A vise squeezed at his chest. She was partially deaf. Of course. This was why she’d failed to hear his approach at Hyde Park and the questions he’d posed. Missing just a beat, Miles angled his head and repeated his admission in her opposite ear.
The little girl widened her eyes all the more, so they formed round moons in her face. “My father said only terrible children skip their lessons. He said proper, good children attended their studies.”
Her father sounded like a miserable, stodgy bore. As soon as the thought slid forward, guilt settled in. It was hardly fair to judge a man in death. “I suspect there is much to be learned in visiting the park and being outdoors, too, no?” he asked, instead.
She flashed him a gap-toothed grin. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper once again. “And also from reading enjoyable books about far off places.” He fished her forgotten book from the front of his jacket and held it out.
A small cry escaped the girl. “My book.” She hurled herself into his arms and he staggered back. “I forgot that I forgot it. And it is one of my favorites. It is about a princess and prince.”
Warmth filled his chest at that absolute lack of artifice. Aware of the ancient butler staring, Miles set the girl away. “Off you go with your fairytale then,” he said with a wink.
Faith waved and, turning on her heel, skipped off. He stared after her a moment and then fell into step behind the aged servant. At last, the man brought them to a stop outside an open door and Miles did a quick search of the room; his gaze landed on the delicate, slender lady stretched out on the sofa. Even with the distance between them, her eyes sparkled with some emotion—emotion he could not singularly identify, but desperately wanted to. “The Marquess of Guilford,” the old servant announced.
“Joseph, would you see refreshments brought?” she asked.
The servant nodded and backed out of the room—leaving Miles and Philippa—alone.
“My lord,” she welcomed in a soft, husky contralto that sent a bolt of lust through him. “Would you care to sit?”
Miles smiled and strode over, claiming the seat nearest her. “I thought we had agreed to move past the formalities of titles?”
“Very well,” she conceded. “Miles.” Her cheeks pinked, stirring intrigue with a widow who blushed like a debutante. She stole a furtive glance about. Did she fear recrimination over the use of his given name? His interest redoubled. “I did not expect you to…” She turned crimson. “That is…”
“I found a forgotten volume of The Little Glass Slipper and sought to return it.”
“Oh.” Did he imagine the lady’s crestfallen expression? “That is, I meant, thank you. For returning it and for coming to my aid this morn.”
The young widow dropped her gaze to the embroidery frame in her lap.
“I also wished to ask after you, Philippa,” he said quietly.
“I am well,” she said automatically.
She fiddled with the wood frame, drawing his attention to the skillfully crafted floral artwork on that white fabric. The delicate flowers, so expertly captured, demonstrated proficiency with a needle. Only… Miles took advantage of the lady’s distracted movements to study her. To truly study her. The white lines pulling the corners of her mouth; the frown on her lips as she glared at that scrap. Such details shouldn’t really signify. Not when he’d only come to return that child’s book, which he’d since done. Liar. You wished to see this woman before you now. “You do not enjoy it, then?”
She jerked her head up. “Beg pardon?”
Miles hooked his ankle across his opposite knee and motioned to the scrap of fabric on her frame. “You look as though you’d singe it with your eyes if you could,” he said with a smile.
Philippa followed his stare and then her perfect, bow-shaped lips formed a small moue. She blinked and drew that frame close to her chest with the same protectiveness of a mother bear defending her cub. “How…why…?”
He leaned forward and dusted the backs of his knuckles alongside the corner of her eye. “Here.” The lady’s breath caught. “You were frowning with your eyes when you were staring at it,” he said quietly. Drop your hand. Drop your hand because coming here and putting your hands upon her, in any way, is forbidden…
Her lashes fluttered and Miles quickly dropped his hand to his side. By God, what madness had overtaken him?
*
In the scheme of all that had transpired in the past handful of minutes, Philippa should very well be fixed on the marquess’ brazen, if fleeting, caress.
