by Darcy Burke
Perhaps in time, people would forget and she’d find her place again. She was beautiful and vivacious. He couldn’t imagine her living a life of solitude. He didn’t want that for her at all—not that what he wanted mattered in the slightest.
He swiped a hand over his face and exited into the corridor.
He went downstairs in search of Mrs. Oldham to instruct her to have the portrait of him and Nigel removed. Then he’d visit the southwest tower to investigate the room they’d use for sparring. He stopped short in the great hall at the sight of a massively wide man striding toward him.
Mr. Oldham. His housekeeper’s husband and the groundskeeper.
He barreled straight at Ambrose and lifted his fist to hit him in the face. Ever the fighter, Ambrose moved at the last second, but the blow grazed him on the cheek. Ambrose brought his hands up but didn’t strike.
Oldham glowered at him beneath bushy black brows. “How dare ye show up here without a word and make Mrs. Oldham cry?”
Christ, he was a nasty brute. “I didn’t mean to. I’m just…never mind, there’s no excuse. I’ll convey my apologies straightaway.”
Oldham narrowed one eye. “What’re ye really doing here? Mrs. Oldham says ye’re training some fighter, that ye were a fighter.” He looked at Ambrose’s still elevated fists. “Though I guess I can see that for meself.”
Ambrose glanced at his hands and then dropped them to his sides.
“Ye fight anymore?”
“I have a fighting club in London, but I don’t prizefight any longer.” His fight with Nolan notwithstanding.
Oldham nodded slowly. “Found some solace in that, I’ll reckon.”
How very astute. And discomforting. Ambrose didn’t want to discuss this. “Where is Mrs. Oldham now?”
“In the kitchens.” Ambrose moved to pass him, but Oldham grabbed his elbow. “Ye’re going to have to make an effort if ye want to stay here. I know this is yer house and I can’t throw ye out, but ye’ve left everyone stranded here. Mrs. Oldham was devastated enough when yer brother died, but to lose ye at the same time?” He shook his head. “It wasn’t right of ye to leave. And to add five years of silence to that injury? Make it right. If ye can.”
Make it right.
How could he ever make anything right? It wasn’t as if this was a solitary mistake. He’d gone and done it all over again—minus anyone dying, thank God. Still, he nodded. As he’d resolved, he owed it to Nigel to try.
On the first day after the Disaster at Benfield, Philippa buried her head beneath the covers of her bed and hid.
On the second day, she read the newspaper.
On the third and fourth days, she went back to hiding under her coverlet.
On the fifth day, Father summoned her to his office. Directed into a stiff leather chair before his desk, Philippa sat straight and expectant whilst he gazed out the windows.
Tall and mostly fit (he’d developed a bit of a paunch in the last few years), the Earl of Herrick resembled Philippa only in that she’d inherited his golden-brown eyes. He possessed light brown hair that had thinned on top, but which had apparently tried to compensate by sprouting an overabundance of eyebrows instead.
It was the drawing together of these impressive swags of hair over those familiar golden eyes that preceded his Awful Pronouncement.
“You’re coming to Wokeham Abbey with us.”
Oh, she couldn’t. She shook her head. “I can’t come with you.”
“You’ve no choice.” He moved to the front of his desk and paced, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “Your life in London is over.”
It was, unfortunately, not a melodramatic observation. Indeed, every single one of her invitations had been rescinded.
She watched him make a few passes before lifting her chin. “Perhaps. However, I’ve no desire to accompany you and that woman to Wokeham Abbey.”
He stopped and sent her a furious glare. “I should’ve forced you to accept one of those other proposals. Like Saxton.” Which would have required you to actually pay attention to me… He took a deep breath and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “It’s lucky for you I have saved your future.”
Dread snaked up her spine. She hated to contemplate what her father might consider “lucky.” “What have you done?”
“Sir Mortimer Stinson has professed his continued desire to marry you.”
