Page 92 of One Night with an Earl

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?

…