At that familiar, dry drawl, Miles shot his head up. He set his glass aside. “Bainbridge.” Surprise crept into his tone. The other man, devoted to his two children and hopelessly in love with his wife, was rarely one for their clubs.
Bainbridge dragged out a chair and claimed the opposite seat with all the austere command of a man born and bred to be a duke. A servant rushed over with a glass, but the young duke waved the man off. All the while, he kept his attention trained on Miles. “I’ve read of your own impressive rescue of a lady in Hyde Park earlier this week,” he drawled, folding his arms at his broad chest. He quirked a very ducal eyebrow.
Years earlier, Bainbridge had set the Town abuzz when he’d rescued his now wife from the frozen Thames. “Hardly the manner of heroics evinced by some,” he said dryly. This was the reason for the other man’s visit, then.
“But enough to merit gossip, of course,” the duke spoke with his disdain for Polite Society underscoring his every word.
Miles gave a brusque nod. Gossip he’d only fueled that morning by taking Philippa in his arms.
“The papers purport an illicit relationship.” His friend drummed his gloved fingertips on his sleeves.
A wry smile creased Miles’ lips. “Apparently, in my advancing years, I’ve acquired the reputation of rogue.” The young duke had never been one to dance around matters. His statements were more demands than anything else. Most of the ton feared the man. Miles, however, had known him since he’d been a sullen, lonely boy at Eton. Miles then stood beside that man who’d sobbed at the loss of his wife during childbirth. His dry mirth faded. How easily he’d encouraged the other man to move past his sorrow, but how very near to becoming his late wife Philippa had been.
“Well?” Bainbridge demanded gruffly.
He sighed, not pretending to misunderstand the question there. “The lady is a widow. I found her daughter wandering in Hyde Park and returned her.” And I’ve since seen her three more times, after, drawn like one of those hopeless sailors at sea.
The other man continued beating his fingers in that annoying staccato rhythm. “A lady you’ve since seen again?”
He frowned. “Her daughter forgot her book in the park.”
“Of course,” the young duke drawled.
Shifting in his seat under the speculative glint in Bainbridge’s eyes, Miles added, “Furthermore, it would have been ungentlemanly to not visit and see after the lady’s well-being.”
The ghost of a smile hovered on Bainbridge’s lips. “Indeed, not,” he stretched out those three syllables. Then, the duke had plucked a lady from the frozen Thames and never called again. It was the lady who’d continually sought him out.
Whereas Miles couldn’t bring Lady Philippa ’round to any real interest. That isn’t altogether true. Her breathless moans and soft pleas bespoke a woman not wholly immune to me. Miles rolled his snifter between his hands.
“She’s not solely a young widow you happened to meet though, is she?” the duke said with an astuteness that could only come from years of friendship.
He shook his head once. “She does not wish to marry,” he said quietly. Even with the bond between him and Bainbridge, he could not bring himself to share the whispered words about her childhood. “She nearly…” Miles looked the other man squarely in the eye. “lost her life in childbirth.”
The duke’s expression grew shuttered. But for the faint muscle that jumped at the corner of his mouth, he gave no indication of his thoughts. In all Miles’ urgings that the other man re-enter the living, he’d not ever given consideration to the horror and hell of getting a child on another woman. How, after such a loss, could one ever be the same? Naively, with his own largely uncomplicated until now life, he’d never had the foresight to truly think of the implications in marrying, particularly where Bainbridge had been concerned.
At his silence, Miles continued on. “As such,” he said with a wave of his hand, “she’s no desire to marry.”
“Does she have no desire to marry? Or to suffer the hell of childbirth?” his friend asked, not missing a proverbial beat.
Miles frowned, momentarily stunned by the questions tossed at him. In all Philippa had shared, with all her revelations, how had he failed to piece together those very questions Bainbridge put to him, even now? “I…didn’t think,” he said, at last, shamed by his own admission.
Bainbridge shrugged his broad shoulders. “Those are entirely two different matters.”
