by Diane Gaston
He released her and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This is madness. Why would you believe her and not me?’
She avoided looking at him. ‘Because what she says makes sense. It makes sense that you would fall in love with her. You must admit that you would have never married me if it had not been for my mother’s manipulations.’
‘I will not admit that, Phillipa.’ She’d refused to be convinced.
She pointed to the mirror. ‘Look at yourself. You are so handsome, and she is so beautiful...’ She lifted her hand to her face and covered her scar. ‘I am not.’
His stomach suddenly felt as if filled with lead shot.
He turned away from her and walked to the window to compose himself. He heard her sink back into the chair.
He remained at the window as he spoke. ‘You are like her. Like Daphne. Appearances are all that matter to you. I am not like that.’ He turned to her. ‘Your scar has never meant a thing to me. I do not think of it when I think of you. How it has hurt you matters to me. How it has affected the treatment you receive from your mother and other people matters to me. I do want to protect you from unhappiness; I admit that and I do not apologise for it. If I give my word to keep a secret, I will keep that secret. I admit that, as well. I keep my word. And I try to do what is right.’ His chest ached as he spoke. ‘If you cannot see that about me and can only look at my face, I do not know how to go on.’
She glanced up at him and quickly turned away.
He left the room.
* * *
Phillipa remained in her the chair, his last words stinging in her ears. When she heard him open the door she swivelled around and watched him leave her.
Anxiety clutched at her throat.
She rose from the chair and paced the room.
What was she to believe?
So much evidence on one side. Only his word on the other.
She lowered herself on to her chair at the dressing table and peered into the mirror. Her reflection was so well lit by the light from the window, she could see every tiny line on her face, every eyelash, every inch of her scar.
Had he been correct?
For all her self-moaning and protestations about how people only saw her scar, was that all she saw of herself, as well?
She touched her scar and leaned closer to the mirror to examine it.
She’d prided herself on accepting her scar and the limitations it placed on her life. Had she really done so? Or was it the first thing she thought of when she thought of herself? It certainly was the first thing she thought of when anyone looked at her.
Did she not think of her scar no matter what she experienced?
So what if the most handsome man in the ballroom had been coerced into dancing with her? Was that only about her scar? Other young ladies in their first Season were set up with dance partners. She was the one who attributed it to her scar. And, even if that dance had been only about her scar, she was the one who used it as an excuse to leave. How might that ball have been different for her if she’d stayed and merely enjoyed herself?
She rose from the dressing table and walked over to a table near the window where she’d left some music. She picked up one sheet and played the notes in her head.
Surely her music was unrelated to her scar.
She threw the sheet down again and sank her head in her hands.
Her music had everything to do with her scar. It was her distraction from it. Her way to hide.
Her excuse to hide.
The truth was she defined where she could go, what she could do, who she could speak to, by the presence of her scar.
By her appearance, just as Xavier had accused.
He’d said the same of Lady Faville.
If Phillipa’s scar was always foremost in her mind, perhaps Lady Faville’s beauty was all she thought of herself? It was all anyone ever noticed about her. All Phillipa noticed about her.
Phillipa was suddenly sad for the woman. In her way Lady Faville had tried very hard to make her a friend. What if Phillipa had embraced that friendship? Perhaps she could have done the lady some good. Steered her away from Xavier and towards someone who could love her.
Assuming Xavier did not love her.
Phillipa walked to the bed and leaned against the bedpost, holding on to it as if it were the mast of a boat being tossed by stormy waves. She glanced at the bed, in contrast to her emotions so tidy, showing no signs of their lovemaking.
She stared at it, not a wrinkle on its cover. Its appearance certainly deceived.
She closed her eyes and remembered the tangled bed linens, the feel of his hands upon her skin, the firmness of his muscled body, the thrill of him entering her and making them one.
Could men lie during lovemaking? Could Xavier have pretended such tenderness towards her? Could he falsify the glow in his eyes as he gazed at her naked body? Would he have held her all night if all he’d wanted was a release?
She pushed herself away from the bed and returned to the mirror.
Could she convince herself that he had made love to her because of her scar? That he saw only her scar when he gazed upon her?
She could not.
She gasped, covering her hand with her mouth.
Do not believe a word he says, her mother said, but her mother was wrong about him.
Phillipa was wrong about him.
She loved that he’d refused to allow her to walk the streets of Mayfair alone at night, even though she protested. She loved that he arranged for her to continue at the gaming house after the attack, because he knew it meant a great deal to her. She loved his loyalty to Rhys—Xavier had managed the Masquerade Club nearly as long as Rhys. She loved Xavier’s forgiveness of Jeffers, his kindness in helping him and other soldiers. She loved that he cared about her happiness.
She even loved his sense of honour, although it truly hurt that he’d not told her of Brighton.
And, yes, she did love his smile, his blue eyes, his glorious body, but they appeared pretty far down her list.
‘I must tell him,’ she cried aloud. ‘I must tell him before it is too late! Even if he never forgives me, I must tell him he is wrong.’
She loved him for far more than his appearance.
