched her.

  When Edward worked his fingers through her hair and massaged her temples, she moaned.

  “It’s about time.” He murmured near her ear. His voice held a smile.

  “Time for what?”

  “Time you relaxed enough to enjoy your bath. Lean forward and put your head back.”

  She complied and a slow, steady stream of warmth cascaded over her head and shoulders.

  “Now lean against my chest.”

  Without hesitation, she did, and he poured the rest of the water over the front of her torso, washing away the soap. She was done. She was turning into a prune. She didn’t care.

  “You’re not going to go to sleep on me, are you, Boots?” The rumbled chuckle melted into her.”

  “Maybe.”

  Soft kisses trailed behind her ear and hands slid across her breasts, thumbing her nipples until they were hard pebbles. “Maybe I won’t let you.”

  He turned her until they were chest to chest, and she gazed into the deep blue depths. His hands slid down, cupping her backside and pulled her close. The water sloshed as he slid her over him, pressing her into him, against him.

  It was hard to breathe. Quick pants were all she could manage, and she ached. Ached for the
same thing he had done to her in the parlor. Only this time, she wanted more. This time she wanted to touch him. This time she wanted to watch him come undone.

  She reached down, but he stopped her.

  “Don’t. Not yet.” His words sounded strained. Tight as if refusing to acknowledge pain and gritting his way through the worst of it.

  “Why?”

  “Stand up. I’m not going to take you in a bathtub. Not your first time. I don’t have the strength to hold out if you’re on top.”

  Top? What did that mean? Oh, good Lord. Reggie’s risqué drawings came to mind. She blushed to her toes, jumped out of the tub, and grabbed the damp linen.

  “Oh no, you don’t, sweet Boots.” Edward rose from the tub painfully erect, thoroughly annoyed, and decidedly predatory.

  Penelope scrambled away and around to the other side of the bed.

  “You can’t run this time.”

  “I’m not running.” Her wide-eyed foot dance suggested otherwise.

  As soon as Edward rounded the corner post, Penelope scrambled across the bed.

  He grabbed a foot and dragged her back with a quick swat across a well-shaped derriere. “This time, sweet Penelope, there will be consequences for your disobedience.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  He slid his hands up her thighs and nipped her bottom.

  With a yelp, she rolled to her front and kicked out.

  Edward was ready for her. He grabbed her ankles with a devilish chuckle and dragged her toward him until her bottom edged the side of the bed. He settled between her thighs and captured her hands in a very effective trap—well positioned to enjoy the view, sample the fruit, and accomplish the compromise.

  God, she was beautiful. Tight red curls protecting her mons, blushing pink from head to toe, curves to drive a man senseless, well-shaped, with generous mounds of pure heaven.

  He nuzzled his face between her breasts and inhaled her scent, kissing his way from nipple to nipple. “You left the house without an escort, went to a molly house dressed like a dandy, initiated Miss Bishop in the art of degeneracy, and did Lord knows what inside.”