The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Oh, he knows,” Lady Penelope snorted. “He just does not care much that way.”

  This was a difficult position for him to be in, but he did not shy away from it. The best he could do was tread carefully. “I am sure that despite it all, His Lordship only wants the best for you.”

  She shifted on her seat and looked squarely at him. “I’d like to think so too.”

  The silence from before came back with a softer tone. Heath was not going to move until she did or speak until she did. By the deep furrow in the middle of her brow, she was deep in contemplation. She then looked up and the sun highlighted the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, juxtaposed against her fair skin.

  “I suppose we should go back,” she sighed deeply and scuffed her right foot against the ground. “I am sorry for dragging you into our muddle.”

  Naturally, he held out his hand to her and a small surprise lit her honey-golden eyes before she reached out and took it. Her touch was not as soft as ladies should be, but then again, gripping reins for over ten years could do that to once-tender skin. The warmth of it ran through his hand as he helped her up. As she was on her feet, he dropped her hand and gestured for her to go ahead.

  “Please,” he said before folding his arms behind his back.

  He accompanied her back to the home and closed the French doors behind him. A man of national and international interest was going to be in the Earl’s home just as he had sworn to keep them all safe. That night was going to be interesting.

  Just not too interesting, Heath prayed.

  Chapter 6

  Her palm felt funny.

  Mr. Moore had held her hand for only a moment, but her palm still felt his touch. She kept rubbing it down her dress, but the motion was futile. She ignored the book on her lap and lifted her hand to her face and examined it. The slight calluses were still there and the tiny scars of her many falls and scrapes were still there, and the phantom sense of Mr. Moore’s hand was still there.

  “Penelope,” Edward said from the doorway, “are you ready to talk like a rational person?”

  She lowered her hand, “What do we need to talk about, Edward?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose while entering fully. “I don’t want to fight, Penelope but you know better than to confront Russell that way. I am not saying he was right in ordering Mr. Moore to leave, but you should have left that to me.”

  Her breath left her body in a long sigh. She did not want to fight with Edward either. “Eddie, I apologize, but you must realize that Lord Hillbrook’s attention to me is getting out of hand. I tolerate him as your friend, but as I have told you many times, I think he is a bad influence on you.”

  “I do not think so,” Edward shook his head.

  Of course, you don’t think so, you are blind to his influence Eddie. I cannot tell how many times you have done foolish things because he did it first.

  Knowing she was not going to get anywhere with Edward on that point, she pushed forward. “Do you really have to put on this ball, Edward?”

  “Yes,” he said, “And if you would just allow Stephen to court you, none of this to-and-fro between you and him would be happening.”

  “Oh Lord, Edward,” she huffed. “You know that he...he is not…he does not interest me like that.”

  “Penelope,” he said slowly, “You are of marrying age. I cannot understand why you turned down all your suitors in the last two seasons.”

  She had this conversation with her brother for over two years now, and it felt like Edward had not heard a word she had said during those two years. Did it bear repeating? Probably not, but she was going to try anyway.

  “None of them felt right. Unlike the other ladies there, I am not enamored by looks or money or a name. I want someone to understand me for who I am. Not…not all those frivolous things the ton thinks are worthwhile.”

  Watching him, she could see that her words had gone through one of her brother’s ear and out the other. “Anyway, you should speak for yourself. You are not married either.”

  “That is because men are not in danger of the shelf,” Edward replied a bit crossly.

  “I hate the double standard of this place,” Penelope sighed. “Why do I have to get married by three-and-twenty, but you men can run amok until you’re in crutches?”

  Edward sat back with a tired look on his face, “What do you want from me, Penelope? I have to do what father made me promise before he passed. I have to get you a good husband.”

  “And he will come in time, Edward,” Penelope assured him just as she tried to assure herself. It was strange, how was she going to get married when she had a particular disdain for the unending balls and soirées of the peerage?

  How was she going to get married when she shied away from meeting men? Perhaps this ball could be a good idea if only to give herself a good try and get her brother to shut up on the topic of marriage for a while.

  Edward’s words mirrored her thoughts, “Mayhap, this gathering can be good for you. Some of my friends have friends that I am sure would be delighted in meeting you.”

  Seeing no way out of it, she nodded with a sigh, “Very well. I come to your dratted ball, soiree, get-together, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “And promise to dance.”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “And no escaping to the library,” Edward added.

  “Yes.”

  “And you will socialize,” he pressed.

  Penelope’s eyes began to narrow. “Fine.”

  “And—”

  “You are pushing it, Eddie,” she said sharply.

  He chuckled and stood, “You are in charge of setting the menu, sister dear. That is a gift you inherited from Mother. If it was me, we would end up eating green peas and fish heads.”

  “So, now you are giving me work?” she gasped. “For shame, Eddie.”