Surely Philippa saw the value of her life far greater than any risk for a potential heir? Then, why would she? a voice whispered. She’s known you but a handful of days and the husband who’d treated her as more broodmare than wife for more than six years.
His friend put another question to him. “Would you be content in never having children if you married her?”
Only, they would have children. They would have Faith and Violet. Violet, a babe he’d still not met beyond a chance meeting in the park; a child with cherubic cheeks whom he wished to know with the same tender regard he’d come to appreciate Faith. Yes, there would be children. There would just be no male issue of his own. “I am not worried over the Guilford line,” he said, truthful. Where most gentlemen, like the bastard of a husband Philippa had spoken of, desired nothing more than their male offspring, he’d no sense of urgency or even a need to carry on the line. There was his brother and there would be other Brookfield issue. Then there remained the whole bringing the lady around to knowing she could trust in him. Why should she after just a few days of knowing one another? “She does not wish to marry again,” he said curtly.
Bainbridge lifted another black eyebrow. “You coaxed me into the living. You helped me find a new life with a wonderful woman. I expect you can muster sufficient charm to woo the young widow.”
Woo her? His frown deepened as he recalled every word he’d uttered to Philippa. He’d spoken of respectability and preserving her honor. Miles swallowed a groan. A woman whose previous marriage had proven so disastrous, so cold, and empty… Whyever would she have responded favorably to his own poorly launched suit? Miles dragged a hand through his hair. Never before had he wished for being one of those charming lords with all the right words. Until this great blunder.
Bainbridge shoved back his chair and Miles looked up as the other man stood. “You are leaving, so quickly?” He pushed the bottle toward his friend.
“I merely came to ascertain your circumstances.” Despite himself, Miles’ lips pulled at that blunt honesty. Bainbridge pierced him with his hard stare. “And to tell you not to be a bloody fool.”
Miles chuckled and lifted his hand. “Send my best to the duchess.”
The young duke inclined his head once more and, laconic as always, quickly took his leave, ignoring the terrified stares shot his way.
Bainbridge gone, Miles returned to thoughts of Philippa. Bainbridge’s words rattled around his mind. Following his earlier meeting with his mother, he’d departed for Philippa’s residence. He’d convinced himself that his intentions were borne of nothing more than Montfort’s poorly timed appearance. Now, with his own thoughts and now Bainbridge’s company, he was forced to face the truth he’d denied until now. He wanted her. Now, how to prove to the lady that she wanted him in return?
Chapter 12
Since yesterday, Philippa had been lulled into a false sense of calm…that her actions wouldn’t be discovered and bandied around Society. Now, today, standing at her vanity facing a new day, she accepted the inevitability of the whispers.
For the cold-eyed gentleman in the park was the manner of dastard who’d bandy about such a juicy morsel of gossip regarding the recently widowed Lady Winston. And then all of Polite Society would have their assumptions confirmed—Lady Philippa was a wicked widow. There would be veiled innuendos and unveiled ones. There would be improper offers and scandalous, stolen caresses.
For a sliver of a moment, she considered feigning a megrim. Or an injured ankle. Or a horrible cold. Anything. Because
surely, when she made her way downstairs, she’d be met with an outraged mother and Gabriel brandishing a copy of The Times with all her sins from Hyde Park inked out for the whole of the world to see.
She stared into her vanity mirror searching for the same frightened eyes that had stared back at her every day of her five and twenty years. Mayhap she was a wanton. For even with the inevitable demise of her name and reputation or the stern lectures from her brother and mother, she could not bring herself to regret Miles’ kiss. It had been the single most romantic, passionate moment of her five and twenty years that she’d not trade.
Her gaze went to the book resting on her vanity and she picked it up. With Jane’s recent encouragements rattling around her mind, she flipped through the leather volume and stopped on a page that had been marked by her sister-in-law.
…Women do not want power over men. They want power over themselves…
A knock sounded and she spun about. The inevitable. “E-enter,” she called out.
