Chapter Thirty-Four

The house was dark and silent when Oliver’s carriage returned Ana home. She was careful to light only a single candle as she crept upstairs and cracked open her bedchamber door.

Only to find Penelope in her room.

Ana’s hand flew to her chest. “What are you doing here?”

Penelope stood from where she’d been sitting on the side of Ana’s bed. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought to apologize for my behavior during my visit with Lieutenant Smithfield.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Penelope’s jaw tightened. “You’re right. I realize it’s you who should apologize.”

“Pardon?”

“You were with Lord Drake tonight, weren’t you?”

Ana watched her warily. “Penelope, it’s for the best if we do not discuss this.”

She lifted her chin. “I never thought you a hypocrite.”

“Penelope!”

The girl’s shoulders slumped. “I wanted you to be with Lord Drake, and I thought you understood my desires as well. But then you told me it’s for the best that Lieutenant Smithfield leave me.”

“Yes.” It was difficult to say, but Ana knew she must be honest.

“Yet you are free to conduct your amorous affair.” The bitterness in Penelope’s tone was unmistakable.

Ana debated how much to admit. “Tonight was only the second time I went to him.” She couldn’t even say the earl or mention him by name to Penelope. “I have no illusions of marriage whereas you have your life before you.”

Penelope stomped her foot. “I thought you understood!”

Ana stepped forward, her eyes imploring. “I do understand, darling. All too well. You would have to give up this lifestyle—the clothes, the jewels, the parties, the comfort of this home, and the very richness of your life. The lieutenant cannot provide that to which you are accustomed.”

Penelope moved away. “I don’t care about any of that.”

“That’s because you have never had to do without.” Now the bitterness was clear in her own voice. If Ana was being harsh with the girl, it was out of love. “I suspect he knows it as well, and that is why he told you not to see him again.”

Penelope folded her arms across her chest. “Nothing you say will change my mind.”

Ana felt a stab of momentary panic. “Change your mind? What will you do?”

“Are you worried that I shall tell my mother of your scandalous behavior?”

Good grief. Would Penelope, in her anger, have her dismissed without a reference? The girl had never shown a vindictive nature before.

Penelope went to the bedchamber door. “Don’t fret. Your secret is safe with me. After all, I have no wish for my mother to find another companion to replace you.”

…

“You need to practice the pianoforte more often, Penelope.” Lady Malvern wagged a disapproving finger at her daughter. “Miss Mannerly is proficient at music, and her mother has taken advantage by hosting musicales and inviting eligible gentlemen. She may catch a marquess her first season.”

“Mother, I hate practicing.” Penelope stood by the pianoforte in the music room of their home. It was the day after her argument with Penelope, and Ana sat in a settee next to a harp, an instrument that to her knowledge no one had played since she’d started working here.

“Then you must learn to paint,” Lady Malvern argued.

“I’m hardly artistic.”

“Lady Longston’s birthday ball is next week, and Miss Mannerly will be one of many ladies in attendance hoping to make a successful match. You need something, Penelope. Something more.”

“What about my intelligence?”

Her ladyship looked aghast. “Being bookish will not attract a man. Beauty, grace, poise—these are the qualities gentlemen look for in their wives.” She waved a hand at Ana. “Ask Miss Gardner. She will agree with me.”

Penelope’s face screwed into an unladylike expression.

Ana stirred in her seat. The girl hadn’t spoken a word to her since she’d caught Ana returning from Oliver’s home. Even Lord Malvern had sensed his daughter’s distress and had attempted to cheer her after luncheon with no success. Penelope had gone straightway to her bedchamber and shut the door.

Not for the first time, terrible regrets assailed Ana. She wanted, more than anything, to make amends. Over time, Penelope had become more to her than just her responsibility.

She had become a friend.

Perhaps Ana had been hasty about Lieutenant Smithfield. She should have been more supportive, more understanding. Maybe she should have returned to St. James Street to speak with Lieutenant Smithfield on Penelope’s behalf. If he explained the situation more gently, would Penelope understand?