She hurried out the door, determined to find him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Xavier needed a walk out of doors. To clear his head. Quiet his emotions. Help him forget what just happened.
Help him decide what to do.
What could he do? He was married to her.
He loved her.
Which was why it was so cursed painful that he’d misjudged her.
No matter that their wedding day had been a delight. No matter that they’d made love in the afternoon. No matter that he’d done everything he could think of to see to her happiness. Her regard for him was as shallow as any woman’s.
He descended the stairs and reached the hall where Cummings was in attendance.
‘Did she find you?’ Cummings asked.
‘Who?’ One of the servants? A croupier? He had no wish to deal with anyone. Just let him be alone for awhile.
‘That Lady Faville.’ Cummings spoke with disapproval, using more expression than was his habit.
‘Lady Faville?’ What the devil was she doing here? First the note, now the visit.
‘Said she knew where to find you.’ Cummings shrugged. ‘Went upstairs.’
Not to the private floor. He would have seen her. Good God. He needed to find her before she encountered Phillipa.
He took the stairs two at a time and checked the gaming room first, but it was empty. The supper room was next.
He opened the door and immediately saw that a lamp was burning on one of the tables. She was there, stan
ding decoratively near the room’s fireplace.
‘Xavier!’ she cried. ‘I knew you would come!’
She ran to him and flung herself into his arms, smashing her lips against his.
He twisted around trying to extricate himself.
And saw Phillipa standing in the doorway.
‘Xavier.’ Her voice was barely audible.
He peeled Daphne off him. ‘Wait, Phillipa. This is not as it seems.’
‘It is as it appears to be,’ cried Daphne in a triumphant voice. ‘We were kissing.’
‘Be quiet, Daphne,’ Xavier snapped.
She seized his arm again. ‘Is this your wife, Xavier?’ She spoke the word wife as if it tasted rancid. ‘Will you present her to me?’
‘No,’ He pried her hand from his sleeve. ‘Leave.’
‘Of course she must leave,’ Daphne said, twisting his meaning. ‘But it would be polite to formally introduce us first.’
‘We have already met.’ Phillipa stepped into the room and Xavier could not read her expression.
‘We have not met.’ Daphne gestured towards Phillipa’s scar. ‘I assure you I would have remembered.’
That was cruel. Xavier started to step in.
But Phillipa spoke first and, to his surprise, her tone was kind. ‘I assure you we have met.’ She covered her face with her hands as if they were a mask. ‘You called me your friend.’
Daphne’s eyes widened. ‘Miss Songstress? But—but you pretended to be someone else.’
‘I did not pretend to be someone else. I told you all along that I wished to protect my identity.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I am afraid that included not letting you know my connection to Xavier.’
‘It was uncivil of you.’ Daphne turned to him. ‘Xavier, would you ask her to leave? I must see you alone.’
‘She is my wife.’ Xavier liked saying it. ‘I will not ask her to leave.’
‘You think you are being kind to her, Xavier,’ Daphne insisted. ‘But she should know the truth about how we feel about each other, about how you felt forced to marry her.’ She swallowed as if experiencing intense emotion. ‘About how we love each other.’
Phillipa looked past Daphne, directly into his eyes. ‘Xavier?’ Her voice was low and surprisingly calm. ‘If you want her, I will not stand in your way.’
He returned her gaze. ‘Phillipa, she’s talking nonsense.’
‘Do not say so!’ Daphne’s voice rose an octave. ‘You love me, Xavier. You have loved me for years. Since our first meeting.’
Was the woman mad? ‘Daphne.’ He tried to speak gently to her, as Phillipa had done. ‘There are many men who come here who, I suspect, are in love with you. But not me.’
She looked confused. ‘You want me—’
‘I do not want you, Daphne. Please believe me.’ He turned to Phillipa and feared she would not believe him either. ‘Phillipa, I love you. Forgive me. I spoke to you in anger before.’
Phillipa held his gaze. ‘There is nothing to forgive. You were correct. At least in part.’
His muscles relaxed. ‘I want you, Phillipa. Only you.’
* * *
Phillipa stared at him, the words I want you echoing in her ears. She did not need to hear anything else.
He went on, though. ‘I did not ask Daphne to come here. I have nothing to hide regarding her. You must believe me in this.’ He turned back to Lady Faville. ‘Leave us now, Daphne. Please.’
Lady Faville’s lip trembled. Phillipa now felt nothing but pity for her.
‘You cannot prefer her over me,’ Lady Faville cried. ‘She is grotesque! And you and I will look perfect together.’
Her words still wounded.
Xavier’s eyes flashed. ‘I will not have my wife insulted. This ends now, Daphne. Do not come back. I will find someone to escort you home, if you wish, but you must go.’
Lady Faville looked afflicted.
Xavier softened his tone. ‘It would be best if you do not come back, as well.’
Lady Faville dug in her heels. ‘I will not leave. Not until I have spoken to you alone.’
‘Then we will leave.’ Xavier put his hand on Phillipa’s back and leaned close to her ear. ‘We need to end this with her.’
