Page 21 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
From ten-and-eight years to her twentieth, she had gone through the motions of attending balls and soirees. Some women shone under the attention, preening under the lavish lifestyle the peerage lived, but not her.
The sessions had drained her at the sheer routine pointlessness of them all. Though her disdain for the very notion of the London seasons, she still had to bow to the rules set for her and get married.
Shifting under the covers, Penelope yearned for company, but the company of Bessie, her horse. Getting up, she stretched and cleaned up quickly. Dressing in an old soft lilac dress, she braided her hair and wrapped it in a bun at the nape of her neck. Ignoring the need for tea, she slipped out from a lesser-used door and went to the stables.
Just from outside she could hear the whinnies and pawing of the horses’ feet and sighed in relief. She went directly to Bessie and fondled her ears. The horse’s large chestnut eyes were so innocent, wide and accepting that she felt more love there, with a four-footed animal, than in her own home.
And isn’t that just a little sad?
Petting Bessie’s ears, Penelope sidled into the stall and coaxed Bessie to lie down. With her on her haunches, she took a blanket, sat near her and rubbed Bessie’s head. She did not feel like going back to the house to see Edward’s repentant look for hurting her, but knew he was not sorry for telling her the truth.
“I suppose I have myself to blame,” Penelope sighed.
The sound of muffled footsteps on the floor told her someone was coming toward them, but she did not move. One thing she was sure was that it was not Edward as he hated the smell of hay and horseflesh.
“My Lady,” Mr. Moore’s measured voice was relieved. “I’m glad I found you. His Lordship was about to call in the Major-General’s forces to find you.”
An unladylike snort came from her before she could contain it. “You don’t say.”
He came closer and from her place on the floor, she was eye level with Mr. Moore’s shined boots and knee-high stockings. “Have you eaten, My Lady?”
She shook her head, “No.”
“Would you like me to carry you some food?” Mr. Moore asked.
Her eyes ran around the small spartan wooden stall. “Here?”
“That is unless you would rather go back to the dining room,” Mr. Moore said. “But I have a feeling that you are not so inclined.”
She craned her head to look up to him and saw the intuition bright in his gaze and warmed. “Er…you are right. I would rather not go back. Thank you. Tea and toast, please.”
“My Lady,” he bowed.
Watching him walk away sent ripples of uncertainty through her. Mr. Moore continued to puzzle her. His stoic walls did not seem to have any cracks…except that time last night when he had laughed.
She sat there, petting Bessie until his quiet footsteps came back and he knelt to hand her the tray loaded with the covered teacup. A tiny white bowl with a matching band of gold filigree and scalloped edges held cubes of sugar and the matching jug held milk. Resting beside them was a tiny plate piled with three thick slices of buttered toast.
“Thank you.”
Penelope took the cup first and spooned in a few cubes of sugar and poured in a dash of milk. Sipping it, she hummed in appreciation and rested it on the floor. She then took her toast and rested it on her lap.
Drinking in silence, she did not say a word when Mr. Moore did not leave. The silence between then was soft, and she thanked all angels in heaven that there was no strain between them. She nibbled on her toast, “Forgive me, but shouldn’t you be taking care of…what my brother needs you to do?”
“I am assigned to you, My Lady,” Mr. Moore replied with the left side of his lips twitching into an almost smile. His eyes were still soft. “So, I am doing what your brother needs me to do.”
She blinked and the toast stopped halfway to her mouth and swallowed over thin air. His eyes were close…too close. Shying away, she went back to eating, but the butter tasted strange in her mouth, sweeter somehow.
“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled. “I hate to think I’m keeping you from more important matters. This is a large estate, surely your strength is wanted somewhere else.”
“I am sure it is wanted elsewhere, but it is needed here,” he replied.
Warmth—tingling warmth—flooded her at his words. “Thank you.”
She finished her makeshift breakfast and settled the cup and the saucer on the tray before brushing her fingers off. Bessie was nosing at her hand, and she giggled. The horse was clearly smelling sugar, and she reached over to pluck a lump from the tiny bowl and fed it to her. Bessie’s lips tickled her, and she smiled. “Thank you for last night.”
“You are welcome,” Mr. Moore said. “At least you were out of danger.”
“After you took me from the balcony, you mean.” Penelope eyed him understanding that he probably felt it was improper to speak of their borderline tender moment.
