Penelope Featherington had longed for love since she learned how to read, devouring her first romance novel in a day.
Her mama had scowled at her and had unkindly informed her that the words on the pages would rot her brain.
Portia Featherington may have been correct, but Penelope would not let her mama best her.
The only reason Penelope would agree with Portia's brain rot allegations these days is because she had been unlucky in love.
At the tender age of seven and ten, not once had a hero scaled her window and visited her in her bedchamber undetected, where they would share a passionate kiss and declare their undying love for one another.