Lady Sophia turned, the torchlight catching the magnificence of her features, and the distant look she tried to hide, but Penelope knew better. Since her father died, it had been more difficult for their mama. She ran the estate on her own, sometimes with the help of her uncle, Lord Simon.
Once, the man almost attempted to rape her, had it not been for her mama who interrupted on time. He lied that she almost slipped off, pretending to be her knight in shiny armor. It was believable because of her position near the archway. And when she tried explaining to her mama, he was already one step ahead.
Penelope couldn't forget that day.
"I want you to know that I would've given anything in the world just to protect you and Francesa," she started, taking her mind off that dreadful memory. Lady Sophia stepped closer, her gown trailing behind her. "But the world we're in is no longer safe for us if we don't take necessary measures,"
Lady Sophia tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew her mother felt guilty, and honestly, she would have too if she were in her mother's position. Sometimes, Lady Sophia was strict and distant, and other times, she was just a mother looking after her children, something the world wouldn't know. The society wanted nothing but power and leverage.
"I understand you're doing this for Franseca, and I know she'll be grateful if she ever comes to understand our situation," Lady Sophia said.
"We've talked about Franseca's involvement in this," Penelope started. "I'll find a suitor before the end of this week as promised."
Lady Sophia studied her for a long moment, as though searching for hesitation—weakness—doubt. She found none. Only a determination that seemed to frighten her more than necessary.
"I didn't love your father when I married him," she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Penelope blinked, caught entirely off guard by the confession.
"It was a match of necessity. A sensible arrangement, one that served both families well." Her gaze softened, just slightly before she continued, closing the distance between them. "Affection came later. It started slowly, not built on passion, but endurance which in time became something… worth keeping."
The weight of that admission settled heavily in the room. Penelope remained speechless, entirely because she never expected that. She'd always believed her mama and papa fell in love before getting married. This news… it was all new to her.
"Marriage is not what young ladies are taught to believe it is. It is not romance nor poetry," Her eyes met Penelope's, steady and unyielding as though she could read her thought. "It is a negotiation, and most importantly, survival. Your priority should always be your home. You do understand why I am hell-bent on protecting the future of this family,"
Penelope did not look away because she understood what was happening. Perhaps more than her mother realized. She was to get married anyways.
"I know," she said simply. And she did. She knew of bargains, of the conditions, and of men who spoke of heirs before affection. People like Lord Philip.
Lady Sophia stepped closer then, lifting a hand to adjust the edge of Penelope's mask. Her touch was gentle, unexpectedly so.
She made a slight adjustment to it "If it'll help, I heard Lady Isolde's son, Lord Felix just arrived and is back in society. He could be a good match," She suggested.
It was an effort to keep herself from cringing. "I'll do my best," she said.
Thankfully, Lady Sophia's hands fell and then she pulled away. For a moment she said nothing. Finally, she smiled—a curve that didn't quite reach her eyes, and the latter that told many stories—and without another word, Lady Sophia retreated, leaving her alone in her chamber.
Penelope released the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Turning towards the mirror, what stared back was an uncertain lady.
You can do this, she muttered to herself, heart racing. She could already begin to imagine how grand the masquerade ball was, and the connections that existed within. If she were lucky enough, perhaps she might acquire something.
Penelope breathed, trying to calm her nervousness. And with a final look, she turned and made her way out of the chamber.
***
The castle was already alive.
Light spilled from every towering window, golden and inviting against the velvet stretch of night. Carriages lined the grand drive in an elegant procession, wheels grinding softly against gravel as footmen hurried about with practiced precision. Laughter, music, and the faint hum of voices drifted outward, beckoning all who arrived.
Penelope stepped down from her carriage with measured grace, her gloved hand resting lightly on the footman's arm. For a moment—just a moment—she stood still, her gaze lifting toward the palace.
It was magnificent. Even far grander than anything she had imagined.
Her chest rose with a slow breath. This was no ordinary gathering. This was power gathered beneath one roof—wealth, influence, and opportunity, and somewhere within it… her future.
"Miss," Mary whispered behind her.
Penelope nodded once, straightening her shoulders. "I am ready." And without allowing herself another moment of hesitation, she ascended the grand staircase.
At the entrance, the herald's voice rang clear and commanding. "Miss Penelope Anderson."
The doors opened, bearing the grandeur of the castle itself as she stepped inside the ballroom that shimmered like heaven.
Oh. My. Goodness.
Music swelled through the air, violins singing above the steady rhythm of the orchestra. Candlelight reflected endlessly in towering mirrors, casting a golden glow over the sea of masked figures drifting across the polished floor. This was far from heaven. This was beyond the living's imaginations. It screamed wealth, power, glory, and fame that no name could ever reach.
It was an effort to keep herself from tripping over such beauty. A lady passed by, offering her a courteous smile. She knew her. It was the young Miss Harrington of House Harrington. For a moment, she stilled, because this was the first time she was getting acknowledged.
Ever since the whispers had stained the Anderson name, society had seen fit to regard her as a woman of far lesser consequence. In time, she had grown almost accustomed to such treatment, so long as it spared her the unwelcome attentions of foolish, overly eager gentlemen. Yet beneath the concealment of her mask, she could not help but wonder—was her disguise truly so impenetrable?
No one knew her. The realization settled over Penelope like a second skin. Which meant that apparently, there were no whispers, nor judgment, nor pity. Just anonymity.
Her silver mask concealed her identity completely, transforming her from a woman burdened by reputation into something far more dangerous. Perhaps a possibility.
Penelope exhaled slowly, steadying herself as she stepped further into the crowd. This was her advantage, and she would use it.
She had barely taken a few steps when a gentleman approached, his mask a polished ivory trimmed with gold. "May I have this dance?" he asked, bowing with practiced ease.
At that moment, Penelope's eyes caught Lady Whitmore and her daughter, Celia, as they walked into the room. Their presence seemed to draw every eye as all eyes turned towards them.