Philippa bit the inside of her cheek. Chloe expected something. An affirmation? A “thank you”? What was it? For a brief moment, Philippa could not see past the always-present bitterness that threatened to consume her. “There will never be another,” her voice shook with the force of that truth.
“You are certain,” Chloe pressed. With her determination she’d make a better matchmaker than their mother and Gabriel combined.
Alas, there would have to be others Chloe maneuvered into marriage. “My husband is dead,” Philippa said with a solemnity that dimmed the mischievous sparkle in her sister’s eye. She managed a smile, grateful as her maid approached with a silver satin dress. Desperate to be free of her sister’s probing stare and words, she set her a task. “Will you see the nursemaid has the girls readied?”
“Of course,” Chloe said. She opened her mouth. Please do not say anything else on my husband. And perhaps, their thoughts had moved in some kind of harmony, for Chloe left.
As soon as the door closed, Philippa’s shoulders sagged. Where she was concerned, her sister saw precisely what Philippa had allowed her to see. Broken-hearted, widowed-too-soon wife. And as her maid helped her change out of her long-worn widow’s weeds, guilt stabbed at her for perpetuating a lie.
Just as Lady Martindale did, the world had expectations of a widow. And Philippa had played her part. Just as she’d done since Calvin drew his last breath. Yes, she’d convinced even her family that she was a woman desperately grieving the loss of her husband. But the truth was, ever since Calvin’s death, she’d never felt more alive. And she certainly wasn’t sad.
Not even a little bit.
Chapter 2
Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, preferred riding in Hyde Park during the early morn and this nine o’clock hour belonged to him. There was no nagging mother worrying about her four marriage-aged, unwedded children. There were no marriage-minded young ladies seeking his attentions. There were no headaches or hassles that came from being forced to make insignificant greetings to other lords just for the sake of propriety.
What there was on this particular day was a child in the middle of the path. Peering down the gravel riding trail, Miles drew on the reins of his mount, Whisper, and brought the chestnut to a quick halt. Of all the blasted… How had a child come to be alone in the middle of Hyde Park?
Particularly such a small child. It looked practically a babe to him, but as a bachelor still at almost thirty years of age, the whole details of those tiny persons were really beyond him. Furrowing his brow, Miles skimmed his gaze over the horizon, looking for the attending nursemaid. But for the morning birds taking flight overhead, the landscape remained empty. With a click of his tongue, he nudged his mount into a slight trot. Careful to not startle the child by riding up quickly on her, Miles brought Whisper to a stop and swung his leg over his mount. He swiftly looped the horse’s reins about a nearby elm and started over. “Hello,” he called out as he strode forward.
Kneeling on the side of the riding path, a girl with tight, dark ringlets and dressed in a fine white frock remained with her head bent, while gathering yellow buttercups from the edge of the graveled trail. A small book lay discarded at her side. By the quality of her satin skirts, she belonged to a respectable family. His frown deepened and he glanced around once more. What manner of nursemaid lost her charge? And what in blazes was he to do with a lost child?
Miles stopped beside the girl and she glanced up. “Hullo.” She smiled and returned her attention to the small flowers.
Doffing his hat, he beat it against his leg. Why in blazes could he not have brought Bainbridge with him? In addition to being his only friend in the world, Jasper Waincourt, the Duke of Bainbridge, had the distinction of being a father and he’d certainly know a good deal better how to be with a lost, peculiarly silent girl. He looked around again, hopeful that reinforcements were on the way—surely, someone had to be looking for the child. All he had to do was wait for them to arrive. When no much-needed nursemaid or mama came rushing forward, he dropped awkwardly to his haunches. “Uh—do you have a mother?” he asked and then grimaced. Of course she had a mother. The better question being, was whether that negligent parent or servant were about. “Or, rather, do you have a mother, here?” he amended.
The little girl hummed a discordant tune and tipped her head back and forth in time to her off-tempo song.
