Page 16 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Soon she was out like a light, asleep on the chair with her head tilted to the side and her hair falling over her chest with the quill dangling in her fingers. Mystic images slithered through her mind in ethereal dreams and not much mattered…until she felt a touch.
Her head canted to the side, “No…”
“My Lady,” a low voice said near her ear. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. May I help you to your rooms?”
Penelope blinked herself awake, and Mr. Moore’s green eyes swam into her vision. She sat up quickly—a bit too quickly—as her forehead collided with his and pain ricocheted through her head. Slapping a hand over her smarting forehead, Penelope felt as she would die in shame.
“I…I am so sorry, Mr. Moore,” she groaned, “so very sorry.”
Mortified, she looked everywhere except at him and noticed a single lamp was lit. Mr. Moore had found her while lighting the lamps. She gathered her scattered papers and stood, “Thank you for helping me. Goodnight, Mr. Moore.”
Clutching the papers to her chest, she moved off with her whole body ringing with shame. She closed the door behind her with a kick of her foot and then dropped the papers on the desk she had in her room. Sinking to a seat she dropped her head in her hands.
I’ve just made myself a fool with Mr. Moore. Ugh, how much scatterbrained can I be?
It took her a while to reconcile her shame, and when she did change for bed, her mind took another turn. What would Mr. Moore have done if she, like Edward, slept like the dead? Would he have carried her to her room? As she halfway buttoned her nightgown, that thought stopped her cold.
Did she dare imagine what his arms would feel around her? Except for dancing, never had she ever had a man’s arms around her. She had no basis for even imagining what that could feel like, and even trying to imagine it felt off-limits. Perhaps it truly was best for her to get married.
But to who? That was the question. Could she settle for the type of man that held no interest in who she truly was? God forbid that Lord Hillbrook actually got his way into Edward’s head. As he was her guardian, she would be forced to marry Hillbrook.
Her sleep was troubled and she woke up tired. Nevertheless, she still had a task to finish and took breakfast in her rooms instead of the formal dining room. Martha brought the tray up, and Penelope was grateful that it was not Mr. Moore.
“You’re doing it again, My Lady,” Martha sighed as she rested the tray on the table. “If you keep frowning, your face will stick that way.”
“Old wives’ tale, Martha,” Penelope snorted as she dropped her quill and reached for the tea. “I do not believe in such drivel.”
She sipped the tea and loved the warmth that spread through her. Eyeing the papers where she had worked out all the quantities for her brother’s dratted ball, she deemed them fit enough and stowed them away.
Her brother had not come back from visiting Lord Hillbrook’s townhome in Mayfair. It was an opportune moment for her to go riding, but she did not have the heart. Perhaps curling up in the library with a cup of warm chocolate and a good book was how she was going to spend the rest of the day to ignore what, or really, who was going to be at the ball.
Nibbling on the buttery toast, Penelope thought back on when she had admitted her aversion to going to the ball mostly because of the friends Lord Hillbrook would carry with him. There had been a particular look on Mr. Moore’s face…or rather, a lack of it.
When she had mentioned Lord Swanville a blankness of incomprehension had crossed his face. It was as if he did not know who the man was. Who in London does not know of the Lord and his support for Napoleon?
“Martha…” she asked, “do you know where Mr. Moore’s first position was?’
“I cannot tell you, My Lady,” her maid replied. “I only met him once, and, as I said. I do not believe he is the sort of person who speaks much.”
“That occurred to me too,” Penelope mused. “I have a strange feeling about Mr. Moore…”
“And that is?” Martha asked.
“That…he is not as he portrays himself to be…” Penelope added. “I think there is much more to him that what he lets us think.”
Chapter 7
“Ah, Mr. Moore,” Mr. Gastrell greeted with an armful of a wrapped packages. “I have received your livery today, and I have all faith that these clothes will fit. It is even more fortuitous that they are delivered today as His Lordship’s ball is this evening.”
For the last seven-and-a-half days, Dawson Manor had been in a flurry. Rooms were being aired out and cleaned from top to bottom. Lord Allerton was absent most of the days, out with Lord Hillbrook, and Lady Penelope was at home with her maid.
Heath had not seen much of the lady as his duties took most of his time, but when he did, she never failed to flush.
Speaking of the lady, it was now the six-o’clock hour, and he had not seen her since breakfast. Could it take that long for a lady to get ready? Then again, she could be hiding. She had told him her reluctance to attend the ball before.
“You will be manning the entrance hall with me and then the dinner table, Mr. Moore,” the butler said while glancing at the clock. “I assume the guest will be arriving soon, please go change.”
“Right away, Mr. Gastrell,” Heath nodded and took the package.
