by Donna Hatch
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Phillip said quietly. True sympathy darkened his eyes, and a little piece of Meredith’s heart softened toward him.
“Thank you.” Lord Amesbury’s mouth tightened. In a clear attempt to change the subject, he said, “May we meet your lovely companion?”
“Of course. I’m very happy to introduce Miss Meredith Brown, the niece of Mr. and Mrs. Stafford. Miss Brown, this is Cole Amesbury, the Viscount Amesbury, and Miss Charleston.”
“Charmed, Miss Brown.” Lord Amesbury’s smile bordered on rakishness, but in a teasing way that failed to raise Meredith’s hackles.
Miss Vivian Charleston said with a condescending, overly sweet smile, “Miss Brown.”
“I’ve met the Staffords,” Lord Amesbury said to Meredith. “Good people.”
“Thank you. I quite agree.” Meredith managed a smile and inclined her head. He would not be so kind if he knew her lowly status. Still, she choked out, “A pleasure to meet you both, my lord, Miss Charleston.”
After they passed, Mr. Partridge said under his breath, “I thought he had more sense than that.”
“What was that?”
“Cole Amesbury. I don’t know what spell that vixen has cast on him, but she is poison.”
A new kinship arose between them. “Then you understand my concern over Mr. Morton and Miss Harris.”
“I suppose I do.”
A silver-haired lady nodded to them both with all the condescension of the queen as she approached in her gilded landau. Next to her, an immaculate Dalmatian sat with as much dignity as his mistress. Her coachman wore an old-fashioned flaxen wig and a bunch of lace at his throat. Even his gloves were spotlessly white.
“Mr. Partridge,” greeted the lady. “Well, you are turning out all right, aren’t you?”
“Your Grace.” A smile hovered at the corners of Mr. Partridge’s mouth.
Meredith almost choked. This lady was a duchess. Oh, why had she agreed to come on this ride? She didn’t belong here among these aristocrats.
The duchess picked up her quizzing glass and aimed it at Meredith. “And who do we have here?”
“May I present Miss Meredith Brown?” He achieved a believable amount of pride in his voice.
The duchess eyed Meredith. “Who are your people?”
Meredith paled. What could she say?
“Miss Brown is related to the Baron of Stapleton,” Mr. Partridge supplied.
Meredith almost laughed out loud, but managed to contain herself.
“You have a look about you I like.” The duchess nodded in approval. “Take care of our boy, here.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Meredith managed.
The duchess passed by, and Meredith let out a breath that took much of her strength with it. “I shouldn’t be here where so many people like them will see us together.”
Gently, he said, “They are just regular people, Miss Brown.”
“They only seem regular to you, Mr. Brother of a Duke. And what’s this about the Baron of Stapleton?”
“Don’t you know your own genealogy?” Surprise and amusement lit his voice. “Your mother’s great-great uncle is the Baron of Stapleton, isn’t he?”
She turned a surprised stare at him. “I didn’t know that. You looked up my family tree?”
“I thought it might be useful at some point.”
For a reason she could not explain, her ire raised, and she snapped, “Well, it doesn’t matter that my mothers’ father is a gentleman with distant ties to some baron. My father owns a factory.” Then she delivered the killing blow. “His father was a poor factory worker.”
He paused. That was it, then. He would likely drop her off and never darken her doorway again.
Benignly, he said, “When associating with aristocracy, it’s best to discuss one’s most impressive connections.”
She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “No amount of exaggeration will place me in your class.”
Mildly, but with a firmness she could not mistake, he said, “I would have been proud to introduce you, even if I hadn’t found a noble ancestor in your line.”
“You are either a liar or a fool.” Her voice closed over. Why the lump in her throat? She didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him. It made no difference that a union between them was impossible. None at all!
His voice took on a hard edge she’d never heard from him. “Miss Brown, despite my feelings for you, I cannot abide you besmirching my honor. I am neither a liar nor a fool, and if you were a man, I would have called you out for that.”
His words hit her like a blast of cold water. He was right. She’d insulted him cruelly. No one deserved that. Except her former fiancé, who deserved a dictionary full of unflattering words. But she was beginning to suspect Mr. Phillip Partridge existed on a much higher plane than that scoundrel.
She let out a shaking, emotional breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was unkind and untrue. Please forgive me.”
They continued riding in silence, rousing enough to greet passersby, but not speaking to each other. So much for playing a game to try to discover his true motives.
Finally, she glanced at Mr. Partridge. His handsome face had settled into an expressionless mask, and he gripped the reins as if trying to squeeze some moisture out of them. The horses danced nervously. He loosened his grip with a jerking motion.
She moistened her lips. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I regret insulting you. I will understand if you wish to discontinue our association.” Never seeing him again, never hearing the sound of his voice or basking in the light of his smile, smote her through. But it would be best to do sooner rather than later.
“I am not angry at you,” he said finally. “Of course I forgive you.” He glanced at her, some kind of desperate longing glimmered in his eyes. “I am angry about . . . many things. Our difference in class—my family will not approve of my courting you—but mostly at that cretin who broke your heart.”
