by Stacy Reid
He sighed. “I do not. I blame the man that I once respected. The man whose admiration I worked so hard to win. I blame our father, whom Constance loved wholeheartedly and bitterly grieved when he passed. The father she thought loved her in return, but who left her exposed to scorn and ridicule if you dare to name me, my children, or Constance’s children, as your heirs.” He knocked back the brandy appreciating the burn that traveled to his stomach.
They were silent for several minutes before Sebastian spoke. “I know you are avoiding discussing the contents of Newport’s letter.”
Anthony tensed, shifted, and met his brother’s intense scrutiny.
“Father sent me a copy of the letter. I know what it said,” Sebastian confessed.
Anthony felt the blow sharper than Sebastian’s fist. “So you know he has disowned me in every possible way?” Anthony quirked his lips. The pain that sliced through him at the admission, he had not expected to feel. It was not as if the old man had been overly fond of him growing up.
“He has not disowned you.”
“You defend him?”
“I do not, but he has not disowned you, Anthony. He did not proclaim your parentage to the world.”
“He has instructed the family’s solicitor and mine of the circumstances of my and our sister’s birth. He ordered the information be made public if you attempt to allow me to inherit any of the entail. If that happened, Constance would be faced with social ostracism of the worst kind.” A circumstance he would likely kill to spare her from bearing.
Distress flashed through Sebastian’s eyes. It could not have been easy on him to discover that his sister and brother had been labeled bastards, and that their mother had been unfaithful. But the fact was, Anthony had been cut off by a man he thought was his father. A man he had tried to emulate, and had excelled in his studies at Eton and Oxford in order to please.
Anthony could almost forgive the old duke for revealing his own circumstances in such a manner, but the condemnation from society that would befall his mother and Constance was unforgivable. His kind, vivacious sister, who had charmed the haute monde for the season, would be shredded.
The disdain that would be shown by the upper echelons when they discovered his illegitimacy had a laugh bleeding from his lips, though he was anything but amused. An impotent fury had been eating at his insides. The family would have to stick together with their full wealth and power, but still, no one would accept either sibling’s hand in marriage.
“Constance’s children will be branded. My children as well. And for what?” he asked, raking a hand through his hair.
“We should delay telling her as long as possible,” Sebastian said.
“When have we ever lied to each other?” Anthony demanded, even though he agreed. At only seventeen years of age, she had enjoyed her first season immensely. He wanted her to hold onto her innocence a little longer.
“It may never come out.” Sebastian’s voice was implacable. “I will ensure it never comes out.”
“She deserves to know.” Despite the devastation it would cause her, he felt he owed their sister the truth. And yet, he doubted he could tell her. Much as he had, his sister had always sought an explanation for their father’s coldness. He knew she deserved honesty, but he would hold onto the secret a little longer.
“Constance has much to recommend her—blue blood, wealth, her wit and intelligence, and her beauty. I have rejected a dozen offers for her already. But she needs more time. She is waiting for her prince charming to sweep her off her feet.”
He and Sebastian knew every hurt, every disappointment, every hope she had in relation to their believed father.
“As we speak, she is preparing for the Grahams’ ball, and, by the way, is in need of an escort.”
“Our mother will be there,” Anthony retorted, picking up the decanter from the side bar and refilling their glasses.
“I have no faith in our mother’s capabilities as a chaperone. It was under her tutelage Constance entered the card room at Lady Brunel’s ball and offered to deal for Lord Williamson,” Sebastian snapped.
Anthony’s laughter rang through the library. “Fine. I will go,” he agreed.
Against his better judgment, his mind returned to Miss Peppiwell. He wondered idly if he even had the right to think about her. Or about the beautiful Lady Jocelyn, who even now probably expected their betrothal.
He must disabuse her of the idea immediately, of course. She deserved better than the likes of him.
He was a bastard.