Miles shoved to his feet. At an absolute loss, he beat his hat hard against his leg in tune to her singing. Now, what? His last dealings with children had been two decades earlier when he’d been ten and the last of his siblings had been born. Since then, beyond the Duke of Bainbridge’s two small children, he’d no interaction with those little humans.
Even with his limited experience, he readily saw the folly in picking wildflowers alone, in the middle of a riding path. Moving in front of the girl, Miles again fell to his haunches.
The little girl paused and looked up. Surprise shone in her cornflower blue eyes. “You again,” she blurted.
Despite the peculiarity of finding an unattended child, Miles grinned. “Me, again.” He nodded to the flowers gathered in her hand. “They are pretty.”
“Would you like to pick some with me?”
Miles tugged at his cravat. He’d wanted to ride his horse, which, of course, in the midst of a nearly empty Hyde Park would have been vastly more uncomplicated than picking flowers with a lost child. Nonetheless, he sank to a knee, and proceeded to pick—
Incorrectly. “Not like that,” she chided. The little girl swatted at his fingers and the ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. “Like this,” she said, proceeding to demonstrate. “You have to pick the stem.” She lifted her head up and gave him a look.
Something was required of him. What was it? “Uh—”
“For the flowwwers,” she said with an eye roll and by the faint exaggeration of that single word, she’d found his flower-picking skillset wanting. Then, she narrowed her eyes and gave him a frown. “Don’t you give your mama flowers?”
The only thing his mother desired from him was a suitable match with Miss Sybil Cunning. “I have given my mother flowers,” he settled for. Years and years ago when he’d been a small boy. He grasped at what she’d said. “And I take it these are for your mother?” Her absent mother. Then, given the cold ways of the ton mothers, they generally didn’t accompany their offspring on outings to the park.
“Yes. To make her smile,” she explained.
Something tugged at that thoughtful spirit. “Well, I expect they should do just that,” he said solemnly. “Perhaps you might bring them to her.” He paused. “Now.”
The nameless child blinked and glanced about. Her eyes widened, giving her the appearance of a frightened owl. Her lower lip trembled. It was then he had confirmation of something he’d suspected from down the riding trail. “Where is my mama?”
Blast. Well, there was no avoiding it now. Forcing a smile, Miles straightened and held out a hand. “I expect we should be off to find her.”
She hesitated, grabbed her book, and then placed her spare hand in his. The other clung tightly to the buttercups she’d gathered.
“Do you have a name?”
The little girl giggled. “Yes.”
Miles’ lips twitched. How very literal a child was; incapable of artifice that drove the world she’d eventually grow into.
“Do you?” she asked.
He paused and dropped a deep bow. “Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford. And what is your name, then?” he asked. While guiding her down the path, he worked his gaze over the grounds.
Another little giggle escaped the girl’s lips.
“My name is—”
“Faith!” A cry sounded in the distance and startled the wrens from the branches of a nearby elm. The birds took off into sudden flight.
Miles peered ahead, to where a woman sprinted down the riding path tripping and stumbling over herself. She skidded to a stop before them, landing h
ard on her knees. She dragged the girl into her arms and knocked his hand free of the child’s. The book slipped from her fingers. “Faith,” she said between her panicky, raspy breaths. The fine quality of her gray satin skirts was not the type befitting a maid.
The mother. The midnight tresses and like cornflower blue eyes hinted at the familial connection.
“Where did you go?” the lady entreated.
“I was picking flowers,” the child’s words came muffled against her mother’s chest.
The young woman drew back, searching a frantic gaze over the small figure. “Do not wander away from me or Miss Cynthia,” she demanded. “Ever.” The stern rebuke underscoring that utterance set the girl’s lip atremble.
An interloper on the reunion, Miles shifted his weight back and forth…when the lady looked up. The panicked terror receded from her gaze, as she blinked up at him. She blinked again. And once more. “Hullo,” she said hurriedly and scrambled to her feet.
Miles sketched a bow. He opened his mouth to speak when the little girl piped in.
“Mama, this is Miles. He picked flowers for you.”