She reared back. He knew! She clenched her hands to avoid putting them over her face. “H-how do you know?”
“By how guarded and defensive you are. Your suspicion of Mr. Morton. Your protectiveness of Miss Harris.”
She clamped her mouth shut.
Achingly soft tones carried true regret. “I’m sorry he hurt you.”
Staring straight ahead, she made no sound as he guided the team off the path and turned onto the street. She wrestled with his words, with the meaning behind them. Was it possible she’d been wrong about Phillip Partridge?
Chapter Nine
After two days of the kind of drizzle that permeated every surface and even Phillip’s spirit, a sunny day with lawn games came as a welcome friend. He arrived at the St. Cyrs’ country estate on the outskirts of London with Michael and eagerly looked around for the Staffords and their unforgettable niece.
“You have it bad,” Michael said.
“I do, I really do,” Phillip unabashedly admitted. “Every moment I spend with her makes me thirsty for more.”
Being seen for himself, even if she kept a wary stance as if fearing he’d suddenly turn into a demon, was a unique pleasure. Besides, she liked his dimple. Even better, he’d even caught her admiring his physique.
Phillip made small talk with the host and hostess, Lord and Lady St. Cyr. Then, the inevitable middle-aged mother arrived, towing a girl whose hair was a shower of golden ringlets, probably having her first season.
Lady St. Cyr greeted the mother and daughter and made the introductions to Phillip and Michael.
The young lady—whose name he’d already forgotten—curtsied prettily and said in an overly high voice, “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Partridge.” She gave him a blatantly hopeful smile without looking him in the eye.
He bowed. “A pleasure.”
The young lady twittered and flirted, but she hardly looked at him. Just another girl who saw through him as if he were invisible, looking only at his heritage.
&nb
sp; Out of the corner of his eye, Phillip spotted Meredith Brown. Sun shone on her, making her straw bonnet gold and her pale gown glow with heavenly light. The tightness in his chest eased, and exhilarated energy charged through him.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, already moving toward Miss Brown.
Behind him, the girl said in her overly high voice that had turned decidedly condescending, “Who are those people?”
Ignoring them, he kept up a steady pace. The moment their gazes met, Miss Brown looked down and fidgeted. As he reached her side, he barely remembered to greet her family before bowing to her. “Miss Brown.”
Her hesitant smile contained true warmth, he was sure of it. “Mr. Partridge.”
Encouraged, he took a step nearer, close enough that her perfume filled him with more giddiness than his first crush. He’d never felt so alive. “I hear lawn bowls are first on today’s agenda. Do you play?”
“I enjoy a game now and then, but I cannot claim to be skilled.”
“If you have the right partner, I am certain you can soundly trounce the competition.”
“Oh?” She pretended to look about. “Do you have any recommendations?” The playful glint in her eye gave him hope.
He puffed up his chest. “At the risk of sounding self-aggrandizing, I cannot give any higher recommendation than myself.”
“I see. Since you come so highly recommended, I should consider you.”
“Please say you will partner me?” He held out a hand.
She put her hands on her hips. “Only if you promise a good trouncing.”
Theatrically, he laid one hand over his heart, keeping the other extended. “I will make that today’s greatest ambition.”
“Very well, Mr. Partridge, I accept.” She placed her hand in his.
A cheer bubbled up inside him. He tempered it with a smile. He excused himself from her family and escorted her to the bowling green. The afternoon sun toyed with nearby trees and cast dappled shadows on the freshly mowed lawn.
Other couples lined up. The towheaded girl with the high-pitched voice had found a partner probably younger than herself, and Michael teamed up with a demure young lady with lovely eyes.
The host threw the smaller white ball called a kitty onto the green. Thus, the competition began. Each pair took turns throwing their balls to the kitty. Cheers, groans, and jeers followed every toss, and within minutes, the dignified group turned into a group of savages determined to win by any means possible.
The host laughingly accused one of the guests of cheating but got an elbow in the ribs from his wife, who raised her brows. Of lighter heart than Phillip had ever seen her, Miss Brown played vigorously, heckling the opposition with an incisive wit.
The host and his wife won, grinning as they accepted both congratulations and insinuations about their tactics. Merrily, everyone accepted glasses of lemonade served on silver trays.
Miss Brown folded her arms and sent him a playful glare. “You, sir, promised me a good trouncing.”
Phillip held up his hands. “We made a valiant effort. Our problem was we played too honestly. Perhaps next time, we ought to cheat.”
She laughed, her eyes alight. Glancing behind him, she gestured. “There’s a swing on that tree.”
“Do you wish to try it?”
“I would.” She looked almost shy about it.
“I’ll push you.” He held out a hand.
She took it, and they walked hand in hand to an oak so large that three men could not encircle it with clasped hands. From far above Phillip’s head hung a rope the size of his wrist attached to a large wrought-iron seat.
Miss Brown sat on the cushioned seat swing and spread her skirts. She glanced back at him, a smile playing with her lips that might be considered flirtatious. Had he finally won her over?
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.” She held up her feet.
He pushed the seatback, forward and back, forward and back, a little higher each time.
