“What business does the marchioness have with you?” Her mother furrowed her brow.
Philippa managed a wan smile. “I expect it is merely a social call,” she said evenly. Who would have believed Philippa Gage capable of such ease in lying? “If you’ll excuse me?” she asked and climbed to her feet. With smooth, effortless steps, she started for the front of the room. “Oh, Mother?” she began, turning around.
The marchioness inclined her head.
“Just so you are aware. I have no intention of marrying Lady Audley’s son.” She looked to Gabriel. “Or anyone else my family wishes to pair me off with.” With that, she ignored her brother’s frown and took her leave of the breakfast room. Chloe’s muffled laughter trailed behind her, that brief moment of levity only momentarily distracting.
When she was away from their silent scrutiny, she increased her stride, a vicious twisting in her belly confirmed what her mind already knew—the Marchioness of Guilford’s was no social call. Certainly not at this time of day. Had the woman discovered Miles’ honorable almost-offer?
Philippa turned at the end of the corridor and slowed her pace. Running her palms over the front of her skirts, she came to a stop outside the parlor and plastered a smile on her face. “My lady,” she said with false cheer as she entered. “How—?”
The marchioness climbed to her feet. “Lady Winston,” she said quickly, wringing her hands. Worry wreathed her wrinkled cheeks.
Philippa motioned her to sit. “Please—”
“Lady Winston, I will not beat around the bush,” the older woman said as she settled onto the edge of the ivory sofa. She continued to wring her hands. Philippa’s stomach dipped. “I am here regarding my son,” the marchioness said, at last confirming her suspicions.
Philippa slid into the seat across from Miles’ mother and, with the hard glint in the woman’s eyes, Philippa was once again the tongue-tied, speechless lady without any bold rejoinders. All the old frustrations with herself came rushing back.
The woman ceased her distracted movements and held Philippa’s gaze. “I have read the scandal pages linking your names.” Her breath froze in her chest. Oh, God, had she been discovered in that public embrace? She curled her toes in the soles of her slippers. “My son is an honorable gentleman.” Philippa stiffened. “He pledged to wed my goddaughter, his distant cousin, if he was not wed by thirty.”
“I do not see how this is any of my affair, my lady,” she said in succinct tones, proud of that smooth deliverance.
The marchioness edged forward turning her hands up. “Don’t you see, this is very much about you, Lady Winston? My son is a marquess.”
Philippa set her teeth. “I know very well his title, my lady.”
Miles’ mother pounced. “Then you should also realize my son requires an heir and I wish to see him happy.”
Were those two mutually exclusive? Or could Miles be a man who would equate that all-important heir with his ultimate happiness? Her stomach flipped over itself. At her silence, the marchioness seized full control of the discussion that was really no discussion at all.
“There have been…whispers of your circumstances,” the marchioness went on when Philippa remained silent.
“My circumstances,” she repeated dumbly.
The woman cleared her throat. “Your inability to produce heirs.”
Bitterness lanced her heart, melded with a burning resentment that anyone should feel so bold as to ask questions where they had no right. “Ahh,” Philippa managed. Is that what the ton should call the countless times she’d lain bleeding and weak, nearly dead for her efforts to bring forth that precious heir? She favored the woman with a stony silence.
“If the rumors are, in fact, just that…rumors,” she searched her gaze over Philippa’s face. “Then I would, at the very least, entertain the possibility of a match between you and my son.”
Entertain a match? This stranger would enter Philippa’s home and put bold demands and inquiries to her. Yet again, another person who the only worth they saw in Philippa was in her ability or inability to birth a boy babe.
All of Miles’ beautiful lessons he’d unknowingly handed Philippa on her own strength and worth brought her shoulders back with pride. Mayhap it was years of abuse at her father’s hands. Or the rigid expectations placed on her by her mother, husband, and brother, but Philippa’s patience cracked. “How dare you?” she demanded.
