Page 20 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“My Lady,” Mr. Moore’s voice said, “You left this behind.”
Blinking her eyes open she sat up to see the footman holding her abandoned cup, and she slowly reached out for it.
He brought me my tea…how…wonderful of him.
It was still warm enough to drink, and she sipped it. Mr. Moore stood aside, and she was grateful for his silence. She supped the tea and focused on the warmth of the rosemary herb instead of the pain in her chest.
The weight of Mr. Moore’s eyes was on the back of her head, but it was not heavy. She did not feel any judgment or reservations in Mr. Moore’s eyes. She sipped the tea until it was done but did not have the heart to look up at the man. Instead, she stared into the cup and ran her fingertips over the rim.
“He’s right you know…” she said softly.
“My Lady—”
“Don’t pretend you do not know what he’s speaking about,” Penelope sighed wearily. “I’ve always been the odd duck in the pond. Never had I ever been attracted to knowing the difference between silk and satin or following the fashion trends escaping from France. Whenever I speak about riding or horses, I get this look as is if I am not a lady. I suppose I am not, and I’ve never been really. Every day I am threatened with the shelf. I was not scared about it…but now, now that my dear brother has pointed it out so callously…he might be right. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t meet anyone. Soon, he might have to stash me in the attic.”
She was speaking mostly to herself but did not mind if Mr. Moore heard. Sighing into her cup, she looked at the silent man, “You may speak your mind, Mr. Moore. I will not penalize you for it. And please, do not give me that it is ‘not proper’ speech. Do not hold back what you think.”
Then he cleared his throat, “My Lady, His Lordship might have a point, but you do not have to be pressured into it.”
“In a few years, I will be a social pariah,” Penelope said matter-of-factly. “The single daughter of an Earl with a dowry that is rotting away in the bank is a travesty to this world.”
“Do you want to marry?”
“It is needed of me,” Penelope said.
“That was not my question,” Mr. Moore said quietly. “Do you want to get married?”
Did she want to? Provisionally, yes but not because of a business contract or just to follow tradition. Perhaps the notion of love was too farfetched but as she had not met any man in over two years and no man had given her his interest—Lord Hillbrook excluded—so, the chances were that she would get a business marriage.
“I…” she trailed off then laughed quietly, “I do not know.”
“If it is any consolation, I do think His Lordship is right in making me your guard,” Mr. Moore said. “If you do choose to go somewhere, I’ll be right beside you.”
“Considering that I am now revising my social life—or the lack of it, rather—I do plan to go places,” Penelope mused. “I will probably be the exotic wallflower in the room….and a notorious one at the same time, considering a man has died in my home.”
She looked quickly at Mr. Moore and mentally cursed at his stoic face. Does the man ever show his emotions? He’s just a bit too perfect in manners, perfect in figure, and perfect in demeanor. Is he a prince, and I don’t know it?
“Do you wish to go to your bedchamber, My Lady?” he asked.
“I suppose,” Penelope’s spoke quietly. “I can’t hide in this old music room much more…it's musty.”
Standing, she fixed her dress and was about to take the cup when it was taken for her. Mr. Moore held it as he opened the door for her. “Please.”
Knowing that her brother was in his study and not wanting to see him, she skirted that room and went directly to her bedchambers. There, she was greeted by a very-worried Martha, and Mr. Moore gently handed her care over into her maid's hand.
“Good morning, My Lady,” he bowed in a farewell.
“Morning?” she gaped. “It’s morning already?”
He chucked and the soft rumbling sound in his chest made her warm. That was the first time she had heard much emotion coming from him, and it was pleasant. “I suppose it is. Good morning, Mr. Moore.”
Entering the room, Penelope looked at Martha who was looking out at the departing man, “I have never heard him laugh before.”
“Me neither,” Penelope said as the door closed in front of her. “But I would not mind hearing it more.”
* * *
She did not wake until noon that day as Edward’s attack, one that had hit her like hot lances but had settled into cold numbness, had drained her. She hated that her brother was right, but he was. She had hidden behind the flimsy excuse that she had found no solid connection to any man after her debut in London.