“I’ve forgotten how much I adore swinging. I haven’t done it since I was a child.” She leaned back and pumped her legs to keep her momentum.
He watched her contented expression and patted himself on the back for having given that to her. Of course, he couldn’t take all the credit; she seemed a different person today. On the lawn, the other guests began a game of shuttlecock, but Phillip had no desire to join them.
She asked, “Do you want a turn?”
He shook his head. “Swing as long as you like.”
“I think I could do this all day, but I probably ought to stop.”
She held her legs still and allowed the swing’s motion to slow. When she had nearly stopped, he stepped in front of her and grasped the ropes. His hand closed over hers, and she looked up at him with a delicate vulnerability. She stood, bringing her mouth within reach. Her eyes dilated, and she moistened her lips. His blood heated. The aching need to kiss her almost drove him to do it. She was finally warming to him. But moving too quickly would only push her away. Besides, they were in full view of the others.
Clearing his throat, he stepped back. “Forgive me.”
She watched him with a new expression that he could not name. Curiosity? Approval? Relief? Disappointment? Lud, she was a mystery.
He held out an arm and took several steadying breaths as he escorted her back to the others. Mr. and Mrs. Stafford watched him.
Casually, Mr. Stafford approached him. “Mr. Partridge, may I have a word?” It wasn’t exactly a question.
“Yes, sir.” Phillip bowed to Miss Brown and followed the older man to another part of the lawn. He clenched and unclenched his hands uneasily. Had her uncle seen that moment when he’d almost kissed her and determined to take him to task?
Finding a shady spot out of earshot of the rest of the party, Mr. Stafford turned to him with lowered eyebrows so bushy they seemed alive. “You have a reputation for being an honorable young man, so I have allowed you to call upon my niece. But now that you are pairing off with her in public, I must ask you: what are your intentions?”
Phillip stared unflinchingly into the older man’s eyes. “Sir, I am excessively fond of Miss Brown. It is my intension to court her.”
“To what end?”
He chuckled uncomfortably and spread his hands. “Well, customarily a courtship is to learn whether we will suit.”
“This is no laughing matter. Are you entertaining the possibility of asking her to marry you despite your differences in station?”
Phillip broke out into a cold sweat. “Yes, sir, I am.”
“And your family approves?”
Phillip winced. How quickly he cut to the heart of the matter. “I have not yet made my intentions known to them regarding Miss Brown.”
“And if they disapprove of her social standing?”
Phillip squared his shoulders against that disheartening likelihood. “If she will have me, I plan to marry her anyway.”
“What if the duke forbids it? If he cuts you off?”
“I have my own income in a trust. He cannot touch it. I could provide a comfortable living for Miss Brown.”
The uncle continued to fire questions at him at an alarming pace. “You haven’t mentioned her dowry.”
“As I said, I don’t need a dowry to support a family, sir. Besides, it is my understanding that hers is modest.”
“I see.” Mr. Stafford considered his words. “I would have preferred that you come to me and ask permission to court her before singling her out publicly.”
“Forgive me, sir.” Since Meredith was of age, no permission was technically needed, but Phillip appreciated her uncle’s protectiveness.
“Just because you were born the son of a duke and are the brother of a paragon does not instantly grant you my approval.”
“I understand.” Phillip felt like a child of six quaking at the beginning of his first term at Eton when the stern headmaster assured Phillip he would be whipped for any future disobediences just like
the other students. He’d been truthful, as Phillip had discovered. “Sir, I have only the tenderest of feelings for your niece and the most honorable of intentions. I believe she is starting to return my regard. May I court her?”
Mr. Stafford cast a piercing look over Phillip. “She is a good girl.”
“Yes sir. And a great lady.”
Her uncle scratched his mutton chops. “You should know that her heart has been broken. Twice. I will do all in my power to prevent a third occurrence.”
Twice? That explained much. “I will as well, sir.”
Another long, probing stare came his way. “Very well. You have my permission to court her for as long as she desires. You do not have my permission to marry her. We will cross that bridge if the time comes.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Stafford drew his bushy eyebrows together. “This permission comes with one condition: you must secure your family’s blessing.”
Phillip deflated. “That may not be possible.”
Mr. Stafford nodded. “It is easy now while you are in the first stages of infatuation to think all you need is the girl of your choice and all else will work out in the end. But marrying against the wishes of family creates a rift that often never heals, and that takes a toll, believe me.”
Phillip hesitated to ask personal questions, but he took a chance. “Is that what happened when her father and mother married?”
The older man nodded. “Her mother is my wife’s youngest sister, Jeanne. When she vowed she would marry the son of a factory worker with plans to own his own factory, we tried to discourage her. Her father even locked Jeanne up to keep her away from that boy. But they were determined. In the end, her father relented to prevent them from simply running off together. Using Jeanne’s dowry, my . . .” he stumbled over the words, “brother-in-law started his factory.” He shrugged. “They seem happy. But Jeanne’s parents never forgave her. They refuse to allow them, or their child”—he jerked his head toward Meredith—“into their home to this day. Meredith has never met her maternal grandparents and likely never will. She does not need that same rejection from her in-laws.”
