Page 25 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“My Lord?”
The Earl sat behind his desk and gestured for Heath to sit. He then leaned up against on the large wooden counter and steepled his fingers. “The family that is hosting the ball is deeply, notoriously conformist like mine. We are supporters of the monarchy and are staunch supporters of the Church of England. But my sister, is not such a staunch supporter. She tends to gravitate to more liberal ideologies. She is known to indulge in arguments showing the same opinions.”
“You would like for me to monitor her interactions,” Heath inferred. “When you are not with her, I assume.”
“Exactly,” the Earl scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have suffered many an evening with some peers who are equally appalled and impressed with her encyclopedic knowledge. Do you know how hard it is to defend a lady who knows more about the anatomy of the human body than one who knows about the pianoforte or pastels?”
“Invigorating, I presume?” Heath asked.
“Irritating,” the Lord huffed. “Some even asked me if she was a witch.”
Pressing his lips together to stop from laughing, Heath swallowed over his mirth and asked, “I willfully accept my task of keeping Lady Penelope from any problematic interactions for you, My Lord.”
“She can be wily, Mr. Moore,” Lord Allerton said. “Keep an eye out at all times.”
“Understood,” Heath nodded and feeling that the conversation had come to a natural end stood and bowed. “Good day, My Lord.”
“Same to you, Mr. Moore,” Lord Allerton said before reaching for something in a drawer. “Thank you.”
A thick eyebrow lifted in surprise. It was unusual for a Lord to give thanks to a paid servant, but he was not going to argue. Nodding, he left the room and went to his duties, cleaning up the breakfast table and carrying the uneaten portions back to the kitchen. He then went to managing the coal levels in the room and making sure the rest of his duties were done.
The library was empty of Lady Penelope, and so were the sitting rooms. The only reasonable deduction was that she was in the stables, and after making sure all was well in the home, he went there.
He heard her cooing voice from the outside and prepared to enter and see her coddle her horse, Bessie. Instead—to his amazement and soft delight—she was speaking to Duke. His stallion was still a bit standoffish and twisted his head out of Lady Penelope’s reach many times but did not dance away.
“He’s getting used to you,” Heath replied.
She twisted over her shoulder and smiled. “I would like to think so.”
Coming close, he reached over and took hold of Duke’s chin groove. Duke’s dark eyes were unfathomable, and Heath chuckled. “He’s happy to see you, but he’s a suspicious one.”
“You can tell that by just looking at him?” Lady Penelope asked.
“I think you can do the same with Bessie,” Heath replied. “There comes a time when their souls become a part of ours, and when that point comes, we can tell anything about them.”
Lady Penelope had a strange marveling look on her face as she looked to him. She then laughed softly, “And here I thought I was the only one who thought that way.”
Her hands rose to Duke’s shoulder and ran over his smooth coat. “He’s a gentle giant, Mr. Moore.”
Heath did not reply for a while before he said, “Thank you.”
Curious honey-gold eyes met his, and Heath could see she was wondering what the thank you was for. Perhaps it was for her compliment for his horse, or if she thought back, she could deduce that it was for not telling her brother about his spying on her.
Then her soft golden orbs dimmed to thick honey as she lit upon the true reason. Her smile was only a soft curve of her lips, but it was more radiant to Heath than a full-on, white-toothed grin. Heath was thankful that she did not need to dig under his words and ask what they meant. She did not need to ask him to know how grateful that he was that she had probably saved his position by keeping silent. Because she knew. She just knew.
Her next words were simple, but they were very heavy at the same time, “You are welcome.”
Chapter 10
“Martha…” Penelope said, as Mr. Moore helped her up into the carriage that was soon to trundle through the gas-lit streets of London. They were on their way to the Blackwood home in Mayfair, toward the ball her brother told her about a week ago. “Remind me why I agreed to go to this dratted ball again?”
“My Lady, you did not really agree,” a humored Martha said from her across the seat. “It was your idea in the first place.”
Penelope lips puckered, “Next time I have a similar idea, please call the people from Bedlam to get me.”
A gloved hand covered Martha’s mouth as she hid her smile. Penelope eyed her, “At least you could have allowed me to wear my first pick of a dress, instead of this one.”
The ballgown she wore was made of dark golden silk and her neck graced with a string of simple pearls. She fingered the string, rolling the small smooth balls between her thumb and forefinger.
