Those unspoken words twisted his insides into knots. He forced himself to set the book aside. In Lady Philippa, the world saw a sad widow. But in listening to her, in hearing the words she did not say, Philippa spoke more than Mrs. Wollstonecraft. Miles and Philippa traveled down an intimate path of discourse that defied all those expectations they’d earlier spoken of. “What did that gain you, Philippa?” he asked quietly. And he didn’t give a jot about those expectations.
Philippa again brought her knees close. She wrapped her arms loosely about them. A small, humorless smile formed on her full lips. “Not happiness,” she said with a wryness that knotted his belly. He despised a world in which she should have known a hint of a misery. Preferred it when he’d taken her for a broken-hearted widow and not this wounded by life woman. “You asked what makes me happy and do you know what that is?” She posed an inquiry to him.
“What?” The question rumbled up from his chest. Whatever it was, in this moment, he would give it to her to drive back that bitter cynicism.
“Speaking to you,” she said with an honesty that, given the expectations his mother had of him, should have terrified the hell out of him. Instead, her admission caused a lightness in his chest. She leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My mother would be shocked if she knew I spoke to you, a stranger, so.” He started. This woman who’d consumed his thoughts since their chance meeting, whom he’d wondered after and speculated on, was, in fact—a stranger. How singularly odd that he should feel he knew her so very well, still. She cast another look up. “Have I scandalized you?”
He winked. “I’m nearly thirty, with a rogue of a brother and three incorrigible sisters. I assure you, I do not shock easily.”
A full, rich, husky laugh spilled past her lips, further deepening the intimacy of this stolen exchange. “I also have a sister,” she said. “Chloe.” She stared out at the lake, a wistful glimmer in her eyes. “She is my younger sister and, yet, since she was a girl, she’s been so bold and courageous and fearless in showing her emotion and speaking her mind. And I…” Her lips pulled in a grimace and she gave her head a shake. “And I have been anything but those things.”
Bringing his knees up, Miles matched Philippa’s pose and trained his gaze on the same pelican that earned her notice. He picked up a small, flat stone beside the blanket and, with a flick of his hand, skipped it over the surface. It hopped once. Twice. A third time. And then sank. “Ah, but there are different kinds of bravery and boldness, Philippa. You are not your sister.” She stiffened. Did she see herself as a shadow of that other woman? No. Her sister could not possibly be as refreshingly sincere and captivating as this lady. “But your eyes speak a tale of a woman of strength.” She looked at him and their gazes met. “Even if you do not see it in yourself.” He paused. “Which you should.”
Her throat moved.
They returned their gazes to the lake before them and remained in a companionable silence.
Never had he before sat alone with a woman and spoken on anything beyond the polite discourse required of a lord and lady. Yet, for the ease in talking to her, there was also a remarkable ease in the comfortable silence between them. There was no urge on the lady’s part to fill the void. Rather, there was a sincerity to their exchanges that he’d not ever known, not even with Sybil. He clenched and unclenched his jaw. What was it that an understanding he’d long accepted should now set off a violent restlessness inside.
“Do you know something, Miles?” Philippa asked, cutting across the quiet.
He looked at her.
“Today was one of the first times I realized that there are freedoms permitted me.” He frowned as a dark thought slid in of Philippa becoming that jaded widow, preyed on by unscrupulous rakes, and a vicious desire to hunt down those nameless, faceless scoundrels and take them apart with his bare hands filled him. “Freedoms I’d been too cowardly to seize before,” she continued over his silent tumult. The young lady squared her shoulders. “I am a widow. If I wish to speak to you in the middle of Hyde Park, then I’ll do so unapologetically. There’s no scandal to hurt me. I’m not some debutante trying to make a good match. In fact, I do not need to marry again.” She paused, wetting her lips once more. “Unless I wish to.”
Who would be the gentleman to woo her and bring her happiness? For surely, there was, at the very least, one man deserving of her. And why did a seething fury uncoil inside him like a serpent poised to strike? Another breeze stirred the air around them and sent ripples on the lake’s surface. “But someone wishes you to marry, again?” He didn’t realize he held his breath until she spoke.
“My mother.” She gave her head a rueful shake. “And she knows the very person I should wed, too, of course.”
