Page 22 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“I assume you have never seen a dead body, much less one by gunshot,” Mr. Moore said. His words were not a question.
She nodded, “Have you?”
His gaze was guarded, “Once, when I was younger.”
His words sparked a line of interest, but she did not ask why that had happened. Again, it was too soon, and Mr. Moore would say it would cross the line of impropriety. But the reminder of the dead lord made her feel ashamed.
“I did not even get to send my condolences to his family. My mother must be frowning on me from heaven because of my lack of manners.”
“I am sure Lord Allerton took care of all the etiquette required,” Mr. Moore replied.
“Do you have all the perfect answers?” Penelope asked amused.
Bessie was getting restless, and Penelope shook her head and moved to stand. It was about time she left her hiding place anyway. She could not be so childish to hide away with a horse as company for much longer, and she felt guilty for keeping Mr. Moore away from his real duties. It was better for her to suck down her shame and prop herself into a library chair with a good book. She might have to suffer Edward’s apology too.
With her hand braced on the wall behind her, she tried to help herself up when Mr. Moore loaned a hand to her. She took it and stood, mechanically brushing her dress off. “Let go inside.”
Nodding, Mr. Moore collected her tray and moved off. Admittedly, her steps were lingering as she left the stall and moved off. Halfway back to the door she stopped and twisted her head to the side when Mr. Moore stopped. She stepped back to see the head of a strange dark horse standing regally in a stall by itself.
“Is that your horse, Mr. Moore?”
“He is,” the footman replied. “One of my few prized possessions. My old master, Lord Masseur gave it to me as a gift for my service.”
Forgetting about going back to the house, Penelope slipped the latch and stepped inside the stall. The stallion eyed her with a set of dark eyes, and his whole demeanor was a regal as when she had first seen him. His coat was coal black with the soft shine of health to it, and his mane was a soft curtain over his side.
“He’s glorious,” she murmured while edging up to him as if mesmerized. “What is his name?”
“Duke,” Mr. Moore said.
If that is his name, there is no wonder that he is regal.
She reached out a hand to touch him, but he tugged his head away and she smartly stopped. Her fingers curled in on themselves in the rejection, but Mr. Moore’s voice was a comfort, “He is just not used to you. I am sure he will get accustomed to you soon.”
“How?”
She was faintly aware of Mr. Moore settling down the tray somewhere and then he asked. “May I touch you, My Lady?”
Her heart lurched without reason, but she nodded, and he took her hand. With the other he took hold of the horse—Duke—and he approached at the sight of his master. His hand on her was rough, from palm to fingertips, but she did not mind as he pressed her hand to Duke’s nose.
She did not know which fluttered harder, the soft silky nostrils under her hand or her heart.
Chapter 9
This is not proper.
The words were a mantra in Heath’s mind as his hand stubbornly ignored his mental orders and pressed Lady Penelope’s hand to Duke’s nose. It was the best way to get a horse to scent a person, and it was safe. At least that was what he had thought.
This proximity was probably not what the lady had factored in when she had asked him how she was going to get familiar with Duke. He had not thought of it either but as futile as resisting the tide of an ocean, he had succumbed, came closer, taken her hand and laid it on his horse.
Her skin was soft, but he cringed knowing his was not, so as soon her hand was on Duke’s nose, he removed his hand and stepped back to put a more than a respectable distance between them. A look of—rejection?—quickly flickered over her face but it was gone in a half breath.
“He’s magnificent,” Lady Penelope said quietly. “Lord Masseur must have held you in great regard.”
“I can only think so,” Heath replied while looking her over. Her braid had unraveled from the unpinned bun at her neck and was over the middle of her back.
She lifted her hand away and stepped back, “So, er, home?”
Heath was amused at how her insecurity was reflected in her questioning tone, even when her intention was not to be quizzical. “Yes, My Lady.”