Unlike his brother, Anthony wanted a family, children of his own. The mindless pleasures he had found in his mistresses’ arms over the years had lost their luster. He wanted a deeper connection, one he was sure existed…even if Sebastian insisted it did not. Anthony’s sexual tastes had always made him wary of debutantes, but he’d come to realize not even mistresses could soothe his appetites, so why not indulge himself with a wife?
He clenched his jaw. But now that was impossible. He could not marry without informing his intended of his bastardy—it would be unforgivable to deceive a woman like that. But the moment he confessed his shame, any proper lady would flee from him and the very real possibility of society’s condemnation that came with aligning herself with a bastard.
He slammed down his glass with a growl and strode from the library toward the stables, the pointed sword of his ignoble birth suspended above his head.
He did not want a mistress.
He could not take a wife.
So, what was left?
He dearly wished his erstwhile father were still alive. Never before had he so desperately wished to strangle another man with his bare hands.
Chapter Four
Phillipa sauntered into her family’s parlor energized by the restful slumber from which she’d finally roused herself. She’d needed it badly, for her sleep had been dogged with nightmares these past few weeks. Not to mention the last two nights filled with dreams of a very different sort—featuring a pleasing pair of emerald-green eyes doing things to her that was far better forgotten.
This morning’s long slumber had been welcomed, despite missing breakfast. The only thing to mourn was her morning ride with her Aunt Florence, the Countess of Merryweather.
“Good afternoon, Mama.” She smiled at the fetching picture her beautiful mother, Katherine Augusta Peppiwell, crème de la crème of Boston society, made perched on the sofa nearest the windows with the sunbeams lighting her coiffed red hair with fire.
It was her mother’s routine to view the lords and their ladies as they strolled past the Peppiwell’s Mayfair town house.
Her mother poured a second cup of tea the moment she espied Phillipa, immediately launching into her favorite topic. “You must do everything in your power to secure a marriage, my dear. Your father and I are depending on you. Payton has gone and fallen in love with the Viscount St. John’s son. It may be years before he inherits the title.”
Phillipa faltered, and she rolled her eyes. She had no intention of ever marrying and it seemed her mama had no intention of not pressuring her to do so. “Mrs. Pettigrew wanted to know if lamb with lemon sauce would be acceptable for tonight’s dinner, Mama.”
“My dear, you must stop this penchant for ignoring everything I say about you finding a suitable husband,” her mother snapped, then raised the dainty china to her lips and sipped delicately—something completely unlike her.
Their foray into London society had changed them all into something Phillipa hated. She did not understand why her parents wanted to remain in London, but her mother and sisters loved it. They adored the glitter, the gossip, and the scandals that could occur over any small mishap, and bubbled with excitement over the few balls and soirees they had been invited to.
Doing exactly as her mother accused, Phillipa pulled a letter from the stack of newspapers and journals that had arrived earlier. Gladness and relief surged through her when she noted the bold scrawl of Brandon Thomas, her dearest frie
nd. She sank into the sofa facing her mother to read.
“Are you listening to me, Phillipa?” The rattle of the china had her looking up to meet the turquoise eyes of her mother.
“Yes, Mama.” She slit the seal with the letter opener and read the missive carefully. Shock stabbed through her at the news it carried.
“Are you quite well? You’ve gone pale,” her mother said.
The letter slipped from Phillipa’s hand, and she stared blankly at her.
Brandon had gotten married.
She swallowed as pain tightened her throat. She did not love him as she ought to, but to know he’d so easily abandoned his promises to her, hurt. She stuffed the letter in her pocket and forcefully pushed him from her thoughts. “Mama, you know I do not wish to marry.”
“Phillipa,” her mother snapped, then swung a furtive gaze toward the footman who waited at the door.
Phillipa waved her hand, dismissing him.