He blinked and followed the ladies’ gazes to the wilting bouquet in his hand. Gifts between a lord and lady were forbidden. Even more so between a gentleman and a married woman.
Color blossomed on the nameless lady’s cheeks. “It is impolite to refer to a gentleman by his given name,” her mother murmured.
“Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford,” he supplied and turned over the yellow buttercups. Surely improprieties could be forgiven for the benefit of a child’s happiness?
The lady hesitated, darting her wary gaze about. Did she worry about the possible scandal should a passerby observe her receiving an offering from a gentleman?
Her daughter tugged her hand. “Mama, you are being rude. He picked them for you.”
The young woman lifted her eyes once more to his. The soft blue irises momentarily froze him. When he’d been a small boy in the Sussex countryside, so many summer days he’d lay on his back staring up at the vibrant blue skies overhead. Her gaze harkened to summer skies and soft pale waters. “Thank you,” she murmured, jerking him back from that lapse into madness. As she accepted the blooms, their fingers brushed and even through the leather of his gloves, the heat of her naked fingers penetrated the fabric.
Bloody hell. Miles let his arm fall to his side. He’d never been one of those roguish sorts to lust after or bed another man’s wife. He glanced down at her wide-eyed daughter, staring up at him, and he forced a smile. “I cannot fully take credit for the offering, my lady. I had a most excellent tutor.” The child giggled at the praise. “Thank you for the lesson on how to properly gather flowers, my lady,” he said. Faith beamed and a radiant smile spread across her face. She was very much her mother’s daughter. Clearing his throat, he again turned his attention to the midnight-curled mama. “I bid you good day, madam,” he murmured and turned to go.
“Wait.” Her softly spoken request brought him around. She held her palms up. “I did not properly thank you for helping my daughter.”
“There is no need to thank me…” For some inexplicable reason that defied propriety, he needed to know the lady’s identity.
The young woman sank into a flawless curtsy. “Philippa Gage, Countess of Winston,” she murmured.
Lady Winston. He scoured his memory for remembrance of the lady or her husband. With her midnight curls and full lips, he’d recall a woman with a beauty to rival Aphrodite. Yet, he could not drag forth a single memory of seeing the lady in any London Season. Stooping, Miles retrieved the small leather book at the lady’s feet and handed it over to her. Their fingers again brushed and a rush of charged heat went through him. Her breath caught on an audible intake. Did she too feel that warmth? Drawing his hand away, he placed his hat on once more and touched the brim. “It is a pleasure, my lady.” He should leave. But he hesitated, something kept his feet frozen.
Lady Winston held his stare; high-color in her cheeks.
“Come along, Mama,” her daughter urged, giving the lady another tug. That movement propelled the woman into motion and with another perfectly executed curtsy, she turned on her heel and left.
Miles remained standing, staring after them, studying mother and daughter. The lady hovered a hand on Faith’s shoulder and spoke animatedly to the girl. Periodically, the child would nod. Then, the lady shot a glance back and their gazes collided once more.
A surge of awareness raced through him; an unexplainable, forbidden hungering to know more about her. Only when mother and daughter disappeared down a walking trail did it begin to subside. Giving his head a bemused shake, Miles beat a path back toward his mount. For the better part of ten years, his determined mother had been trying to match him off to a respectable young lady. He’d had little urgency to make one of those matches, because, well, there hadn’t really been a pressing need. Of course he would ultimately fulfill his obligations as the marquess, but even if he did not, there was still his younger brother, who’d admirably assume the role should something happen to him. In the time since he’d left university, his friend, the Duke of Bainbridge, had been married twice, suffered the loss of a babe, remarried, and fathered two children. Yet, oddly enough, he’d not given thought of himself as a husband. Or a father…beyond the obligatory end of his role as marquess.