The marchioness creased her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“As you should,” Philippa bit out, deliberately misinterpreting the other woman’s words. “You come into my home and ask me to explain my connection to your son.” Color flooded the marchioness’ cheeks. “You expect me to speak about personal matters you have no right to ask on, with the only concern being your son’s need for an heir.” She surged to her feet with such alacrity her skirts snapped noisily at her feet. “I will tell you this, madam, I do not intend to marry your son.” Nor had he asked. A slight exhalation of relief burst from the other woman’s lips. “But even if I did, I would not answer to you about it. I owe no explanations, nor do I seek your approval. Now,” she said, gesturing to the door, “if you’ll excuse me? We are through here.”
The older woman opened and closed her mouth like a trout yanked from the lake and tossed to shore. Then with stiff, regal elegance befitting a queen, she came to her feet. “Well, then,” she said tightly. “With your deplorable manners you have proven you are very much an Edgerton.” Yanking at her skirts, Miles’ mother started for the door.
Philippa steeled her jaw. An Edgerton. The marchioness spoke it as though it was a sin upon her character, when in actuality, the Edgertons were something far more; something she’d failed to realize of herself—until this moment.
They were survivors.
And they would not be trampled by life…and this woman would most certainly not cow her. “Madam,” she called out and the woman halted in her tracks. “My family demonstrates far greater dignity and grace than most.” The marchioness brought her shoulders back. “And Society may whisper of us, but neither are we the manner of people who would dare enter someone else’s home and call into question their character and worth.” For as good, kind, and worthy as Miles had proven himself to be these past four days, his mother had demonstrated herself to be as cold as the rest of the ton. “Good day, madam,” she bit out, not allowing the hated woman to raise all her oldest insecurities about bearing babes.
“How dare you?” the marchioness seethed, taking a step toward Philippa.
“No, how dare you?”
As one, they looked to the sharp exclamation that came from the front of the room. Philippa’s mouth fell open. Fury radiating in her eyes, her mother rushed forward in a whish of skirts like a warrior storming a keep. “My daughter, the Countess of Winston, has asked you to leave and I insist that you do so this instant.”
If the Marchioness of Guilford’s cheeks turned any redder, she’d be set ablaze. “In all my years, I have never—”
“I will not ask you again.” The Dowager Marchioness of Waverly’s voice shook with emotion; more passion and life than she’d ever shown in the years she’d spent married to her miserable husband.
Through the years of her husband’s abuse, never had her mother found the courage to intervene on behalf of her children—until now. So much love filled Philippa’s throat, it choked off words.
“Well.” With another flick of her skirts, Miles’ mother stalked from the room.
The moment she left, the fight went out of Philippa and she buried her face in her hands. And in this instance, she couldn’t sort out whom she hated more—herself for having a body that had so failed her, Miles’ mother for being so very correct in him deserving a wife who could and would give him those boy babes he required, or Miles himself for showing her everything she’d never believed possible; dangling the sliver of a promise before her. All the while, knowing he could never be hers for every blasted reason his mother had spit out.
Her mother touched a delicate hand to her shoulder and she let her hands fall to her side. Tears glazed her mother’s eyes. “I am so very proud of you. You have always been stronger than I ever could have hoped to be.”
…your eyes speak a tale of a woman of strength… Even if you do not see it in yourself… With Miles’ words whispering around her memory, Philippa offered a tremulous smile.
“I am so sorry I failed you,” her mother whispered. “You deserved my protection from your father. Each of you did.”
“You did not fail us. You did the best you were able. Just as I did with Calvin.”
Shock registered in the older woman’s eyes. Then, the dowager marchioness placed her fingers to tremulous lips. “Thank you.”
And there was an absolution in that; freeing her mother of guilt and finding freedom in it herself.
“Oh, Philippa!” She jerked her gaze to the doorway where her sister and sister-in-law stood. Chloe’s wide smile reached her eyes as she rushed forward. “You were brilliant.” She took her hands in her own and gave a squeeze. “We were listening at keyholes,” she explained. “And, Mother, you were utterly magnificent.”