“Ah. I understand that. On that point we are very much alike,” he said. “Our mothers seem to be of like personalities.” The rub of it was Sybil would make him a perfectly acceptable wife. They got on great as children and spoke with a familiar ease one did not often find with members of the opposite sex. And even as he hadn’t wanted to marry Sybil, he would have been content in fulfilling the expectations of their families in marrying her—if it hadn’t been for a chance meeting with Philippa.
In just a brief encounter, she’d stirred questions and curiosities. And desire.
This meeting only yielded a greater desire to know about a lady who so expertly stitched and then confessed to him her disdain for the activity. From that slight statement, and the glint in her eyes, he’d seen beyond the veneer of expected ladylike perfection to a woman with her vitality, who chafed at the strictures placed on her. The strength of her spirit intrigued him in ways he’d never been drawn to another.
Chapter 9
With Miles’ pronouncement, questions whirred in Philippa. Did he intend to fulfill his family’s wishes the way Philippa herself had with Calvin? The idea of Miles in a cold, empty union gutted her. And yet, thinking of him blissfully in love with that nameless lady brought with it a different kind of torture.
Absently, she gathered a stone. “So there is a certain lady?” she asked, pleased with the evenness of her tone. “Someone your family would see you marry?” Her hand shook and the rock shook in her trembling fingers. For her newfound discovery that morn of freedom of thought, this unguarded honesty was still foreign and roused terror in her belly. It went against the woman she’d been for so long; and freeing as it was, it rattled the foundation of her previously ordered world. She made to skip her rock.
“There is,” he said matter-of-factly and her carefully selected stone thudded noisily in the water. A dull pressure weighted her chest. “Though there is no formal arrangement,” he said solemnly, “just an expectation among two mothers.” There was a guarded quality to his tone.
Were those words for her benefit? Her heart dipped. Why should it matter that he was informally pledged to another? Because he is here beside me now. She bit the inside of her cheek hard. Then, she’d called him over with a brashness better fitting her sister, Chloe. And because she had to say something, she managed to squeeze out a steady, “Oh.” Mimicking his earlier, effortless movements, Philippa attempted another stone. This one skipped once and then disappeared under the water.
“Here,” he encouraged. Rising, he took her by the hand and pulled her to a stand.
“What…?” Her question died on a broken whisper as he positioned her once more between his legs. Oh, God in heaven. The hard wall of his chest. The oaken strength of his thighs. Her pulse raced, pounding loudly in her ears.
“I fear I’m not much of an instructor if I provide you with but one lesson and leave you on your way to skip stones.”
His teasing words startled a laugh from her. “It’s not your fault. I’m a rubbish stu—” Then, he brought her closer still, killing all mirth. Her lashes fluttered wildly. “Student,” she finished weakly.
“Remember,” he breathed against her ear, stirring a loose curl. “Hold the stone between your thumb and forefinger with your
thumb on top,” he guided her arm back. “Draw your arm like…”
Philippa angled herself in his arms and cast her gaze up.
A charged heat blazed between them and he swiftly covered her mouth with his.
When she’d been confined to bed during her many pregnancies, she’d stared out the window at the changing landscapes. The dull monotony of her never-changing days had been those volatile summer storms that had shaken the foundation of her husband’s sprawling manor house. As Miles pulled her into his arms, drew her close, and angled his mouth over hers again and again, as though he sought to brand the taste of her on his lips, this moment was remarkably like those powerful storms.
Her lashes fluttered wildly again and she snaked her arms about his neck, pressing herself close, wanting to lose herself in the feel of his embrace. Miles parted her lips and boldly tangled her tongue in an age-old dance. Parrying, she met that forbidden rhythm. Heat pooled in her belly and she tightened her hold on Miles, scrabbling her fingers down his back. Never in all her miserable years of marriage had she felt this passion coursing through her, scorching every corner of her being. And now that she knew, she wanted this rapturous bliss to go on forever. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the hard thrust of his arousal against her belly. “Miles,” she moaned, crying out, when he pulled away. Wanting more of him, she gripped his neck, drawing him back, but with firm, steady movements, he set her away. The distant thundering of hooves cut across the thick haze of desire blanketing her senses.
And horror unfurled in waves, blotting out the warmth of his embrace. Oh, God. Of course, there were freedoms permitted her as a widow, but she did not wish to be one of those wicked, wanton widows, attracting lascivious attentions and gossip.
