Lord Montfort smiled. And this was not the easy, affable, sincere grin worn by Miles but rather a cold, empty expression of mirth. Her own existence had proven life indelibly shaped a person; marked you with pain. What was to account for this man’s steely edge? Seeing it, recognizing it, however, made him more man than the beast she’d taken him for at Hyde Park. “My lord,” she said quietly, glancing about. If she were discovered, there would be even more questions she didn’t wish to answer. “If you’ll excuse me?” She made to step around him when he called out, staying her.
“May I offer you a word of advice?”
What advice could a man with his hard eyes have for her? She eyed him warily.
“If you’re prepared to sneak away for your pleasures, then do not make apologies for it. Take your pleasures where you would and be damned with anyone for their opinions.”
Surprise filled her. From her first sighting of him in the park, she’d believed him capable of nothing but malice.
His wicked grin deepened. “If you are, however… amiable?” he whispered lowering his head closer.
Philippa leaned back and offered a wry smile. “I assure you, I am n—”
Footsteps sounded down the hall and they looked as one. “You bastard,” Miles hissed, rushing forward. Philippa gasped as, in one quick movement, he hefted the earl away and leveled him with a single blow.
“Miles, no,” she cried, reaching for his arm. For the earl’s wicked offer, nothing untoward otherwise had happened.
With a grunt, the other man went down hard on his knees. “By God, Guilford, I didn’t—” Coming over the earl’s form, Miles punched him again.
“Oh, my goodness!”
That shocked exclamation filled the corridor and froze Miles mid-blow.
And then, with a sinking wave of horror, Philippa turned to the small audience that had gathered—Lady Jersey, Philippa’s mother, Gabriel and his wife. Her brother narrowed a lethal stare on the two battling men.
She clenched her toes so hard, her arches ached.
“Lord Guilford,” Gabriel drawled, his tone dripping ice.
His chest heaving from his exertions, Miles stood, mouth agape, staring at their audience.
Taking advantage of that distraction, the Earl of Montfort punched him in the face and Philippa cried out. “Only fair to return the favor,” he said with the same humor of one discussing a Drury Lane comedy.
Several additional guests converged on the hallway and Philippa covered her face with her hands.
This was bad, indeed.
Chapter 15
It had happened.
For the first time in his nearly thirty years, Miles had found himself on the front page of the scandal sheets. All of them, to be precise. The stack at the corner of his desk glared mockingly back. With a growl, he shifted his attention from the papers in front of him to those useless scraps. He swiped the top copy and skimmed.
The Wanton Widow of Winston finds herself fought over by the Marquess of G and the Earl of M…
The muscles of his stomach clenched into tight, painful knots and his fingers curled about the pages of the hated sheet. They would print her name for all to see, while providing him and that bastard Montfort at least the slight anonymity of a given initial. He crumpled the page into a ball and hurled it into the rubbish bin beside his desk. By God, he’d done this. With his carelessness yesterday and in Hyde Park, he’d subjected her to the whispers and stares and the advances of cads like Montfort.
Miles picked up his pen and tapped it distractedly on his papers. If she would trust in him, he would marry her, not just to do right by her…which he did want that, too, but because he loved her. He loved her spirit and strength. He loved her devotion to her daughters. And he wanted to be a family with her and Faith and Violet. A pressure weighted his chest. Yet, with the life she’d lived, the misery of her own marriage, and the details she’d only alluded to of her childhood, she had no grounds to want to marry him. Never more had he wished to be one of those charming lords with all the right words.
The door flew open and he looked up. His mother stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him. “I’ve allowed you to shut yourself away in your office. Did you think I’d not expect you to speak on it?”
He swallowed a curse. “Mother,” he drawled and tossed down his pen. No, he rather thought a woman who so wholly survived and thrived on gossip would not allow him to escape talk. “Actually I did,” he said, rolling his shoulders. The last thing he cared to discuss was the scandal of being discovered alone with Philippa and bloodying Montfort for daring to put his hands on her. Another primal surge of bloodlust went through him at the memory of that bastard’s mouth on hers.
“Are you listening to me, Miles?” she snapped.
“No, I am not,” he said, eliciting another gasp. For the whole of his life, he’d been a dutiful son; seeing to the obligations and responsibilities that went with the Guilford title. He’d done so unflinchingly since his father had died ten years earlier. Where other lords had reveled in the freedom that came with being a bachelor in possession of great wealth, he’d dedicated himself to growing that wealth and never becoming one of those indolent lords. He’d not make apologies for any of his actions. And most especially, not for the feelings he had for Philippa.
“Do you know the scandal you’ve caused?” she implored. “What you’ve done to Sybil?”
“I have already spoken with Sybil. She understands my heart is otherwise engaged.”
Silence fell over the room. A very short-lived silence. “What?” she barked, a seal-like quality to that one word.
He tamped down a sigh, taking some mercy on his mother. There had been the expectation and lifelong hope on her part that he would marry her goddaughter and cement their families. In time, she’d come to appreciate the manner of honorable, strong, woman Philippa was. “I am in love, Mother,” he said quietly as silence resounded in the room. His body went still. I love her. He loved Philippa with everything he was. He loved her as a woman of strength. He loved her for being a devoted mother. And he’d spend every day filling her days with joy if she’d but have him.