She nodded, more eager to be alone with him than Lady Faville could possibly be.
They walked towards the door.
‘No!’ Lady Faville stamped her foot. It sounded as if she pushed over a piece of furniture. ‘I will not let you leave me!’
Glass shattered behind them. They whirled around to the sight of flames.
She’d thrown the lighted lamp. Its oil and fire scattered. A curtain caught fire. Xavier ran to it and pulled it down.
Lady Faville screamed and backed away in a panic. The hem of her skirt was on fire and she was shaking it, making it worse.
‘Stop her!’ Xavier cried, attempting frantically to smother the flaming curtain.
Phillipa grabbed her and struggled with her, knocking her to the floor and beating out the flames. Lady Faville screamed throughout. When Phillipa released her, she scrambled to her feet and ran out the door.
‘Get help!’ Xavier cried.
The fire had spread to another curtain. And another. Phillipa ran to one of them and pulled it down. He battled with the other.
‘Get out!’ Xavier cried. ‘Don’t stay here.’
‘No!’ There was too much fire for one person to fight.
‘Phillipa, go!’ he cried again.
‘No!’ She grabbed a tablecloth and tried to beat out the small flames with it. The cloth itself caught fire and she slapped out the flame with her hands. The smoke stung her eyes and burned her throat. She was very aware that her own skirts could go up in flames, but the idea of leaving Xavier alone with the fire, risking him being engulfed in flames, was too terrible to endure.
‘Phillipa, run,’ his voice rasped. ‘Grab your music and run. We might lose the house.’
Her music? What good was her music if she lost him?
There was a bucket of sand by the fireplace. She carried it to the fire and scooped handfuls of it on to one flame after another.
The carpet caught fire.
‘Help me!’ Xavier cried. He pushed the furniture away.
She ran to him and together they rolled up the carpet, smothering the flames inside it.
A voice came from the doorway. ‘What? Fire!’ It was Cummings, who immediately jumped in to help.
‘Leave now, Phillipa,’ Xavier ordered. ‘Get more help.’
This time she obeyed. She ran down the stairs, shouting for MacEvoy, who appeared from the servants’ floor below.
‘I smell smoke,’ he said.
She seized the front of his coat and pulled him to the stairs. ‘The supper room. Fire.’
He ran upstairs and she went down to the kitchen, startling the cook and kitchen maids. ‘There is a fire in the supper room.’
‘A fire!’ One of the girls screamed.
‘Can you go get help?’ She glanced around. ‘Where is Lacey?’
Lacey entered the kitchen. ‘I am here, my lady.’
Cook put down the pot she’d held. ‘We must leave the house.’ She turned to the maids. ‘You both run ahead and find some men to help.’
Lacey wrapped her arm around Phillipa and led her outside.
When they reached the street, Phillipa began to cough.
The maids found more help and they watched more men run inside.
‘Where is Mr Campion?’ Lacey asked, keeping her arm around Phillipa.
Phillipa looked up to the windows on the first floor, picturing him with flames around him.
‘He’s in the fire,’ she answered.
* * *
<
br /> An hour later they sat at a table in the kitchen while Cook slathered their hands with a salve she promised would heal their burns in no time. Xavier’s burns were much worse than Phillipa’s and Cook wound them in bandages.
He winced when Cook touched a sore area.
Phillipa felt the pain in her own stomach. ‘Your poor hands.’
He shrugged. ‘Better a few burns than losing the house to fire. How could I face Rhys and your brothers if I let the place burn? Or, worse, what if the fire spread to other houses?’
‘It was not worth risking your life.’ She saw him again surrounded by flames, relived her fear.
He smiled. ‘Actually, it was worth the risk. As long as this is all it cost.’ He glanced to his hands.
Cook tied the last bandage. ‘There you go, sir. All set. Keep the bandages clean and dry and I’ll change them tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Cook. I feel better already.’ He stood. ‘But we should leave you to your work now.’
Xavier closed the Masquerade Club. The supper room was the only room damaged and that damage was primarily to the carpet and curtains, but the gaming room smelled strongly of smoke, and also the private rooms and the maids’ rooms to a lesser extent. Every window in the house was open and dishes of charcoal and vinegar were placed everywhere. Still, it would take days to restore it to normal.
Phillipa and Xavier climbed the stairs to the supper room where the maids, Cummings and MacEvoy were scrubbing the floor, ceiling and walls. The carpet, the curtains and all the linen were gone. Phillipa glanced at the pianoforte, which, thankfully, seemed undamaged.
‘How are you all faring?’ Xavier asked them.
‘Making good progress,’ replied MacEvoy in a good humour. He turned to the others. ‘Are we not?’
Cummings grunted, but the maids voiced their agreement.
The poor maids, Phillipa thought. This was an arduous task, but she was pleased to see the lovely paint and plasterwork emerging again.
They continued up to the private rooms and immediately felt the chill from the open windows. In the bedchamber, Lacey wore a shawl and laid out clothes on every possible surface so they could benefit from the fresh air.
She curtsied when she saw them. ‘How are your hands?’