Oh no, anyone but him. Sir Mortimer was a widower—at least forty—who lived near Wokeham Abbey. He was eager to sire children—many, many children, he’d said—and he was less than kind to his horses. He’d offered for Philippa three years ago, to which she’d politely declined. Other young women had also refused him, so Philippa understood why he might be willing to overlook her scandal.
Could her father be so cruel? “You can’t mean to marry me to him?”
Father’s bushy brows drew together, which truly didn’t take much effort given their breadth. “You’ve no other choices, and I won’t allow you to become a spinster.”
That was preferable to marrying Sir Mortimer. Still, she recognized her father’s efforts to see her married, even if she didn’t want them. “I really don’t wish to marry him, Father. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, but in time things will—”
Father leaned over her and bared his teeth. “You’ve run out of time, gel! You’ll marry Sir Mortimer, or I’ll banish you to some remote cottage with barely enough income to subsist. You’ve embarrassed this family, and you’ll bloody well do what’s necessary to make it right!”
She’d never seen her father so angry, but she was angry too. She pushed up from the chair and stood before him, though her forehead only met his chin. “I’ve embarrassed this family? What of you and that woman promenading about town? Isn’t that the real reason I’ve run out of time? I could perhaps wait out my mistake, but you and Mother can no longer keep your own scandalous behavior in check.”
“It’s not at all the same!” he thundered.
They both stood glaring at each other. Philippa was shaking with a multitude of emotions—outrage, disappointment, hurt.
He lowered his voice and shook his head disdainfully. “You stupid chit. When are you going to realize life isn’t fair?”
“Right about the time you force me to marry Sir Mortimer,” she muttered. Or removed her to the edge of nothing.
He gave her a gimlet eye and tugged on his waistcoat again. “I’m not completely unreasonable. I’ll allow you to say goodbye to your friends—if they’ll see you.” Reasonable, but unfeeling. “As soon as your mother leaves, you’ll depart for Wokeham Abbey. I’ll expect you to arrive in a fortnight. Then the banns will be read, and you and Sir Mortimer will be married three weeks later.”
That had been the truly Awful Pronouncement.
The next day Philippa read in the newspaper that Ambrose had left London and returned to Cornwall. While she was nursing this disappointment in the upstairs sitting room, Mother entered.
“I came to speak with you about your future,” Mother said through lips so tight they might split. She sat in a chair near the windows overlooking the street.
Seated on an adjacent settee, Philippa stiffened as she waited for her mother’s lecture.
Mother smoothed her hand over her lap. “I will be relocating to my new townhouse next week. And as such, it’s good you’ll be going to Wokeham Abbey.”
Good? How typically unfeeling of her. Didn’t she realize Philippa would hate having to marry Sir Mortimer? Unless she didn’t know the extent of Father’s plans. “Do you know what Father has organized?”
“I do.”
“Then surely you know that I’d rather do anything but go. I might even consider coming to live with you.”
Mother pursed her lips. “You could, but I don’t think you want to, nor would it be wise.”
Philippa couldn’t argue with her there. Living with a mother who’d left her husband’s townhouse might be the lesser of two dreadful circumstances, but dreadful was
still, well, dreadful.
Mother sat straighter, stretching her spine as she’d so often instructed Philippa to do. “I’m very sorry for what this has cost you. I know you were only trying to protect our family—such as it was—when you went to Lockwood House. That your naïve efforts caused such a catastrophic downfall—”
She didn’t need her mother’s overview of the entire scandal. She was quite well-acquainted with every step of her social demise. “Thank you, Mother. I think that’s enough.”
“Marriage to Sir Mortimer won’t be so terrible. You’ll have a lovely household to manage.”
“He’s mean to his horses,” Philippa muttered, feeling her world closing in.
Mother leaned forward in her chair. Her expression was earnest, caring. Which was more than a bit suspicious. “What happened with Sevrin? If what I heard is true, you were caught in a rather compromising position and yet you declined his proposal? That makes you look like a lightskirt, and I can’t believe that of you. Not after the way you’ve attacked me for my behavior.” She paused to take a breath. “Is there a chance you possess a tendre for each other?”
