Page 63 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
Three hours of shuffling back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room and loading the tables and sideboards, Heath became concerned that he had not seen Penelope or even her maid since that morning. It was nearly one o’clock with no sight of the hunters, and Heath decided to search for her.
Although he knew where to find her, Heath perfunctorily checked the sitting room and the library before heading out to the stables. Entering, he inhaled the scent of hay and horseflesh and the sound of whinnying and…what was that, was that…sobbing?
The sound was coming from Bessie’s stall, and when the voice was clearer, Heath felt like someone had carved out a crater in his chest with a ragged iron spoon—it was Penelope crying. Tugging the door open he sank to his knees and reached out for her. She startled a little, not realizing who was holding her, before leaning into him.
He pressed his chin to the top of her head he spoke “I’m sorry, Penelope,” he shushed softly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Watery eyes looked up to him, “What-what are you apologizing for? It’s my horrible brother who should be doing that.”
“I should not have left you alone these past days,” Heath said while using his thumb to wipe her smooth cheek and regretted how rough his skin was. “Especially not after what I had said…or what I did.”
“I kissed you first if you recall…” Penelope snorted, “you were my first real kiss, you know.”
That remark had pride bursting in his chest, and he swiveled his head to look at her, “Truly?”
“Truly,” she sagged and nuzzled into his neck. He glanced down to see that the ivory pendant was gone. Good. In his mood, he might have ripped the damned thing off her neck.
“No one in London intrigued me as much as you do. Honestly, though, I hated the seasons there. The balls were boring, the gowns were made for people who don’t like to breathe, and the gents there were as interesting as whitewash.”
She was as serious as a witness under oath, but Heath chuckled under his breath. “I bet they were.”
Penelope twisted in his hold and she grabbed his arm, “I don’t want to go on with Hillbrook…”
The words she wanted to say were lingering in the air and were heard anyway. “But you cannot be with me,” Heath finished for her.
Her cheeks heated not in shame but anger, “There is a foreign and mutinous urge inside me to tell Edward that I will not bow to his expectations of me being with Hillbrook.”
“But you still cannot be with me,” Heath said regrettably. “Penelope, you will still need to marry.”
Her breath was ragged before she uttered a short derisive laugh. “I know…er…you wouldn’t happen to have a far-removed cousin with your looks and charm who just so happens to have a title, do you?”
“No, I don’t, but even if I did, he still would not be me,” Heath said wryly.
“You’re right,” she sighed deeply while making to get up. “Fanciful thinking, I suppose.”
Getting to his feet faster, Heath helped her to stand and dropped his hands to her hips. They were mostly concealed by the stall door and he dipped to kiss her cheek quickly. “Let’s get you in.”
They walked back to the house with slow lingering steps. He opened a door and held it for her. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Will the Lords be there?” she asked anxiously.
“I believe so,” Heath added.
“Will you take my meal to my room then, now before they arrive?” She requested with her hand resting on his arm.
Heath could see her hesitation. It had to be unnerving with her being the sole lady in a room of men. Even a Queen would have had trouble in that situation.
“As you wish, My Lady,” Heath said, switching from the tender man he had been in the stables to the servant that he was ordered to be.
She looked a bit baffled before she realized that in company, he was supposed to be excruciatingly polite and her lips pressed tightly. “Thank you.”
The calm harmony they had just had suddenly vanished and a terse, unnatural silence between them. He walked away, forcing himself to not look over his shoulder. It hurt. It downright pained him not to be as attentive to her as he wanted to be.
He got to the dining room and set about to getting Penelope’s food when a loud commotion dragged his attention away. Hastening to the front foyer, he barely made his way past the first sitting room when a lord—good God!—the knight, the son of Duke Quinton, was reclining on a chaise with his bandaged left arm a mess of blood.
Lord Allerton was five shades of pale when he came into view. Heath became a shadow in the doorway as the lords muttered and whispered among themselves in the rooms. Was the Lord dead? A second body on the Earl’s doorstep was not looking good and it would undoubtedly get the attention of the Crown. Apprehension was a stifling blanket around him as he watched on.
“All of a sudden, bullets came,” one man in a tweed coat said.