Thrusting aside thoughts of the young woman and her daughter, Miles reached the spot where his horse lazily munched on the grass and released his reins. Climbing astride, he nudged Whisper around and guided him in the opposite direction. Finding a lost child and her hauntingly beautiful mother was certainly enough excitement for the—
A sharp cry rang out. Heart hammering, Miles jerked on the reins. Wheeling his mount around once more, he set out after the nearby call of distress.
Chapter 3
Philippa was sensible. She’d long been practical and proper and demure. It was those traits that had snared the notice of her late husband and led to a predictable courtship and subsequent marriage.
Yes, she was hardly the manner of woman to note a towering, ginger-haired gentleman with exquisitely sculpted features. And certainly not the manner of woman who allowed herself to steal a glance back for a final glimpse of said gentleman’s perfect figure. Except, he had rescued her wandering daughter…and picked flowers with her, and surely a gentleman such as that warranted a lingering look.
Such intrigue was dubiously rewarded. She glanced back and promptly stumbled. With a gasp, she fell sideways, coming down hard on her hip. Her daughter’s soft cry cut across her distracted musings of Lord Guilford. “Mama!”
What in blazes had she stepped in? Philippa looked to her foot, partially dangling inside a rabbit hole. Bloody rabbit hole. The fairytale book she’d brought to read to her daughters lay mockingly beside it. She really should have been attending where she was walking.
“Oh, Mama. You arrre hurt.” Worry stretched out that syllable.
As she removed her foot from the hole, pain radiated from her ankle and she moved it in a slow, experimental circle. “Not at all,” she assured. Seated on her buttocks, with her skirts rucked about her ankles, she managed a smile. It was nothing other than her pride now smarting. It was fitting that she was now so inelegantly sprawled in the trail after being so gauche and clumsy in staring after a gentleman who’d been kind to Faith. Philippa made to stand, when Cynthia’s sharp cry cut across the horizon.
The young nursemaid rushed over, shifting Violet in her arms. “Oh, my lady,” she cried, with a fervor more suited to a carriage accident than a little stumble in the park.
She sighed. Then, she’d always been weak, pathetic Philippa, doing exactly as people wished to keep everyone happy. Doted on by all. “I assure you, I am fine,” she murmured and once more made to stand, when thundering hooves sounded in the distance.
They looked as one. Philippa’s heart did a funny leap. He’d returned.
The Marquess of Guilford brou
ght his mount to a stop. In one fluid movement, he dismounted, tethered his towering horse to a nearby oak, and strode toward their quartet. He dropped to a knee beside Philippa. “Are you hurt, my lady?” he asked, in a mellifluous baritone that caused her heart to speed up another beat.
Unable to drag forth words, Philippa shook her head and then glanced at her ankles. She gasped and rushed to cover her exposed lower legs.
“My mama is hurt,” Faith said, when Philippa failed to respond.
The marquess shifted his gaze from her feet and she braced for his questioning. Instead, he moved his attention to the little informant. “Is she, my lady?” he asked in gentle tones.
“Oh, yes. She stepped in a rabbit hole because she was not looking where she was going.”
As her daughter proceeded to chatter like a magpie, Philippa cocked her head. Never in the course of her life had a gentleman taken the time to speak to her as a woman, let alone a small girl. Her own father, God rot his soul, had been a dark devil who’d beat his daughters with the same frequency he’d beaten his sons. As a woman, her elder brothers had taken little interest in her future or her happiness, beyond the proper, formal match coordinated by her eldest brother. And yet, here was this man…a stranger, speaking to her child as though she were an equal, when gentlemen tended to not see a child, and most especially not a female one.
“Isn’t that right, Mama?”
Blinking wildly, Philippa looked from her daughter to the nursemaid cradling Violet, and then to the marquess. Each stared at her, expecting something. Her mind raced. Just as Philippa was not the manner of woman to not attend where she was walking or to stare after a gentleman, neither was she the one who woolgathered while others spoke. She attended conversations. She worried her lower lip. Or she did. Normally. Not now. And when possessed of an absolute lack of idea on how to respond, she opted for the very safe, “It is.”
To Woo a Widow Page 2