Michael might have lost everything in a now-infamous game of chance, but he’d earned it back twentyfold; anyone entering his home would see that.
Something clenched in her chest at the thought of the young marquess working so hard to restore his fortunes. What strength it must have taken . . . what commitment.
It was a shame he did not have the same commitment to his wife.
She pushed the thought aside, confronting the massive trunk that had arrived along with their carriage that evening. Well, if she wasn’t to be put in a room, she might as well make herself comfortable. She unbuttoned her traveling cloak and sat on the luggage, wondering if, perhaps, she was to live here . . . in the foyer.
A commotion began at the back of the house . . . a smattering of fevered whispers punctuated by the clattering of footsteps, and Penelope could not help but smile at the sound. It seemed that none of the servants had been apprised of their master’s taking a bride. She supposed she should not be surprised, as she herself had not expected such a thing until two days prior.
But she could not help but be slightly annoyed at her husband.
He could have at least taken a moment to introduce her to the housekeeper before heading off to whatever important business called to him at this point in the day.
On the day of his marriage.
She sighed, hearing the impatience and the irritation in the sound. Knowing that ladies did not display irritation.
She could only hope that the rule was not so steadfast if one was married to a fallen aristocrat.
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.”