Penelope Read Online Free

and
currently warming the bed of the famous Venetian opera singer,
appropriately named, ‘The Kitten’. The delicate Countess of York
was cursed— the shopkeeper assured his customers— for she bought
shaving cream every fortnight to shave of her thick wiry beard
every morning.
    Now, the Duke
of Blackthorne annoyed these well intentioned folks. Oh, everyone
knew he was grim, powerful and wealthy enough to rival the
maharajas, but apart from that they knew diddly-squat. This irked
the women all the more because he was devilishly handsome,
unattached, sporting the right number of toes and fingers, with not
a limp and nary a flaw. It was their right to learn his past,
dissect his personality and gossip about his latest
attachments.
    He might have
confided his deepest, darkest secrets had someone enquired, but of
course no one dared to ask him.
    Penelope now
stood holding the same dark, brooding and very powerful duke’s ear.
She had seen the inside of his ear, which she learnt was squeaky
clean. The ladies of the ton would be jealous. She now knew more
about him than they did.
    It would have
been ideal if she let go of his ear right about now. She didn’t
because for some reason her brain refused to let her release him.
She didn’t want to face what happened once she did give him his ear
back. She emitted a sound, a cross between a whimper and a
squeak.
    The duke, tired
of waiting for her to act, took her wrist and extricated
himself.
    “Who in the
world is this, Anne?” he asked his sister, gesturing towards
Penelope in disgust.
    “Err … you
recall Mamma told you that Mrs Fairweather’s daughter was coming to
visit us for the season? This is she. I mean, this is Miss
Fairweather,” Lady Radclyff replied in distress.
    “Indeed,” he
said coldly, his eyes examining her from top to bottom.
    Penelope knew
what he saw, an unremarkable girl with dull brown hair and brown
eyes. Her dress, which was also unfortunately brown, had pink
flowers embroidered all over. She was conscious of the mud stains
and a few large damp patches from the rain.
    The Falcon had
been delighted with her dress, remarking that it exactly matched
his curtains at home. She didn’t think the duke found her dress
delightful.
    In fact, he was
looking at her as if she was a particularly hideous rodent.
    “Mother, how in
the world will you present this … this thing to society? She
obviously lacks manners and has no looks to speak of. Does she at
least have a good dowry?”
    “Charles! How
can you?” the dowager said indignantly.
    “She grabbed my
ear and then refused to let go. How is that ladylike? I doubt she
has ever met a duke in her life. From the state of her dress, I am
convinced that she is not only a clodhopper
but she is also impoverished. Mother, send her packing, she will
never catch a man.”
    “That’s enough,
Charles,” the dowager snapped.
    Penelope stood
staring at the duke in shock. He was horrible, she thought, glaring
at him.
    It was true she
didn’t have a dowry. Her father was landed gentry, and the only
connection they had with the aristocracy was her dead mother’s
cousin twice removed, who was third in line for an impoverished
kingdom. That cousin was now … also dead. They made just enough
money to live comfortably but not luxuriously. It was why the
dowager had insisted that she pay for her season in London.
    Still, the duke
had no right to speak about her so disdainfully. Her face flushed
in embarrassment. He had made her feel like an unwanted charity
case. She blinked rapidly to dispel angry tears and then took a
deep breath. She would not let this man, duke or not, make her feel
so awful. She had, after all, faced the Falcon.
    According to
Della, her cook back home, a lady’s best defence is her modesty,
cheerfulness and an elegant countenance when faced with a brute.
Della had managed to vanquish the crude butcher, who used to trick
his customers by packing more bones than meat, with politeness. The
butcher