Her mother lowered her voice. “You know that servants gossip, and it was Lady Prescott’s own butler who recommended him to us.” Her teacup and saucer clattered as she placed them on the walnut table that separated their sofas. “I can only imagine what she’d think if she found out—”
Phillipa cut off the tirade before it could start. “Mama, you know I cannot marry.”
“My dear, must you persist in referring to that unfortunate incident? We are all working hard to fulfill the plan my sister has drafted for you,” she admonished.
That unfortunate incident. Pain squeezed Phillipa’s chest, along with the shame her family kept insisting she should feel.
The door to the parlor swung open and Lady Merryweather waltzed into the room. She wore a bright purple riding habit with a matching hat. The rosy glow in her cheeks indicated she had just returned from her morning ride.
“My dear niece,” she gushed, pulling off her gloves.
“Aunt Florence.” Phillipa tilted her cheek for a kiss, frowning at the excitement that sparkled in her aunt’s eyes. They were a perfect mirror of her mother’s, and the only feature they shared as twins.
“I saw you dancing with Lord Anthony at Lord Calvert’s ball. I have been bursting to question you,” her aunt crowed.
Phillipa’s heart thumped. She loathed the excitement in her aunt’s voice, never mind that her pulse jumped with traitorous pleasure at the reminder.
“Phillipa,” her mother screeched, “why have you not said anything?”
“Mama, it was just a dance.”
“You were the only woman he danced with,” her aunt stated gleefully. “He disappeared shortly afterward, leaving everyone in a fine twitter. Lady Nelson and the Marchioness of Gale accosted me this morning in Hyde Park. Lord Anthony is very wealthy, has impeccable breeding, and he is heir presumptive to Calydon. It is common knowledge his brother has vowed never to marry. Lord Anthony is a most eligible bachelor.” Her aunt fairly vibrated with enthusiasm.
Phillipa would be lying if she did not admit her own interest in the man. But a stab of regret swiftly brought her back to reality. A gentleman with such impeccable bloodlines would never consider her for a match. He could only view her in one light. Her encounters with Lord Orwell had made that much glaringly clear.
“He is considered the catch of the season. Happily for us, he is still available. You could not hope to align yourself with a greater family than Calydon.” Her aunt beamed.
Her mother harrumphed at her lack of response.
“You have two wonderful suitors, my dear. The family will be greatly elevated if you snare Lord Anthony, but even if you do not, Lord Orwell and Lord Hoyt are both fine catches,” Lady Merryweather murmured conspiringly with a wink.
Since capturing her own English lord several years ago, Aunt Florence would only be satisfied when the Peppiwell girls were also wedded to noblemen.
“If we were in Boston, I would not be pressured to marry.” Phillipa sank deeper into the sofa, wishing she could disappear in its depth.
Her mother glared at her. “If we were in Boston, we would be pariah because of the unfortunate—”
“I vow I will scream if I hear of the incident uttered from your lips again, Mama.”
“Phillipa!”
She struggled to stay calm at the sharp admonition from her aunt.
“You must marry, child, for your sake and for your family’s.” Her aunt sat down next to her and clasped her hands. “No one in London knows of the incident and we must keep it that way. Your sisters will desire good matches, and therefore you must be aligned with a respectable family.”
“We are no longer in America, and your father needs a proper entry into British society. Our fortune alone is not enough.” Her mother sniffed in affront. “I find it so indelicate to be discussing money.”
“Oh, Mama.” Phillipa felt a pang of annoyance. They had been a wealthy family in Boston before a series of unwise investments by her father had seen their fortunes dwindling rapidly. He’d been convinced taking his business ventures across the sea to England would provide the opportunity he needed to recover. And it had. Since coming to London, he had found wealth in the textile industry and the soap business. More so than they’d ever had in Boston.
Now he had a notion of expanding his business into an empire. But for that he needed investors. Credible and influential investors whom others would follow. Her father’s business partner, Lord Orwell, was a start, but a stingy one of late. Her father needed a more substantial connection to attract the wealthiest investors.