And yet, instead, she was transfixed not by his gentle touch, but rather—his statement. You look as though you’d singe it with your eyes if you could…
Philippa ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. “I do not,” she said softly.
Miles furrowed his brow.
“Enjoy it,” she clarified. And with that admission, which went against every ladylike lesson ingrained into her from the cradle, there was no bolt of lightning or thundering from the heavens…and there was something…freeing in it. A wistful smile pulled at her lips. “Do you know you’re the first to ever ask me that question?” Before he could reply, she rushed on. “Of course, you couldn’t possibly know that as we’ve only just met. But you are. Correct, that is,” she said, setting aside the frame. And for that, she thanked him. For seeing past her ladylike skill with that scrap and the well-built façade.
They shared a smile, as with his observation and her admission, a kindred bond was forged. A connection born in actually speaking with a person…something she’d never shared with her own husband. A thrill went through her. This was the intoxicating stuff recorded on the pages of those fanciful fairytales.
Miles glanced about the room and, for a moment, she believed he’d take his leave and restlessness stirred in her breast. Then, she’d be left here with the pitying stares and the sad glances and people who didn’t know she despised needlepoint and proper curtsies and false smiles. She searched her mind, never more wishing that she’d been one of those ladies skilled in conversing with all the right words. “Do you ride often?” she asked tentatively. As he trained his eyes on her face, she cringed. Do you ride often? That is the best that I could come up with?
“Every morning when I am in London,” he said at last.
Philippa filed that particular piece about the gentleman in her mind.
“And what of you?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Me?” She touched a hand to her chest. “I have never been proficient at riding,” she admitted. Or conversing. Or being anything other than proper. Dull, proper, always-pious Philippa. She curled her hands into tight balls, never hating that truth of her character more than she did in this moment. She sighed. “I’m proficient at this,” she said, lifting the embroidery frame once more. In a show her mother would have lamented, Philippa tossed her frame to the marquess who easily caught it in his large, gloved hand. “And so everyone, of course, assumes I must enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I? I know how to draw the thread just so and how to craft an image upon it. Where is the pleasure in it, though?” she asked, the words just spilling out when they never, ever did.
“What, then?” At his quietly spoken question, she tipped her head. “What do you find pleasure in?”
“My daughters,” she said with an automaticity borne of truth. In their world, ladies didn’t speak about affection or emotion they carried for their children. And yet… “My daughters make me happy.” She coughed into her hand.
He searched his piercing gaze over her face. “I expect they would,” he said with a matter-of-factness that caused her heart to pull. There was a sincerity to those words, at odds with everything her own father and late husband had proven in terms of affection for children. “What else?”
She started. “What else?” What else made her happy? No one in the course of her life, not even her sister whom she adored, had ever put that query to her. As such, it was a question she’d not really given any thought to. Her existence was a purposeful one where she
’d been a countess, in charge of a household staff, and her daughters’ tutors and nursemaids. But she’d not always been that way. “I used to read fairytales,” she said wistfully. Not unlike the books she read to her daughters. She’d forgotten until he’d forced her to think back to how those fanciful tales had once brought her happiness, as well. “My mother abhorred my reading selection. Called it drivel,” she said with a remembered laugh. Philippa hadn’t cared. She’d been so enthralled by the possibility of forever happiness promised on those pages that she’d braved her mother’s displeasure. It was why she even now read to her girls from those same books.
“Is that why you stopped reading them?”
She blinked as Miles’ quietly spoken question jerked her back to the present—and the impropriety of speaking so familiarly with a man she’d only just met. She firmed her lips into a line, willing herself to say nothing. Still, there was this inexplicable ease being around him, when she’d never even been comfortable around her own family. Philippa lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “One day,” she’d been married just a fortnight, “I remember finishing a book and just realizing…” She let her words trail off.
“Realizing?” he urged, a sea of questions in his fathomless eyes.