Their mother claimed Philippa’s hands in hers and squeezed. “Your sister was magnificent.” She looked over to Chloe. “As all of my children are.”
All these years, Philippa had lamented that she was not more like her sister; strong, unwavering, fearless. Only to find out that Miles had, in fact, been correct.
She was far stronger than she’d ever credited.
Philippa smiled.
And before she left for the country and Miles was forever gone from her life, she would steal one more moment between them. That would be memory enough to live with her forever.
It would have to be.
Chapter 13
Standing behind the Scamozzi column in Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom in the vibrant purple satin dress recently selected with Chloe, Philippa came to a new revelation. Apparently, the expectation was that young widows were only a little sad. The larger expectation from others was that she was in the market for a lover. Then, when I’m caught embracing a gentleman in the middle of Hyde Park, how should anyone expect anything different? Donning a gown with a deep décolletage did little to quell those assumptions, either. Her belly knotted. She’d not let them steal the simple joy in picking out the gown of her choosing. Societal expectations had already stolen enough of her happiness.
Just then, her gaze collided with a boldly staring Lord Montfort. A licentious smile turned his lips and she quickly stepped behind the pillar, heart racing. She peeked around the white column. Lord Improper-Eyes, as she’d dubbed him earlier that evening, skimmed the crowd and then found her once more. With a silent curse, she ducked behind the pillar again. Blasted gentleman.
Then, not all gentlemen are surely wicked. There was one who helped my daughter and paid a call and asked her questions…questions that hadn’t pertained to my interest in a lover. A man who’d kissed her days earlier and whom she’d not seen since.
Her heart danced a funny little beat as a tall, commanding figure entered Lord Essex’s ballroom. The hundreds of lit candles cast a soft glow upon his ginger tresses. Hugging herself close to the column, she secretly observed him as he strode with long, confident steps down the sweeping staircase. His path was intercepted by the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge. Philippa watched on as the trio spoke with an easy familiarity. Occasionally, Miles tossed his head back on a laugh. He wore a smile. In every time she’d seen him, he did. Which was so at odds with everything she’d seen or known of her own stern-faced husband.
Her brother, Alex, a rogue, had long donned a false smile. Gabriel, hardly any at all, until his recent marriage. And yet, this man did. She’d not even known it possible.
He stiffened and then looked over the duke’s shoulder. Their eyes met.
A thrill went coursing through her; an inexplicable pull that froze the breath in her lungs. He dipped his head in a silent greeting; that sincere, half-grin on his lips. And mayhap she was one of those scandalous widows after all, for she lifted her fingers in a slight salutation.
A despised figure stepped between them, immediately shattering that slight, maddening connection and she quickly sank back. She hardened her mouth, staring at Miles’ mother. The same woman who’d entered her home yesterday morn and asked questions she had no right to. It was not, however, the nasty marchioness who earned her notice but rather the lovely blonde woman at her side. But for her spectacles, with her plump cheeks and golden curls, she may as well have been any other English lady in the room, and yet…there was an ease and comfort with which she spoke to Miles. Jealousy, sharp, gritty, and real, dug its sharp claws into her.
This was the woman. This was the lady his mother would see Miles wed. A woman, as she’d pointed out, who would give him children when Philippa would never traverse that dangerous path. Pain clogged her throat and she swallowed past the sizeable lump. It was why, even hating Miles’ mother for the bold words she’d uttered yesterday, she saw the truth in those words, as well. She touched her fingers to the pendant hanging at her throat.
Silly talisman. Though beautiful in what it symbolized, it was foolish for her to have even donned the gift as anything other than a lovely ornamentation given her by Jane. Philippa would not know the love of a man. It was one of those foolish, empty dreams she’d tricked herself into believing might exist for her.