In Boston, Jonas Peppiwell had been respected, his influence wide and welcomed. But here in London, her father was nothing, a mere uncouth colonial merchant, not a nobleman, and therefore well below society’s notice. Even the gentry thought him inadequate to mix with. It mattered not that he had amassed a fortune that rivaled the wealthiest lord…it was new money.
His daughter’s connection to a British family of esteem would open doors for her father to build the empire he dreamed of. She hated that he believed that could only happen if he rubbed elbows with peers. But, she hated even more that in dealing with the haute monde it was most likely true. The family had hoped her aunt being married to the Earl of Merryweather would provide the entrée her papa needed, but so far, it had not.
Her aunt’s grip on her fingers tightened. “It is more than your father’s merchant status we must overcome, my dear niece. I have also had to deflect sly whispers about you. Whispers that hint you may have secrets in your closet…secrets from Boston.”
She froze as she met her aunt’s gaze. It could only be Orwell spreading tales, the wretched man.
“If it were not for the patronage of the Lady Gale, my dearest friend, I would be hard-pressed to quell the rumors,” her aunt said with a frown. “You simply cannot become the victim of scandal again. The best solution is to marry quickly, and to a family that commands utter respect. You have been dancing with Lord Hoyt for weeks and he refers to you as his close friend. You will either need to accept his offer of marriage when it comes, or refuse his invitations to ride with him and to attend picnics.”
Phillipa winced. Oh, how she despised London society. Any actions by her, however innocent, could excite comment and malicious speculation. She had endured that once—had devastated her family, and had friends she loved turn from her—when all she’d wanted was to be free of society’s ridiculous rules.
She ignored the sympathy in her aunt’s eyes and quelled the heat that burned in her veins. She desperately wanted to be alone. To think and to feel something other than the disgrace they insisted she must feel. For months all they had spoken about was the unfortunate incident. Yet, to her, it had been one grand adventure.
But now she was impure, and not fit to marry anyone of quality. Lord Orwell had told her so, boldly, and in no uncertain terms. And it was no doubt true, for it was impossible to reclaim one’s virginity.
Not that Phillipa cared. She had other plans. And she would follow through, even if Brandon had deserte
d her.
“Are you not feeling well, my dear? Your cheeks have taken the most remarkable shade of red.”
“I…” She straightened her spine and cleared her throat several times before responding. “Just a slight touch of headache. I think I will rest for the remainder of the day.”
She gently removed her aunt’s hands, gracing her with a wan smile. Lady Merryweather’s lips curved in return, but worry glowed from her eyes.
“We only want your happiness, my dear,” her mother burst out anxiously.
“Yes, Mama.” Phillipa demurred, knowing her mother and aunt would not stop their campaign until they married her off. Not to just anyone, but to a nobleman. She grimaced. She had no desire to marry a priggish fop who believed himself more elevated than she.
The traitorous image of an audacious green-eyed lord danced mockingly through her mind, and she banished it with a huff.
“Please remember Lady Graham’s ball tonight. Oh, and Lord Orwell left his card earlier. He will call this afternoon,” her mother said expectantly.
Phillipa scowled, her stomach curdling in distaste as she excused herself. She loathed her father’s business partner. Since being in England, she had attended several balls, soirees, and musicales. Orwell was always present, watching her like a predator. A devious, disgusting, unprincipled predator she’d been stupid enough to trust, misguided by what it meant to be a lord and a gentleman.
She would never make the mistake of trusting a gentleman again.
Not even ones with tempting green eyes.
Her chest squeezed as she heard the crinkle of stationery and was reminded of the letter she’d stuffed in her pocket. All men must be untrustworthy, she realized, thinking of its contents. She had hoped and trusted Brandon would fulfill his promise to her. Never had she expected him to send word, instead, that he had gotten married.
Oh, the fickleness of love, and the perfidy of promises.
Let this be a lesson to her.
Chapter Five