Penelope looked at him.
The invitation was impossible to mistake. He wanted her to speak.
Her mouth had gone dry.
She could feel the eyes of the guests upon her, their attention pressing against her from every direction. For a fleeting moment, she wished she were anywhere else. She wished she had left the garden before Gregory saw her, swallowed her anger in the modesty, and had the foresight to see that one impulsive action could give a cruel man the opportunity he had been waiting for.
But wishing could not undo what had happened.
There was no refuge in the garden now, no quiet path along which she could retreat without making herself appear guilty. Even the breeze seemed to have abandoned her, leaving the afternoon strangely still.
She had apologised before. She had admitted mistakes, swallowed words, and endured the consequences of decisions made under circumstances that no one cared to understand. She knew how to make herself smaller when necessary.
