by Amanda Scott
“The dowager said it amused him to do so,” Philippa reminded him.
“How amused do you suppose he would be if she made a mull of it?” he asked.
“But she doesn’t. She was trained to her position, too, sir.”
“Certainly she was, but so were you. The more I learn of your late husband, the more I realize that he prepared you very well for life without him. I wouldn’t trust Lucy to make a decision, I can tell you that, nor would I have trusted Margaret or Catherine before now. I knew how they were raised, you see, and I judged you by what I knew of them. It was unfair, Philippa. Perhaps you will find it difficult to believe that I have learned so much, but I should like to have the opportunity to prove myself to you. Then, when you have got far enough beyond your bereavement to see what others have seen—that we love each other and that you are not so averse as you think to the married state—perhaps you will be willing to agree when I ask you to be my wife.”
The humming had begun in her head again the moment he said what he did about Wakefield preparing her for life as a widow, and now she had all she could do not to grin at him. She had never expected to find him capable of such understanding. Had it not taken years before she had reached that understanding for herself? Yet, here he was, putting into words things she had only begun to think out fully. He was right, too, about others having seen what she had not. Even Mr. Brummell and Lord Alvanley had seen from the outset that it was a case between them. Next there had been the duchess with those arch little looks whenever she mentioned Rochford. And finally, today, the dowager had ruthlessly drawn the duke off and ordered Rochford to settle his affairs suitably.
Taking herself firmly in hand, Philippa looked up at the viscount from under her long lashes and asked demurely, “Tell me, my lord, after all this roundaboutation, if I marry you, will you allow me to hunt regularly with the Wyvern?”
His eyes widened and he regarded her much as though she had changed shape under his very gaze. “Hunt with the Wyvern?”
She nodded, lowering her lashes before he could see the twinkle in her eyes.
The viscount’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I thought I had spoken to that point already. It is palpably clear that you are not meek enough to agree to remain placidly behind with your knitting while your husband and sons go hunting—”
“And daughters.”
“While the rest of your family goes hunting,” he amended obligingly, beginning to smile. “Therefore, since it has likewise become obvious that I should be wise to keep you where I can watch over you, lest you begin a crusade against the Quorn or the Cottesmore, thus bringing the wrath of every sporting man down about my ears, I suppose I must give my consent.”
“Sensible of you, sir,” she said, “but I have not agreed to become your wife, you know, so this talk of sons and daughters, let alone of hunting, is rather premature.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I am a patient man, sweetheart, as you have seen.”
“Have I?”
He grinned. “I didn’t wring your pretty neck over those damned no-trespassing signs, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“And,” he added, his voice growing gentle, “I truly have tried not to press you, sweetheart. I know that from time to time you must still miss Wakefield.”
“I don’t miss him,” she said simply, watching him carefully the while. With pleasure she observed growing awareness in the viscount’s eyes and felt a responding warmth invade her body. The humming in her mind grew louder than ever before, and when Rochford opened his arms, she cast herself into them.
“Are you quite certain?” he muttered near her ear.
“Quite,” she replied. “I will always remember him fondly, Andrew, for he taught me much and was kind to me, but I no longer feel an obligation to his memory.”
His arms folded around her crushingly, and it was several moments before she made any attempt to free herself. Then, pushing hard against his chest, she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Don’t think for a moment that I have merely given way to your stronger will, sir. I made up my mind to marry you weeks ago. I just didn’t think to do it right away.”
“Little fool,” he said, chuckling. “Wakefield clearly didn’t teach you the most important thing about decisions.”
“And what is that?”
“That once you decide to do a thing, you should do it at once.”
And with that sage advice, the viscount swept her into his arms again, whereupon it was rapidly borne in upon Lady Philippa as she responded uninhibitedly to his passions that if she did not marry him soon, she stood in grave danger of acquiring a reputation for being fast that would have nothing whatever to do with whether or not she rode with the Melton men.
About the Author
A fourth-generation Californian of Scottish descent, Amanda Scott is the author of more than fifty romantic novels, many of which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list. Her Scottish heritage and love of history (she received undergraduate and graduate degrees in history at Mills College and California State University, San Jose, respectively) inspired her to write historical fiction. Credited by Library Journal with starting the Scottish romance subgenre, Scott has also won acclaim for her sparkling Regency romances. She is the recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award (for Lord Abberley’s Nemesis, 1986) and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. She lives in central California with her husband.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Lynne Scott-Drennan
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-1565-2
This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media
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