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She glanced down at the bandaging that still covered her hand and was so lost in her thoughts that she almost didn't hear the sound of footsteps approaching the library door. Hearing them at the very last moment, along with the doorknob clicking, she realised that Lord Vigneault had dismissed the two women to prepare for England.
Unwilling to wait there like a sitting duck, ready for another foul word or even a beating from one of the women, Penelope turned and quickly scurried back down the servants’ steps to the kitchens below.
It was midmorning. Breakfast had been served, and all had been tidied away. Many of the servants were off doing laundry or getting on with the routine cleaning of the house’s unused rooms while Betsy was likely off in town ordering her weekly supplies from the grocer.
Though she was already run off her feet, Penelope had offered to go on her behalf several times, but the cook was set in her ways, and even though her body was not as young as it used to be, she insisted on walking herself into town, assuring Penelope that it would keep her young and nimble, two words which definitely couldn't be used to describe Betsy Crane.
With the cook and all the other servants besides off doing their chores, Penelope found herself alone in the kitchens and took it upon herself to begin polishing the silverware for that afternoon's luncheon. Some guest or other would likely be joining the Comte and his family as they rarely spent time alone at meals, always entertaining and ensuring connections and loyalties remained strong.
Yet somehow, she always found herself being dragged into the noble’s affairs. Hearing the smooth yet heavy sound of expensive boots thudding on the stone steps of the servants’ staircase, Penelope already knew well what was coming.
A glance at the clock hanging above the stove told her Betsy couldn't possibly be back, and the other servants wouldn't dare to retire from their chores early, even if they had finished. She was entirely alone, and Comte St Clair was coming for her.
Gritting her teeth, she continued to polish the silver spoon in her hand, trying to stop her shoulders from tensing too much. The last thing she needed was for the Comte to see just how uncomfortable he made her. That would only make him entirely intolerable.
"Ahh, Penny, I knew I would find you down here," he said the moment he stepped into the kitchen behind her. Though there was still a great deal of distance between them, he may as well be standing right behind her, his hand on her shoulder because she was instantly stuck to the spot.
His gaze was on her back. She could feel it burning into her shoulder blades. A lump formed in her throat. "That was you I heard skulking about outside the library just now, was it not?"
The purr in his tone suggested he didn't need an answer, and Penelope couldn't bring herself to give him one. The moment she did, she knew she would have given him exactly what he needed to cross the room and touch her.
Every time she agreed with him on the smallest thing, he seemed to take it as permission to touch her, and yet she had never once expressed a wish for him to do that.
Though still young and innocent, Penelope was well aware from the older maids who had passed through the house that men, especially men like the Comte, could be cruel and desireful. Even more so, she knew that this man, in particular, was ruthless when it came to what he wanted.
"Never mind," the Comte continued when Penelope remained silent, only turning her head slightly to show that she acknowledged him. It was better to remain quiet, better to simply let the man speak. After all, he did love the sound of his own voice. "I am sure that you heard much of our conversation being the little mouse you are."
The lump in Penelope’s throat hardened, and she couldn’t have responded even if she had wanted to. Instead, she remained absolutely still, making herself small as the Comte crossed the kitchen to stand behind her. "Once Lady Cecily and my niece are gone, we shall be able to spend much more time together, you and I."
His hand stroked down over her shoulder, down her upper arm to her elbow, and she held her breath, waiting for him to grip her and pull her around to face him.
Though he had yet to do it, only ever giving her the briefest of touches, the tension between them seemed to intensify each time, and Penelope found herself constantly anticipating the worst. She had heard enough rumours about the Comte to know it was only a matter of time.
Slowly and carefully, Penelope placed the spoon she had been working on back in the case and slipped out from between the Comte and the countertop. Heart hammering and feet itching to run, she forced herself to remain calm, barely breathing in case she encouraged the Comte further.
As he always did, the Comte merely smiled at her. The glint in his grey eyes said everything that Penelope needed to know. He wanted her and desired her. That much was obvious. He had used his power and influence on many young women before her, and she knew the moment he made his advances more obvious, she would have no choice but to go along with it, even though the thought sickened her to her stomach and made her feel faint.
What other choice did she have but to be shamed or worse, accused of some crime she had never truly committed and carted off by the authorities simply for rebuking her master? There were worse rumours still of young women who had become entangled with the Comte never to be seen again, though only the servants talked of them in hushed voices whenever the nobles weren't around because truly they were the only ones to care for the poor girls.
I won't be one of them,Penelope vowed to herself, realising that she had remained under the St Clair roof for far too long already. Glancing down at the bandaging on her hand, she made a spur-of-the-moment decision and raised her head to offer a smile to the Comte.
"I would like that very much, My Lord," she assured him with a curt nod. Every word threatened to stick in her throat, but she continued in the hopes she might ward his attentions off just a little longer, "Though should we not wait until they are gone? I would hate to spoil our time together."
An intrigued and perhaps even playful gleam entered the Comte's gaze then, and his lips twitched upwards in a satisfied smile. "I knew that you would come around eventually. They always do."
His smirk was burned into Penelope's mind for so long after his quiet and unnerving departure that she feared she might never be able to close her eyes without seeing it again.
I have to get out of here,she realised, now more so than ever. The Comte had set the clock ticking, and it would not be long before Lady Cecily and Lady Clara left her hopelessly alone and at the mercy of one of the most ruthless men in all of Paris, perhaps even all of France.
England sounds better than ever,Penelope realised, suddenly longing for the rolling hills and fresh air of the English countryside that her mother had always spoken of from her own childhood.
Whenever she had heard of it as a girl, she had wondered how her mother ever found her way to France, but now, as a young woman herself, she had come to realise that needs must. And right now, she would do all she must to ensure that she didn't perish at the hands of a single St. Clair.
They had tried to break her so many times, and she continued to get back up.I can do this,she told herself. She had suffered through the hardest ordeals life could throw at her. Her mother's death and the closest thing she had ever had to a father, the late Comte.
She had suffered through ridicule and torment, beating and scolding. All that was left was to run away and find out what else the world had in store for her.Anything would be better than this,she promised herself once more as she tried her hardest to concentrate on her polishing again.
Chapter 3