Jane stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Some of the tension went out of her. If anyone would be without recrimination, it would be her bold-spirited, unapologetic sister-in-law. “Hello, Philippa,” she said softly, coming over. “Your mother is asking for you.”
Her earlier courage faltered. She’d spent so much of her life trying to gain the approval of her mother, her father, her brothers, and then husband; a fear of their disappointment had become an unwelcome part of who she was. “Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
…Your eyes speak a tale of a woman of strength… Even if you do not see it in yourself. Which you should… Miles’ words echoed around her mind and she firmed her jaw. She was a woman of her own now. She’d returned to her family’s home because they’d asked her here, but she needn’t stay and be subjected to admonishments like she was a child who didn’t know her own mind. Nor would she hide away in her chambers any longer. Bringing her shoulders back, Philippa started for the door.
Jane placed herself in Philippa’s path, halting her forward stride.
Philippa looked questioningly at the shorter woman.
“When I met your brother, I despised him.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times. “Beg pardon?”
“Loathed him from the moment I met him,” Jane clarified.
Having been away in the country during one of her many confinements, she’d not known the details of how her brothers, Gabriel or Alex’s, marriages had come to be. Given the love she’d seen between Gabriel and his wife, however, she’d never dare suspect that there had ever been animosity.
“You look surprised,” Jane said with a wry smile.
“I am,” she conceded. “You seem very much in love.” She furrowed her brow. Surely she’d not been wrong in her supposition.
“Oh, you are not wrong,” Jane said, correctly interpreting her unspoken wonderings. “You see, I judged all men by the manner of person my own father was.” The Duke of Ravenscourt. As the duke’s illegitimate daughter, life could not have been an easy one for Jane and still, she’d become this magnificently strong woman. Appreciation stirred anew. Jane waved the box in her hand about. “The point I am trying to make, Philippa, is that your husband was cruel, I suspect?”
She stiffened. “How…” Her mind spun. “Why…?” How had this woman seen when not even her own sister or her mother or brothers had?
“You carry your sadness in your whole person,” Jane said softly. “Or you did. These past few days, I’ve seen joy in you that I’ve not seen in the six months in which you’ve lived here.”
Miles. Unable to meet her sister-in-law’s gaze, she glanced down at her feet. She’d hidden her every emotion for so very long, she didn’t know how to share that intimate truth.
“I do not know the struggles that were yours, Philippa,” Jane said, taking one of Philippa’s hands in hers. She gave it a slight squeeze and then released it. “And I only know the demons your brother has shared of his own hell. But sometimes, there is light and there is goodness and there is love…and good men. If you are fortunate enough to find one.”
Men who’d pick blooms with her daughter and whisper of moonflowers in her good ear. Men who’d attempt to do right by a widow when Society would never expect it of him. Philippa clasped her hands together and stared at the interlocked digits. “What if you can’t give a gentleman what he requires…?” Her cheeks warmed. “For an heir.”
Her sister-in-law laughed softly, forcing Philippa’s gaze up. “Then I expect he is not one of those good ones and you are better off without.” She opened the box in her hands and drew out a thick gold chain. A heart filigree pendant dangled from the end, twisting and twirling on the strand. “I want you to have this,” she murmured.
Philippa stared at the necklace. “It is lovely.”
“There is a story behind this piece,” Jane explained. “It was once given to me by the Duchess of Crawford when I was just married to your brother…and then shared with others, after.” She stared down with a faraway look in her eyes, studying the pendant with an almost reverent expression. “The legend is the wearer will earn the heart of a duke, but what other women have found is that with it comes love.”
Unease knotted Philippa’s belly as Jane held the necklace out. She held her hands up imploringly. “I…” Cannot. Would not. Do not wish to. She didn’t desire a duke or a husband… Or she hadn’t… Now, since Miles, it had all become so very muddled.
Jane stepped back and stared patiently. Her meaning clear: the decision ultimately rested in Philippa’s hands. And when nothing had truly rested in her power, this offering meant so very much. Even if it was a silly talisman worn by hopeful debutantes searching for a duke. Wordlessly, Philippa turned around and lifted the curls draped over her shoulders.