It was quite possible she did (she couldn’t help but recall the ways in which he’d championed her, nor could she deny the physical pull between them), but Ambrose? He at least found her desirable, even if he’d managed to convince her marriage between them would be a regrettable mistake.
She finally answered her mother’s question. “Perhaps.”
Mother gave a firm, decisive nod. “Then you should follow him to Cornwall.”
Her mother’s concern was shocking. “You’re saying I should ignore Father?”
“What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll drag you back to Wokeham Abbey and force you to marry Sir Mortimer?”
Since that was already in store for her, Philippa could hardly argue with Mother’s logic. “I don’t know, Mother. Following him to Cornwall is so…forward.” So her.
“Your reputation won’t suffer,” Mother said wryly, and Philippa almost laughed. Mother reached out and took her hand. It was a remarkable gesture. Philippa’s throat constricted. “Love is worth any risk.”
Philippa swallowed the sharpness away. “Is that how you convinced yourself it was acceptable to pursue your liaison with Mr. Booth-Barrows?” The question wasn’t meant to be hostile. She truly wanted to know what had motivated her Mother.
“I tried not to at first. Truly, I did.” Her smile was soft and tinged with regret. “But I’d been alone for so long, and he was so lovely. I should’ve been stronger—for you.” Her gaze grew sharp, intense. “If you think for even a moment you might find happiness with Sevrin, go after him.”
“I don’t love him,” Philippa said quickly. And he certainly didn’t love her.
“Then just think about your future. Would you rather marry Sir Mortimer and never know what might’ve been, or take a risk and see what happens?”
Two days later, Philippa hadn’t yet decided what to do, but she’d had enough of being cooped up in Herrick House. She sent a note to Audrey—one of only two people (the other being Lady Saxton) who’d called on her in the past week. Audrey had arrived shortly thereafter, and they went for a walk to the park.
Philippa breathed deeply of the warm spring air, glad to be outdoors. Perhaps she’d go for a ride tomorrow.
Audrey looked askance at her and smiled. “I’m so happy you decided to get out today, Philippa.”
“As am I. Thank you for coming to rescue me. Your parents don’t mind?”
“Mother’s not terribly pleased, but it’s not as if my social worth will be impacted. I’m not exactly popular.” Audrey’s tone was matter of fact. She never complained about being a wallflower, and she’d never made Philippa feel bad because she wasn’t one.
“Still, if you think associating with me will negatively affect you, I insist you stop.”
Audrey shook her head. “Nonsense. I’m not in the same position as you. I’m in no rush to marry, and my family is supportive of me.” Whereas Philippa’s family could scarcely wait to throw her out the door.
As they neared the park, they passed three ladies. Instead of pausing to exchange pleasantries, the trio averted their gazes and hurried past.
Philippa kept her head up. She knew all three women quite well.
“I’m sorry, Philippa,” Audrey murmured.
“It’s fine.” But Philippa’s chest squeezed nonetheless.
They crossed the street to the gate. “Do you want to go in?” Audrey asked.
She had, but now she wasn’t so sure. It was before the fashionable hour, but there would still be people who would cut her or perhaps worse. It was one thing to be ignored, but to be publicly ridiculed?
Her courage had reached its limit. “Let’s go back.”
They turned and retraced their steps. A brougham passed on the street. Inside were Lydia and her Aunt Margaret.
Lydia turned to look down at Philippa and Audrey as they passed, but Aunt Margaret quickly drew her around.
“I haven’t heard from Lydia at all,” Philippa said, her lungs tightening so that her breathing felt short and harsh.
“Her aunt won’t allow her to write you. She did say to tell you she missed you.”
Philippa missed her too. She missed parties, she missed dancing, she missed the reliable if cold routine of her family before her parents had gone mad with their personal desires. And, tellingly, she missed Ambrose. His charming laugh, his imperfect nose, his kisses, and the way he made her feel. Cared for. Desired. There was a reason he held himself back from her—both physically and emotionally—and she wanted to find out what it was.
