Free If He's Sinful by Hannah Howell Page A

coffee, hoping the mundane chore would calm her before there was any attempt at conversation.
    Each man introduced himself, bowed, and kissed her hand before seating himself, and accepting his refreshments. Penelope became more and more alarmed with each introduction even as she attempted to note one thing about each man in order to remember him. Cornell Fincham, tall, fair-haired, and handsome, whom she knew to be the third son of a royal duke. Brant Mallam, the earl of Fieldgate, a nearly beautiful man with dark hair and dark eyes. Whitney Parnell, the baron of Ryecroft, an apparently flirtatious and jovial fellow until one looked into his steel gray eyes. Victor Chesney, the baron of Fisherton, who looked almost bland with his brown hair and hazel eyes, until he smiled. And then, of course, Radmoor, the viscount who made her heart clench with want. Five handsome bachelors all seated in her parlor. The matchmaking mamas of London would hang her if they ever learned of this meeting.
    By the time she took the only place left available near the table, Penelope’s stomach was tied up in knots. The fact that this seat was next to Radmoor only made it worse. After all, he had seen her very nearly naked and she had seen him gloriously naked. The rules of polite society she had been taught did not cover such a situation. Nor had it instructed her in how to carry on polite conversation with five men who knew she had been tied to a bed in a brothel.
    Ashton finished a delicious lemon cake and noticed a few smudges of flour in Penelope’s hair and on one sleeve of her gown. For reasons he could not begin to understand, he thought such dishevelment only made her more adorable. “Did you make these?” he asked, waving a hand toward all the teacakes and biscuits and trying to break the weighted silence they were all locked into.
    “Ah, aye. I mean yes, I did,” she replied. “I like to cook. It helps me think. A cook I know well made the raspberry tarts, however. She is always sending food here, but the people she works for do not know that. They will not miss what she sends,” she hastily added.
    “The secret is safe with us,” said Lord Mallam as he helped himself to another raspberry tart.
    “Why have I never seen you at Hutton-Moore House?” Ashton asked, unable to play any more polite games, suddenly desperate for some answers to all the questions swirling in his mind.
    Penelope silently repeated every curse she knew, knowing she would be ashamed later at how long that list was. It was apparent that Radmoor now knew exactly who she was, but she grasped at the very small chance that she could still persuade him that he was wrong. “Why should you have?”
    “Your last name is Wherlocke.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “It says so on the front of this house. There is a placard by the door that says WHERLOCKE WARREN.”
    “Oh. I had forgotten about that. My cousin Orion put it up.” And she intended to kick him soundly for that the next time she saw him. “His idea of a little jest. It was either that or the BY-BLOW BUNGALOW.”
    Ashton did not know whether to be shocked or to laugh, and noticed his friends suffering the same torn sentiments. “This is where your family houses its…” He hesitated, struggling for the right word, one that would not cause insult, and then noticed that she had the glint of mischief in her eyes that he had seen in young Paul’s.
    “Naturals?” she said and grinned when Ashton’s friends laughed. Even Ashton smiled. “Aye, it is, but it was not exactly planned that way. I fear my father was not faithful to my mother, hence Artemis and Stefan. When Mama married again, her new husband refused to house the boys, a refusal made only after the marriage was done, of course. My mother did not have the will or, mayhap, the true desire to fight the man on the matter and so Aunt Olympia gave me this house. It was sitting empty, you see, for it was no longer in an area that people considered