“I had to do a bit of work to find its whereabouts,” Jane murmured as she settled the chain about Philippa’s neck. The faint click of the clasp resounded in the quiet room. “There,” she confirmed.
A sharp charge of heat singed Philippa’s neck and she touched her hands to her throat. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Do not thank me.” She held out her elbow. “Shall we?”
Philippa cleared her throat. “I’ll join you shortly. I would pay a visit to the nursery, first.” The other woman looked as though she wished to say something more, but with a smile, turned and took her leave.
With Jane gone, Philippa made her way from her room, down the long corridor to the nursery, thinking on her sister-in-law’s words…about love and marriage. Those dreams she’d long since given up on for herself. Some women, such as Jane, were blessed with joyous unions and then others…well, others were Philippa. Women who, if they were fortunate, had children who could fill all the voids inside an aching heart.
For the past six years, all her mornings and most of her days were spent with her children. They’d been the sole focus of her existence and, in them, she found a calming peace. She pressed the handle of the nursery and paused.
Squeals of laughter reached through the wood panel and she pushed the door open. Faith sat on the floor and Violet tottered back and forth, ambling into the older girl’s arms.
The sight of her daughters’ joyous smiles and flushed cheeks, stirred happiness in her heart. It had been just them for so very long. While he’d been alive, Calvin had demanded decorum from his wife and daughter, and frowned on public displays of affection and mirth. Now, there was a house full of family who celebrated in her presence.
Faith looked up. “Mama,” she cried and raced over. She hurled herself into Philippa’s arms with such force, she knocked her back.
Laughing, Philippa righted them and held her daughter close. “I am going to take breakfast,” she said, tweaking her nose. “To see if Cook’s sticky buns are still warm.” She dropped to a knee and opened her arms as Violet rushed forward. She closed her eyes a moment welcoming the reassuring weight of her daughter’s small form.
Her daughter skipped over to the stack of blocks she’d abandoned. “I’ve eaten. Violet and I are to visit the gardens with nurse.”
“You’ve eaten?” she parroted, surprise creeping into her tone.
Since she’d been old enough to walk and seek out Philippa, her daughter had always come first to her chambers and they’d always taken their morning meal together. A little pang struck her chest. “Yes,” Faith said loudly. “There are sticky buns,” she said, her attention reserved for the tower she now devoted her attentions to.
Violet squirmed in Philippa’s embrace, pushing back until Philippa set her on her unsteady feet once more. With slow, ambling steps, the baby rejoined her sister.
And Philippa was—forgotten.
Calling out another goodbye, her daughters remained fixed on their playing. Philippa backed out of the room, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t happy about their enjoyment…it was just that…they’d had a morning routine.
…You are not just your children… As she walked through the halls on her way to the breakfast rooms, Jane’s words danced once more around her mind and she frowned. For the truth was, motherhood had been the sole purpose of her existence these years. Only someday, her daughters would be gone and who would she be? Unnerved by that question of her far-distant future, she reached the breakfast room and entered.
Her mother sat beside Chloe, with Gabriel and Jane at the opposite end of the long mahogany table. Holding her breath, Philippa stepped further inside and braced for the sharp cries and furious demands. Except…
“Good morning, Philippa,” Gabriel greeted.
He sipped his coffee and Mother attended her breakfast plate and… There was no grand display of disappointment. Philippa took a tentative step toward the sideboard. Was it possible Lord Montfort, the witness to her embrace with Miles, had said nothing?
“Gabriel,” she said quietly and proceeded to fill a plate. She then carried it to the seat alongside Jane. After all, if questions of scandal were raised, a place beside her undaunted sister-in-law was the very place she wished to be. She settled a napkin on her lap and reached for her fork. Her eyes went to the copy of The Times beside her brother’s dish and she momentarily froze. Wetting her lips, she crept her fingers toward that sheet. Her hand touched the edge of the paper just as she registered the absolute silence.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 70