It seemed her decision was clearer than she’d thought.
She hurried her pace as they crossed the street.
“Slow down,” Audrey called.
“Sorry, I’ve just decided I must get home.”
“Whatever for?” Audrey smiled bemusedly. “It’s not as if you have an appointment.”
Philippa laughed, because really, there was nothing else to be done in her situation. Besides, she was weary of hiding and cowering beneath a blanket of fear. She was ready to take a risk that might have a positive outcome instead of the foolish choices that had led to her current circumstances. For the first time in over a week she felt a sliver of hope. “No, but I need to pack. I’ve decided to go to Cornwall.”
Chapter Seventeen
A WEEK after his arrival at Beckwith, Ambrose felt almost normal, whatever that was. He vaguely recalled how things had been before he’d maligned his brother. Before he’d fallen from grace.
Over the last several days he’d developed a routine of sorts. In the morning he met with Fisher and reviewed the estate’s business. Fisher, as expected, had done an excellent job of managing the sheep herds and wool production. He’d also kept the estate in as good of repair as one could keep a centuries-old castle without its master present.
After their meetings, Ambrose went on a strenuous walk with Ackley as part of his training exercises, followed by luncheon and an hour or so of working on technique and strategy. In the afternoon, they’d assist Oldham or another retainer with some task around the estate—just as Ambrose had done before he’d left. After dinner they sparred in the tower fighting room.
Though Ambrose fell into bed exhausted at the end of each day, it had taken seven long nights before he’d finally succumbed to a sleep without dreaming of Philippa. At last, he’d driven her from his mind.
This afternoon they were repairing the east wall. Fisher had ordered stone from a quarry near Tregony, and Oldham was overseeing the repair. The wall of the keep had deteriorated over the last few centuries and they were not only rebuilding it, but installing a gateway since the stables were in the northeast corner of the keep.
The day was quite warm. Oldham mopped his brow. “Wondered if I might watch yer sparring practice this evening.”
Ambrose set another rock onto the wall and turned to his groundskeeper. “
You’re more than welcome.”
Oldham squinted at him. “Ye haven’t been down to Gerrans since ye returned, have ye?”
Gerrans was the nearest village, less than two miles away. It was also where Lettice Chandler resided in a small cottage her father had demanded Ambrose purchase for her. Ambrose preferred to avoid running into her. “No.”
Oldham nodded. “I was at the pub last night. Folks are anxious to go to the prizefight in Truro now they know ye’re training one of the fighters.”
Why? Were they hoping to see him fail? He couldn’t imagine any of them wishing him well. Perhaps they were merely curious since he’d been gone so long.
“Ye might be surprised at how people treat ye,” Oldham said. “Five years is a long time.”
Was Oldham saying people had forgiven him? How could that be possible when he’d yet to forgive himself?
Mrs. Oldham strode toward them from the solar, her dark skirt blowing in the soft breeze. She was the one part of Beckwith that hadn’t become part of his routine. She still regarded him a bit warily, and they had yet to regain the closeness they’d once shared. She came to stand before Ambrose and shaded her eyes as she looked up at him. “You’ve a visitor, my lord.”
Ambrose’s gaze shot toward the house. He caught a glimpse of a green gown in the window of the solar. It could be only one person. Ambrose contemplated escape, but reasoned he’d have to face Lettice Chandler some time. Resigned, he trod forward.
Mrs. Oldham followed him.
The closer he got to the house, the more his apprehension grew. The sweat on his forehead turned cold, and the remains of luncheon in his belly turned to lead.
He opened the door. Prickly heat drove away his icy foreboding. It was not Lettice, but Philippa. Had it really been a fortnight since he’d seen her? It seemed it had been only moments or perhaps an eternity. Time didn’t matter, just her. He feasted on her presence like a beggar at his lord’s table.
Reality saturated his senses. God, why had she come? She’d refused him—wisely so—and he couldn’t imagine what would bring her all the way to Cornwall.