“How very silly it was to believe in a land of happily-ever-afters.” Such dreams didn’t exist. Life in the Edgerton household had proven as much. Marriage to Lord Winston had only confirmed it. No, dreams of fairytales were reserved for innocent children unscathed by life. Or that is what she’d come to believe. Now, this man before her swooped into her life and stirred all those oldest yearnings she’d once carried. Feeling Miles’ gaze on her, Philippa’s face heated. She’d said entirely too much. Words she’d never even acknowledged to herself and suddenly it was too much. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said softly. “I must go see my daughters.”
“Of course,” he said politely and climbed to his feet.
And as he took his leave, the tension drained from her body, down to her feet. She’d long believed there was nothing more perilous than Lord Winston and his dogged attempt to get a male babe on her.
Now she feared she’d been wrong.
The gentle, tender Miles Brookfield’s ability to stir her long buried dream of a happily-ever-after was far more dangerous.
Chapter 7
Philippa had never been someone who listened at keyholes. Where Chloe had slunk about the townhouse with her ear pressed to oaken panels, she had wisely continued on. Not because she’d not been remotely curious about what was discussed behind those thick doors, but rather, the terror at what would become of her if she was discovered at those keyholes. It had been an attempt at self-preservation.
Now, years later, she saw it as a testament to her weakness and failings. That self-awareness, however, was not what brought her to a stop outside her elder brother’s office, the following morning. Philippa slowed her steps.
“…She is far too young to remain a widow, Gabriel…” At the insistence in her mother’s tone, Philippa’s stomach knotted.
“…She is in possession of her dowry, Mother… She does not need…” Whatever she did or did not need and their mother’s response to it was lost to the thick wood. Philippa gave her head a befuddled shake. This was Gabriel? This man who spoke of her remaining unmarried, was so at odds with the practical, determined, matchmaking brother who’d introduced her to her late husband. “You cannot expect her to make a match with just any gentleman…” Gabriel continued, “…She loved him…”
Her lips pulled in a sad smile. This was, of course, what everyone saw. After all, it was easier to see the lie that your sister had loved her miserable excuse for a husband than to accept the role you’d played in the union…
“…She has two daughters… Lord Matthew would make her a splendid match…”
Oh, God. How could her mother, who’d subjected her own children to the abuses of a brutal husband, be so steadfast in her resolve to make matches for her children? She pressed her eyes closed. Her mother was no less determined to marry her off than when she’d been a debutante just on the market. Dread spiraled through her; it found purchase in her feet and those digits twitched with the need to take flight.
“Philippa,” the gentle voice of her sister-in-law, Jane, sounded over her shoulder, ringing a gasp from her.
Philippa spun around. The blonde woman with a gentle and all-knowing smile stood with a book in her hands. Wetting her lips, she looked from the sister-in-law, who’d so graciously accepted her inside her home for these six months now, to the door where her brother and mother still carried on, discussing her fate and future.
The other woman gave her a gentle smile. She tucked the book in her hands under her arm and held out her spare hand.
Philippa hesitated. Jane tipped her head in the direction of the opposite hall. And when faced with being discovered any moment by her mother and brother, she far preferred the company of her sister-in-law with curious eyes.
She allowed the other woman to dictate the path they took through the house. Their slippered footfalls were silent in the halls as they wound their way through the house, to the…
Her stomach lurched as Jane stopped outside the library. A dull buzzing filled her ears, like so many swarming bees. How many times had she stood outside this very room, seeking refuge from her father’s beatings? Of all the places he’d thought to look for his children—the gardens, the parlors, the kitchens—never had he, with his disdain of books and literature, come here. Now she sought a different refuge; the danger no less real.
“Philippa?” her sister-in-law gently prodded and she jolted into movement. Eyes averted, she walked at the sedate pace drilled into her by too-stern governesses. Jane closed the door and motioned to the nearby leather button sofa. “Please,” she said softly. “Will you sit?”