Ana couldn’t turn back the clock, but she could aid Penelope with her mother. She cleared her throat. “Some gentlemen like intelligence. A wife must be able to manage a vast estate, oversee the hiring and firing of the servants, and host events.”

Lady Malvern let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, but they have the help of a skilled housekeeper, a steward, and competent household staff.”

Penelope shot Ana a glare. “I doubt Miss Gardner knows anything. She has never been married.”

Ana settled back, disappointed, and she lowered her lashes to quickly hide the hurt.

Ana wanted to share her problems with someone. Not just someone, but with the earl. Ever since her social fall, she’d learned to rely only upon herself, to solve her own problems. Without a family, she’d been alone in the world and had managed to tackle every struggle with wit and sheer determination. She’d understood and accepted. But somehow things had changed.

Her fight with Penelope was a deep ache in her chest, and the first person she thought to speak with about her dilemma was Oliver. He was a good listener. He’d sought her help with his tenants and took her advice to heart. He was different from any of the gentlemen of the ton she’d known as a debutante and unlike any man she’d met since.

Her mother had once said you could tell a lot about a gentleman by his acquaintances. The Earl of Drake was friends with the Duke of Warwick, an isolated eccentric, an inventor who preferred tinkering in his laboratory to attending balls and seeking a duchess.

It made sense that Oliver had befriended such a man. Could he help her now?

…

Warm water lapped at Ana’s skin as she leaned back against Oliver in an oversize tub. When she’d arrived at his home that night, the bath had been waiting. Two of his trusted footmen had filled the bath with buckets of hot water before departing. It was a luxury she couldn’t resist.

Steam curled from the water, and his strong arms were wrapped around her. Oliver’s fingers stroked her arm. “I sense something is on your mind,” he said.

She sighed and tilted her head to the side. He took advantage and pressed his lips to her nape. How had he come to know her so well? She’d discovered much more than passion in his arms. He was a considerate lover who always ensured her pleasure. She’d already decided to ask his advice, and with him pressed against her, she felt confident of her decision.

“I’m worried about Penelope,” she said.

His response was immediate. “I shall end all pretense of courting her if it makes it easier for you.”

“It’s not that. She fancies herself in love with a young soldier who has returned from Spain.”

“A soldier?”

“Lieutenant Smithfield is the sixth and youngest son of a baron, and he was injured during a training accident and recently returned to London. I’ve accompanied Penelope on her visits to his home where he’s been recuperating, but during the last visit, he broke Penelope’s heart. His family’s estate is in need of repair, and the oldest brother is in search of an heiress. The lieutenant claims Penelope deserves better than an injured former soldier dependent upon his family’s meager allowance or any limited employment.”

“I tend to agree with the fellow.”

“I said the same thing, but I fear I handled it badly. I should have been more supportive of her. Now, Penelope believes me uncaring and refuses to speak with me. To make matters worse, she caught me sneaking home at night.”

He cupped water in his hand and poured it on her chest. His gaze was riveted as beads of water dripped down her breast. “Ah, I see. Based on our affair, she believes she deserves commensurate happiness with her young love.”

“Yes. After all, she was the one who wanted us together.”

“Perhaps we are to blame. Secrets never end well.”

The water had cooled several degrees, and even wrapped in Oliver’s arms, she felt a slight chill. For the first time, she had regrets about keeping her own secrets. Even though her steadfast rule for secrecy had kept her safe for a decade, she knew it could just as easily harm her relationship with Oliver.

How could she confess her past? How could she tell him she was the daughter of the baron his father had ruined?

Worse, could she admit that she blamed his father for everything she’d lost, including her dowry, her family name, and her very identity? His brother had been no better and a blackguard.

She no longer held Oliver accountable for his family’s sins. Confessing her troubles concerning Penelope was one thing. Sharing her secret past was something entirely different.

Yet for the first time, she didn’t feel a sense of panic at the thought. She didn’t feel the overwhelming need to take flight to protect herself, to protect her very existence.

And that was the most frightening thing of all.