  “The ball is in a week,” Edward said at the doorway, “so, you better get to work.”

  She wanted to fume, but she did not have the heart to do so. Penelope could never stay angry at her brother for long, no matter how much he irked her. Her attention went back to her book but realized she had lost her place. She could barely remember what the last five pages had said. Groaning, she skipped back to the last point she could remember and began reading again.

  “Pardon me,” Mr. Moore’s voice said, and her heart did a funny flip at the sound before she even looked up. He was there, holding a tray of tea and a covered plate. “His Lordship asked me to give you some tea and…er…tarts, I believe.”

  “He’s just trying to butter me up,” Penelope huffed sweetly while he settled the tray and poured out the tea.

  The smell of rich rosemary wafted up and filled her nose. She took the cup and dropped three squares of sugar inside. “Rosemary tea…I am sure he is buttering me up now.”

  She looked up and could see the unasked question in his eyes and smiled at his restraint. “He wants me to set the menu for his gathering for Lord Hillbrook in a week. Apparently, I inherited that gift from my mother.”

  “Understood, My Lady,” he replied with a bow. “Have a good evening.”

  A few questions bubbled up in her throat, but before she could ask one, Mr. Moore was gone. She sat there, blinking the steam from her tea eyes. The new footman is strange…well not strange really as that might skew him as odd, it is...he has more of lovely mysterious air.

  She idled in the library until Martha came to get her for dinner. The table was set, and Mr. Moore was at the sideboard once again in his dark suit, standing rather soldier-like with his arms clasped behind him. Penelope wondered what he would look like in his full dark livery trimmed with gold trim and the family crest on his breast.

  Dashing, she noted.

  Looking around she noticed it was only her and Mr. Moore. “Where is Eddie—I mean, Lord Allerton?”

  “I believe he went out on a request by Lord Hillbrook,” Mr. Moore said with the edge of his lips twitching.


  And I am proven right, Penelope rolled her eyes. One word from the dratted Hillbrook and he goes running.

  “I guess it just me tonight,” she sighed while sinking into the seat he had pulled out for her. She did not feel much of an appetite when Mr. Moore poured a glass of wine for her and settled a tray of stuffed partridge in an aromatic stew, sautéed vegetables, and light flaky bread before her.

  Eying the meal, Penelope sipped her wine first. The house was filled with servants, but, somehow, she felt all alone. Perhaps Edward was right, perhaps she could use the upcoming ball to find a suitor. She looked up at the painting of the cottage on the hill. It was an accurate replica of a cottage in Chiltern Hills, northwest England, a place where she loved and was always in her memory.

  “My Lady?”

  Penelope snapped out of her musing to see Mr. Moore looking at her. “Pardon?”

  “You have not touched your food in the last fifteen minutes,” he said cautiously. “Are you ill?”

  She colored slightly. “No, just woolgathering. I tend to get lost in my mind a lot.”

  Grasping her fork and knife, she cut into the—thankfully—still-warm meat and placed a section on her plate. She added some vegetables and broke a chunk of the bread to dip in the sauce. With every movement, she was acutely aware of Mr. Moore’s eyes on the back of her head and felt herself trembling a little. Soft heat crept up her neck. To feel his attention on her was…oddly flattering. Eating steadily, she finished the plate but declined dessert.

  “I think that’s enough,” she declared. “Please take the rest back to the kitchen, Mr. Moore.”

  With him gone she looked back at the portrait. Her father had taken her there once, and she had fallen in love with it. It was the one property her father had left solely to her. She had dreamed of taking her husband and children there to show them the legacy her parents had left her.

  She retired to the sitting room where she had laid out her writing materials for the ball’s repast. Since the house made its own bread, biscuits, ale, and cheese, she did not need to buy those. She needed to check with Mr. Gastrell to know how much white and red wines they had, but that could be done after.

  For the first course of four dishes, the second of seven and the third, nine, she had to plan for twenty dishes. Grabbing the first paper she wrote the heading with the words ‘First Course’ and then began to plan. God, she hated white soup. It was revolting to her, but many liked it, so she wrote that down and added turtle and soup à la Reine.

  The second course was of haricot of vegetables, French pie, leg of lamb with sides of spinach, beef roast with red wine, roast sirloin with veal olives, mashed potatoes, and turnips. For the third, she added turkey roast and crab dishes. Dessert was jellies, custards, pies, cakes, and wafers.

  For each course, she estimated a guest list of forty people and tried to figure out how many pounds of meats to buy and the seasoning for each. It was not heavy calculation, but it was monotonous and as she began to wrestle with plans including flummery or Solomon’s temple, fatigue began to creep up upon her like a soft but persistent wave.

  Soon she was out like a light, asleep on the chair with her head tilted to the side and her hair falling over her chest with the quill dangling in her fingers. Mystic images slithered through her mind in ethereal dreams and not much mattered…until she felt a touch.