His mother opened and closed her mouth. “But…but…”
Miles flexed his jaw, tired of her disparagement of Philippa. “I intend to marry her.” Regardless of the expectations his mother had of or for Miles.
“You needn’t marry her.” His mother threw her hands up. “She is a widow.”
A black curtain of rage descended over his vision, momentarily blinding him, and he quelled her with a glare. “Have a care. That woman will be your daughter-in-law.” If she’ll have me.
The marchioness sputtered. “Sh-she said she would not marry you. A liar and a wanton.” She muttered that last part under her breath.
He froze. “What?”
“I said a liar and a…” At his black glare, her words trailed off. Color rushed his mother’s cheeks and she slapped one palm against the other. “I paid Lady Philippa a visit a few days ago in order to ascertain the state of your affairs.”
He choked. “You paid her a visit?” Fury and outrage gripped him. He thought of Philippa receiving his mother as a visitor and dealing with the woman’s vitriol. “What did you say to her?” he demanded. “What did you say?” he boomed, when she remained unyielding.
She jumped. “I explained you required an heir. I sought to determine if she could give you that heir.”
A growl worked up his chest and he let a vile curse fly, ignoring the way his mother gasped. He swiped his hand over his face. Philippa had endured a hellish marriage where her husband had seen her as nothing more than a broodmare for his babes. With her insensitive and bold questioning, his mother had demonstrated the same singular focus all Society held dear. Of all the unkindness Philippa had received, he’d now add his mother to one of those who’d done wrong by her. Regret pitted his belly. “Get out,” he seethed.
His mother rocked back on her heels. “Miles?” s
he squeaked.
He shoved to his feet and layering his palms upon his desk, he leaned forward. “I am marrying her,” he said again through hard lips. “And I will not allow you to disparage her. Are we clear, madam?”
She blinked.
“Are. We. Clear?” he bit out in succinct tones.
His mother gave a juddering nod.
And without another word or glance for his mother, he stalked from the room. He had a widow to woo.
Chapter 16
In the light of a new day, with her scandal gracing the front pages of every scandal sheet, Philippa came to a very powerful realization about her family—they were more forgiving of ill-behavior than she’d ever credited.
Following her hasty departure of Lord Essex’s ballroom, she’d braced for a tide of stern admonishment and a flurry of tears from her mother. Alas, they’d ridden the whole of the carriage ride in silence with not a single word uttered. And when they’d arrived home and she’d been asked to meet them in Gabriel’s office, she’d held her breath, waiting for the explosion.
That hadn’t come. Instead, Gabriel had quietly informed her that the family would be retiring to the country and then the unthinkable had happened. He’d asked if she and her daughters would join them. Asked, when she’d only ever truly been ordered about. There should be a thrill of victory in that. There should be a sense of triumph that even with the scandal she’d brought down on the family last evening, they’d not admonished and lectured the way they had done for the whole of her life.
So where was the sense of victory? Instead, all she knew was this great, gaping hole in her heart. Her throat worked painfully and she pressed her eyes closed hard. For one week of her life, she had been so very happy and felt alive in ways she’d never, ever felt.
Because of him. Miles. She sucked in a pained breath and her chest throbbed with a dull ache. Philippa leaned her forehead against the smooth windowpane. In the streets below, servants carried the trunks to the three waiting carriages as the final preparations took place for their departure.
“My lady?” Releasing the curtain, Philippa spun around and faced the servant at the doorway. “His Lordship said it is time.”
It is time.
Philippa struggled to drag forth a suitable thanks, but her throat constricted. Instead, touching her fingers to the silly pendant that hung about her throat, she managed a slight nod. The retreating footsteps and the faint click of the door as it closed filled the quiet. Philippa returned her attention to the activity below. Her maid finished filing away the last of her garments and then closed the trunk with a final, decisive click.
That click resonated with a finality that stabbed at her. It represented the end of the most gloriously romantic week she’d known in the whole of her existence. For when she boarded that carriage and departed for the country, a now scandalous widow, Miles’ life would carry on as it had before her.
He would marry. Mayhap not his Sybil Cunning, but there would be another, a woman who, no doubt, deserved him more than Philippa ever could. Oh, God. Agony ripped through her and she hugged her arms close to her waist. And every day of her life she would hate the woman who called him husband; would hate her with a vicious envy that she should know the love of such a man.
She ignored the faint sound of the door opening and focused on breathing. Anything except this pain knifing slowly away at her insides. “Please inform my brother I will be down shortly,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, surprisingly, Gabriel is being exceedingly patient.”
At Chloe’s dry words, Philippa wheeled around. “Chloe,” she said.
Her sister stepped aside for Philippa’s maid. After the young woman had gone, Chloe pushed the door closed and came over. She stared at Philippa a long moment. “You were not happy. I thought you must have loved your husband…but you did not.”
Philippa bit her inner lip hard and let her silence serve as her answer. Eyes usually filled with mischief and spirit, were now filled with agony. “Was he cruel to you?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Was he like F-Father?”