Philippa hesitated and then slid onto the folds of the sofa. The leather groaned in protest. She folded her hands primly on her lap to still the tremble. In the months since Philippa had moved into the new marchioness’ home, Jane had proven herself to be kind and patient. She didn’t probe where every other Edgerton did. But neither did Philippa truly know her. Did Jane also want her married off? As her sister-in-law settled onto the seat beside her, dread knotted Philippa’s insides.
“I wanted to be sure that you are happy here,” the other woman began.
Philippa blinked. Happy here? A peculiar question that no one had ever put to her. The expectation had always been that, as a lady, she belonged wherever her husband, or father, or now elder brother was. “I am,” she said at last. Because she was. At least happier than she’d been when she’d been a girl living in this very house. Unable to meet the searching expression in Jane’s eyes, she looked about. Her stare landed on the book set aside by her sister-in-law. She peered absently at the title. Thoughts on the Education of Daughters—
“Are you familiar with Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work?”
Philippa shot her head up; her attention diverted away from the gold lettering on the small leather tome. She looked questioningly at the other woman.
“Mrs. Wollstonecraft,” Jane elucidated, holding up the volume.
“I am not,” she said softly.
“She was a writer and an advocate for women’s rights,” her sister-in-law explained, as she held the book out. Philippa hesitated. This was the type of scandalous work her mother would have forbidden and her husband would have burned. With steady fingers, she accepted the book. “I quite enjoy her work.”
Philippa studied the title. Thoughts on the education of daughters: with reflections on female conduct, in the more important duties of life. How singularly…peculiar that her brother, who’d lamented Chloe’s shows of spirit and praised Philippa’s obedience to propriety and decorum, should have married a woman who read philosophical works, and whom he’d also given leave to establish a finishing school to educate women who dwelled on the fringes of Society. At the extended silence, she cleared her throat a
nd made to hand the book back over.
“I’ve always admired her,” Jane said, ignoring the book so that Philippa laid it on her lap. “Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s father squandered the family’s money. He was a violent man.” Philippa stiffened. How much did Jane know of the abuse she and her siblings had suffered at the vile monster’s hands? “She cared for her sisters,” the woman went on. “And then she cared for herself.”
Self-loathing filled her. In a world where she’d readily turned over her fate and future to a man simply because he was respectable and kind, there had been Mrs. Wollstonecraft who’d laid claim to her life. “Did she?” For what did that even entail? Even now, living with her brother and his family, she’d demonstrated a return to a life not wholly different than the one she’d lived.
“Yes,” Jane said simply. Something gentle and, yet, at the same time commanding, in the woman’s tone brought Philippa’s gaze to hers once more. “Mrs. Wollstonecraft was not always that way, Philippa. She was compelled by her father to turn over all the money she would have inherited at her maturity to him. A miserable, mean cruel man.”
Not unlike the way Philippa had turned her body over to a husband to use as a vehicle to beget heirs and boy babes. Her throat worked. “Some women come to believe the rules and expectations set forth by Society so strongly that they can’t escape from those ingrained truths.” Ever.
Jane scooted closer. “Ah,” she said. “But that isn’t altogether true.” She pointed to the book in Philippa’s tight grip. “One might have said as much about Mrs. Wollstonecraft and, yet, she went on to lay claim to her fate and her future. She found work.” She paused and gave Philippa a meaningful look. “But more, she found joy in her work and in the control she had of her future.”
Those words echoed around the room, penetrating Philippa’s mind. Jane spoke to her. Encouraged her to see that she could be something different than the silent, obedient creature who, no doubt, would crumple under her mother’s determination to see her wed. Why does it have to be that way? Why must I marry where my heart is not engaged? Her heart, mind, and body belonged to no one. Not anymore. Not in the ways Society saw it. “My mother wishes me to marry,” she said, unable to keep bitterness from tingeing her words.
To Woo a Widow Page 5