The gray-haired marchioness stepped aside, motioning to the dance floor, and Miles found Philippa briefly with his gaze. With the distance between them, she could not make out the emotion in his eyes. Then he returned his attention to the woman singlehandedly selected by his mother and escorted the lady onto the floor for the next set. As the orchestra’s strands of the waltz soared about the room, couples twirled by in a violent explosion of vibrant gowns and tailed jackets. Young ladies with bright, innocent eyes and cheeks flushed with excitement. Yet, only one particular smiling couple earned her notice.
Miles easily guided the bespectacled woman through the motions of the waltz. Philippa tore her stare away from that perfectly paired couple and looked at the sea of smiling debutantes. Was I ever that innocent? Long ago, she’d been…
She closed her eyes a moment. As a girl of five who’d first suffered a birch rod being applied to her back by a father determined to beat obedience into his children, her innocence had been shattered. And yet…she opened her eyes, seeing those other ladies; hopeful and eager. And yet, for the horror of her childhood, hope had still dwelled inside. It was as Jane had only just opened her eyes to the fact that not all men were her father.
There were, in fact, gentlemen who were good and caring; capable of treating a woman and child with kindness and love when she and her own mother had known nothing but pain.
Philippa bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip. She’d been so determined to marry a man who was nothing like her father, she’d been deceived by a man’s pretty words and the reputation he’d established amongst Polite Society. And through that folly, she’d invariably become her mother, albeit in a slightly different way.
Then she’d met Miles and everything she’d ever believed had been flipped on its ear.
“There you are.”
A gasp exploded from her lips and she spun so quickly she lost her balance. Chloe shot her hands out and quickly steadied her. “Chloe,” she chided, faintly breathless. “You startled me.”
“Mother is looking for you.”
She swallowed another very un-Philippa like curse. Of course she was.
Following her unspoken thoughts, her sister discreetly motioned across the room. “She is alongside Lady Audley.”
Her stomach dipped. Of course, even with her bold rejection of those intentions yesterday at breakfast, her mother was relentless in her matchmaking pursuits. Why should she not bother with Chloe who’d, as of yet, been spared that miserable state? Not that she wished it upon Chloe. Anything but. She did
, however, know Chloe would never be so weak as to make the same follies she herself had.
“Are you hiding from Mother? Or the crowd in general?”
Her sister’s question startled her back to the moment. Philippa smiled. It was hard to not have a smile for Chloe who, with her frankness and strength, represented everything Philippa had never been but had always hoped to be. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps, both?”
Her sister rounded her eyes and then a sharp bark of honest laughter spilled past her lips. “I’ve never known you to jest,” she said as her mirth subsided.
Philippa grimaced. Yes, just as she’d never challenged her parents or husband, so too had she never done something as scandalous as make jests. Alas… The recent opinion of the ton was that she must be wanton. The whole widow business and all. Unbidden, she searched the floor and her gaze collided with Lord Improper-Eyes.
Chloe followed her stare and frowned. “Ah, so that is who you are avoiding. Lord Montfort,” her sister supplied. “A notorious rake and highly improper.” She spoke the way a seasoned matchmaker who knew the most suitable matches a lady should hope to make. She softly cursed. “He is coming this way now.” Philippa’s stomach dipped. In all her greatest horror of reentering London Society, she’d not given thought that she would be sought after by men with dishonorable intentions. “Go,” Chloe said from the corner of her mouth.
Philippa looked at her. Go?
Her sister waved a hand. “You are free to slink about your host’s home, while we unmarried ladies face ruin for something as scandalous as escaping the ballroom.” She looked out across the ballroom once more. “Or stay. Mother is on her way now with Lord Matthew, which I expect is far less safe than the Earl of Mont—”
Philippa spun on her heel and, keeping to the perimeter of the ballroom, marched along the crowded room. She took care to avoid the less than honorable eyes being cast her way. With every step, pressure built in her chest. Who would have expected that this misery would be far more oppressive than the dance to secure a husband all those years ago? She reached the back of the ballroom and without hesitating, rushed from the room and continued walking until the cacophony of the festivities was a muted in her ears.
To Woo a Widow Page 10