That crack in a woman of such remarkable composure ripped at Philippa. “No,” she said shaking her head and she, who’d long been the protected, became protector. “It was not a miserable marriage,” she lied. She gave a small, sad smile. “But neither was it a happy one.”
Chloe sucked in an audible breath. “I do not know what woman would willingly subject herself to such a state. If one’s heart is not breaking from the cruelty of marriage, then it risks being broken at the loss of that person.”
How very jaded her sister was. What a dark, sad view of love. Then, wasn’t I the very same before Miles? “Not all men are Father,” she said quietly, not letting her sister’s gaze go. “There are some men who are admirable and worthy and loving.” Tears misted her eyes and she blinked them back.
Chloe’s lips parted. “You love him.” Shock filled her tone.
Philippa managed a nod.
“Then why don’t you—”
“It is done, Chloe.”
“But—”
“I said, it is done,” she said with a firmness and, for the first time, unwavering and so bold that Chloe fell silent. She would not debate all the reasons she could never be a wife to Miles. There was no greater personal hell than being so failed by one’s body. And unless a person had lived with the agony of that in the loss of a child and in the death of a pregnancy, then they could never, ever know that pain.
Except, this was Chloe. “If you do love him, however, then nothing else should matter, Philippa.”
Her lips twisted with bitterness. Yes, in the world of fairytales and make-believes, that was very much true. But this was her reality, and this was life, and there could be no rewriting it for that very reason. She gave thanks when another knock sounded at the door. She stepped to the door, opening the panel to admit two footmen, who gathered her trunks.
Not wanting any more questions or urgings from her sister, or anyone, she started out the door. Her sister hurried after her; adjusting her stride to match Philippa’s quicker pace. “I am going to gather Faith and Violet,” she said. “You go along without me.”
“They are already belowstairs.” She paused. “In the Ivory Parlor.”
Philippa adjusted direction and started for the parlor. As she turned down the hall, the peel of her daughters’ laughter spilled into the corridor and she managed her first real smile since last evening. With all the pain and despair that came with life, her daughters’ joy had long proven a balm. She reached the edge of the doorway and then jerked to a stop as a familiar baritone sounded from inside the room. Her heart slowed and then sped up. Philippa rushed forward and then stopped. Miles knelt beside Faith and Violet, saying something that roused giggles from the sisters. They looked up at Philippa. The potent emotion pouring from Miles’ gaze froze the air in her lungs.
“Mama,” Faith exclaimed, shattering the moment. “Look.” She held up a small bouquet of yellow buttercups. “Look what Miles brought me and Violet.”
“Flow-ra” Violet shook her gift wildly and then hurled it at Miles. It hit his chest. With a grin, he ruffled the top of Violet’s head.
Oh, God. How effortless he was with her daughters. How good and gentle and all things wonderful. Her lower lip quivered.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Faith chimed in happily.
“Most beautiful,” she said past a tight throat. Miles climbed to his feet and her eyes went to the small bouquet of buttercups in his hand.
“Those ones are for you, Mama,” Faith exclaimed, pointing at the flowers. “He even picked them himself, he said.” She swung her gaze up to the silent gentleman beside her. “Isn’t that right, Miles?”
He stretched his hand out. “Indeed. I had a most excellent tutor,” he said and her heart twisted under the beautiful sweetness of that acknowledgement.
“Faith, take Violet and find Miss Cynthia.”
Chest puffed with girlish pri
de, Faith collected her sister’s hand. “Come along, Violet.” The girls waved and then with a final goodbye to Miles, left.
Philippa smoothed her palms over her skirts.
“You were going to leave.” His was a gruff accusation more than anything and still she nodded.
A flash of hurt glinted in his eyes and twisted the guilt deep inside her. “It is for the best.” Surely he saw that?
“Why?” he shot back, striding over.
She looked blankly at him. Surely, given the scandal gracing the pages he had to see she had no place in London. Miles held his buttercup offering out and she accepted them with tremulous fingers. Philippa raised them to her nose and inhaled their sweet, fragrant scent.
Miles fished around the front of his jacket and brandished a thick, ivory vellum sheet. “It is a special license from the archbishop.” The flowers slipped from her fingers and sailed into a soft, noiseless heap beside them. “Marry me.”
“You don’t have to—”
He slashed the air with his hand. When he spoke, his words were steeped in impatience. “This is not about what transpired last evening.” And what now littered every scandal sheet in London. “This is about me, asking you to not leave with your family, but to remain here. With me.” He held her gaze squarely. “Marry me.”
And just like that, he held out every gift she’d never believed possible for herself. “Miles,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. How did he not see that in being here, he was taking apart her heart?
“Please,” he added, the faint entreaty reaching inside her.
She closed her eyes a moment. “I cannot,” she said with an aching regret, which knifed away at her insides. “I—”
“I love you,” he said.
The air left her on a swift exhale and Philippa pressed a palm against her mouth.
“I love you,” he said cupping her cheek with infinite gentleness and she leaned into his caress. “And if I were skilled in verse, I’d offer you the pretty words you deserve.”
To Woo a Widow Page 12