  Her head canted to the side, “No…”

  “My Lady,” a low voice said near her ear. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. May I help you to your rooms?”

  Penelope blinked herself awake, and Mr. Moore’s green eyes swam into her vision. She sat up quickly—a bit too quickly—as her forehead collided with his and pain ricocheted through her head. Slapping a hand over her smarting forehead, Penelope felt as she would die in shame.

  “I…I am so sorry, Mr. Moore,” she groaned, “so very sorry.”

  Mortified, she looked everywhere except at him and noticed a single lamp was lit. Mr. Moore had found her while lighting the lamps. She gathered her scattered papers and stood, “Thank you for helping me. Goodnight, Mr. Moore.”

  Clutching the papers to her chest, she moved off with her whole body ringing with shame. She closed the door behind her with a kick of her foot and then dropped the papers on the desk she had in her room. Sinking to a seat she dropped her head in her hands.

  I’ve just made myself a fool with Mr. Moore. Ugh, how much scatterbrained can I be?

  It took her a while to reconcile her shame, and when she did change for bed, her mind took another turn. What would Mr. Moore have done if she, like Edward, slept like the dead? Would he have carried her to her room? As she halfway buttoned her nightgown, that thought stopped her cold.

  Did she dare imagine what his arms would feel around her? Except for dancing, never had she ever had a man’s arms around her. She had no basis for even imagining what that could feel like, and even trying to imagine it felt off-limits. Perhaps it truly was best for her to get married.

  But to who? That was the question. Could she settle for the type of man that held no interest in who she truly was? God forbid that Lord Hillbrook actually got his way into Edward’s head. As he was her guardian, she would be forced to marry Hillbrook.

  Her sleep was troubled and she woke up tired. Nevertheless, she still had a task to finish and took breakfast in her rooms instead of the formal dining room. Martha brought the tray up, and Penelope was grateful that it was not Mr. Moore.

  “You’re doing it again, My Lady,” Martha sighed as she rested the tray on the table. “If you keep frowning, your face will stick that way.”

  “Old wives’ tale, Martha,” Penelope snorted as she dropped her quill and reached for the tea. “I do not believe in such drivel.”

  She sipped the tea and loved the warmth that spread through her. Eyeing the papers where she had worked out all the quantities for her brother’s dratted ball, she deemed them fit enough and stowed them away.

  Her brother had not come back from visiting Lord Hillbrook’s townhome in Mayfair. It was an opportune moment for her to go riding, but she did not have the heart. Perhaps curling up in the library with a cup of warm chocolate and a good book was how she was going to spend the rest of the day to ignore what, or really, who was going to be at the ball.

  Nibbling on the buttery toast, Penelope thought back on when she had admitted her aversion to going to the ball mostly because of the friends Lord Hillbrook would carry with him. There had been a particular look on Mr. Moore’s face…or rather, a lack of it.

  When she had mentioned Lord Swanville a blankness of incomprehension had crossed his face. It was as if he did not know who the man was. Who in London does not know of the Lord and his support for Napoleon?

  “Martha…” she asked, “do you know where Mr. Moore’s first position was?’

  “I cannot tell you, My Lady,” her maid replied. “I only met him once, and, as I said. I do not believe he is the sort of person who speaks much.”

  “That occurred to me too,” Penelope mused. “I have a strange feeling about Mr. Moore…”

  “And that is?” Martha asked.

  “That…he is not as he portrays himself to be…” Penelope added. “I think there is much more to him that what he lets us think.”

  Chapter 7

  “Ah, Mr. Moore,” Mr. Gastrell greeted with an armful of a wrapped packages. “I have received your livery today, and I have all faith that these clothes will fit. It is even more fortuitous that they are delivered today as His Lordship’s ball is this evening.”

  For the last seven-and-a-half days, Dawson Manor had been in a flurry. Rooms were being aired out and cleaned from top to bottom. Lord Allerton was absent most of the days, out with Lord Hillbrook, and Lady Penelope was at home with her maid.

  Heath had not seen much of the lady as his duties took most of his time, but when he did, she never failed to flush.

  Speaking of the lady, it was now the six-o’clock hour, and he had not seen her sin
ce breakfast. Could it take that long for a lady to get ready? Then again, she could be hiding. She had told him her reluctance to attend the ball before.

  “You will be manning the entrance hall with me and then the dinner table, Mr. Moore,” the butler said while glancing at the clock. “I assume the guest will be arriving soon, please go change.”

  “Right away, Mr. Gastrell,” Heath nodded and took the package.

  Hurrying back to his rooms, he took out the livery and noticed, that though folded, it was already pressed. He donned the white stockings, changing into the smartly-tailored dark breeches, dark-maroon waistcoat, and lastly added the double-breasted jacket and fiddled with the cuffs.