Surely there was possibility for interpretation when one was sitting in one’s new home, waiting to be shown to a room. Any room.
She inspected the palm of one glove and wondered how Michael might respond if he returned, hours from now, to discover her seated on a trunk, waiting for him.
The image of him, surprise in his eyes, made her chuckle.
It might be worth it. She shifted, ignoring the pain in her backside.
Marchionesses most certainly did not think of discomfort in their backsides.
“My lady?”
Penelope shot to her feet, spinning toward the words, tentative and curious, spoken from behind her, by the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.
It did not matter that she wore a simple uniform—identifiable in any home across Britain as a housekeeper’s frock—or that her flaming red hair was pulled back tightly into a neat, perfect knot. This woman, young and lithe, with the largest, most beautiful blue eyes Penelope had ever seen, was stunning.
Like a painting by a Dutch master.
Like no servant Penelope had ever seen.
And she lived in Michael’s house.
“I—” She began, then stopped, realizing that she was staring. She shook her head, “I—yes?”
The housekeeper gave no indication that she had even noticed the odd behavior, instead coming forward and dropping into a curtsy. “I apologize for not greeting you immediately upon your arrival. But we didn’t—” It was her turn to stop.
We didn’t expect you. Penelope heard the words even as they weren’t spoken.
The housekeeper tried again, “Bourne didn’t—”
Bourne.
Not Lord Bourne. Just Bourne.
Emotion flared, hot and unfamiliar. Jealousy.
“I understand. Lord Bourne has been very busy for the past few days.” She lingered on his title, noting the understanding in the other woman’s gaze. “You are the housekeeper, I assume?”
The beautiful woman flashed a small smile and dipped another curtsy. “Mrs. Worth.”
Penelope wondered if Mrs. Worth was married, or if the woman had come by the title with her position. The thought of Michael with a stunning, young, unmarried housekeeper did not sit well.
“Would you like to see the house? Or meet the staff?” Mrs. Worth seemed uncertain of what came next.
“I should like to see my rooms for now,” Penelope said, taking pity on the other woman, who was certainly as surprised by her master’s marriage as Penelope was. “We traveled much of the day.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Worth nodded, leading the way to the wide staircase that rose to what Penelope assumed were the private quarters of the house. “I’ll have the boys bring your trunks up immediately.”
As they climbed the stairs, Penelope could not help herself. “Is your husband also in the employ of Lord Bourne?”
There was a long pause before the housekeeper answered, “No, my lady.”
Penelope knew that she should not press. “A nearby home, then?”
Another pause. “I have no husband.”
Penelope resisted the unpleasant jealousy that flared with the pronouncement . . . and the urge to ask more questions of the beautiful housekeeper.
Mrs. Worth had already turned away, calmly opening the door to a dimly lit bedchamber. “We will start a fire immediately, of course, my lady.” She moved forward with purpose, lighting candles around the room, slowly revealing a cozy, well-appointed bedchamber outfitted in lovely greens and blues. “And I shall have a tray made for you. You must be hungry.” When she had completed her task, she turned back to Penelope. “We don’t have a lady’s maid on staff, but I would be happy to . . .” She trailed off.
Penelope shook her head. “My maid cannot be far behind.”
Relief flashed across the other woman’s face, and she dipped her head in acquiescence. Penelope watched her carefully, fascinated by this beautiful creature who seemed to be both competent servant and not servant at all.
“How long have you been here?”
Mrs. Worth’s head snapped up, her eyes finding Penelope instantly. “With Bou—” She stopped, catching herself. “With Lord Bourne?” Penelope nodded. “Two years.”
“You’re very young to be a housekeeper.”
Mrs. Worth’s gaze grew guarded. “I was very lucky that Lord Bourne found room for me here.”
A dozen questions flashed through Penelope’s mind, and it took all her energy to hold herself back from asking them—from uncovering the truth about this beautiful woman and how she had come to live with Michael.
But now was not the time, no matter how curious she was.
Instead, she reached up and unpinned her hat, moving to a nearby dressing table to set it down. Turning back, she dismissed the housekeeper. “My trunks and supper sound lovely. And a bath, please.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. Worth was gone instantly, leaving Penelope alone.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope turned in a slow circle, considering the room. It was beautiful—lushly appointed with silks on the walls and an enormous rug that had to have come from the East. The art was tasteful and the furniture perfectly wrought. There was a fire in the hearth, but the chill and the lingering smell of smoke on the air proved that the house had been unprepared for her arrival.
She crossed to the washbasin, set by a window that overlooked a wide, extravagant garden, poured water into the bowl, and set her hands to the white porcelain, watching as the water distorted their color and shape, giving them the appearance of being broken and unhinged. She took a deep breath, focusing on the place where the cool liquid gave way to the air of the room.
When the door opened, Penelope leapt back from the basin, nearly toppling the stand and splattering water on herself and the carpet. She turned to face a young girl—no older than thirteen or fourteen—who entered with a quick curtsy. “I’ve come to set the fire, milady.”
Penelope watched as the girl crouched low with a tinderbox, and a vision flashed of Michael, only days earlier, in the same position at Falconwell. The kindling caught fire, and Penelope’s cheeks heated as she remembered all that came that evening . . . and the morning after. The memory brought with it a pang of regret.
Regret that he was not there.
The girl stood, facing Penelope with her head dropped low. “Is there anything else you need?”
Curiosity flared again. “What is your name?”
The girl’s head snapped up. “My—my name?”
Penelope tried for a comforting smile. “If you care to share it.”
“Alice.”
“How old are you, Alice?”
She dipped a half curtsy again. “Fourteen, milady.”
“And how long have you worked here?”
“At Hell House, you mean?”
Penelope’s eyes went wide. “Hell House?”
Dear Lord.
“Yes’m.” The little maid rushed to answer, as though it were a perfectly reasonable name for a house. “Three years. My brother and me needed jobs after our parents . . .” She trailed off, but Penelope had no difficulty filling in the rest.
“Your brother works here as well?”
“Yes’m. He’s a footman.”
Which explained the unexpected youth of the footmen.