In one quick movement, Miles positioned himself between her and the rider. Tall, dark, and in possession of irreverent eyes that matched his hardened grin, the man flicked a dismissive gaze over the marquess. If it weren’t for the cynical glint in his brown irises, he might be otherwise handsome. But his suggestive stare stripped away anything redeeming in the man. His sharp focus remained fixed on Philippa. “Guilford,” the man called out as he slowed his black mount to a walk.
Unbidden, she stepped closer to Miles, finding a solace in his strong, reassuring presence.
“Montfort,” the marquess said with a tightness that belied the affable, charming man he’d been in their previous exchanges.
The man tipped his hat. “A very good morning, I’d say, isn’t it?” A sardonic grin pulled at his lips.
Tension poured off Miles’ frame. “Indeed.”
The other man made no move to leave. Instead, he urged his mount closer. “The perfect time to…seek out time alone in the park.” He turned his attention to Philippa. “And it is Lady Winston, is it not?”
Miles’ muscles tightened and the black fabric of his coat bunched under his bicep.
Not allowing the rake with his jaded eyes to cow her, Philippa stepped out from behind Miles and tipped her chin up. “My lord,” she said with the icy regal tones that Lady Jersey would be hard-pressed to not admire.
He passed cold, appreciative eyes over her once more, before bowing his head. “I will allow you both your…pleasures.” With another icy smile, Lord Montfort nudged his horse onward.
“Philippa,” Miles said quietly, a thread of apology in that one-word utterance.
She shook her head. “Do not,” she said softly. His was the first kiss she’d ever known that had reached inside her and set her afire. She’d not have that ruined with regret. No doubt, all of London would be abuzz with the shameful widow. Philippa mustered a smile. “I am a widow.” Even having been married, Society would never separate her name from her familial connection. Nor would she wish them to. Not when those same individuals had seen her own husband as a man of worth and honor.
Miles scowled and opened his mouth but whatever words he intended were killed by the appearance of Philippa’s maid over by the clearing.
“My maid is here,” she said needlessly.
He hesitated; a muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, hinting at the barely suppressed volatility.
“Will I see you again?” she ventured with a still unfamiliar boldness that sent her toes curling. “That is…I come here in the morning and I was wondering if, by chance, you also happened to be…” You are rambling. Stop rambling, Philippa. “That is, if I do happen to see you, then…”
Miles reached a hand out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Yes,” he confirmed with that husky warm promise that sent delicious shivers through her. Then, he dropped his arm and with long, purposeful strides, returned to his mount.
A short while later, he rode off and left.
With the marquess now gone, the perils of being seen so, slammed into her and Philippa’s shoulders drooped.
This was bad. This was very bad, indeed.
Chapter 10
Seated at his desk, a brandy clasped between his hands, Miles stared down into the contents of his glass…as he’d been sitting for the better part of an hour.
He’d never been a rogue. Nor had he aspired to the reputation. And yet, he’d kissed Philippa in the middle of Hyde Park without fear or worry of passersby. In doing so, he’d subjected the lady to possible whispers and attentions. He gripped the glass hard as Lord Montfort’s cynical eyes slid into his mind.
The man had observed him and Philippa and assumed what any lord or lady passing by would have—that they were lovers. The ton would assume their embrace was nothing more than an exchange between a widow and a bachelor, nearing his thirtieth year. As such, they would be free to carry on that relationship and though there would be whispers, there would also be a casual acceptance of an affair between them.
He took a swallow of his drink and leaned back in his chair. Yet, the truth of it was, he didn’t merely want an empty entanglement with the lady. He liked her. He enjoyed being with her and her willingness to speak about topics that moved beyond the weather and the enjoyment of a ball, as so many other women of his acquaintance were inclined to do.
He’d known her but two days and, somehow, from their first meeting, she’d clung to his thoughts and refused to shake free.
And now, having been discovered by Montfort, he, as a gentleman wished to do right by her. Philippa, with her unjaded eyes and honest words, was undeserving of Society’s condemnation. But in one rash moment, fueled by his hunger for her, he’d demonstrated to the Montforts of the world that the lady was amenable to a dishonorable suit.
Miles cursed and swiped a hand over his face. No, the rakes and scoundrels would not take the time to peel back the layers to see who Philippa truly was. They wouldn’t see a mother who actually took time to be with her children, when most ladies foisted their babes off on nursemaids and saw them but a handful of times. Instead, Montfort and all those black scoundrels would be content with nothing more than the image he and she had presented that morn.
Footsteps sounded outside his office door and he straightened.
His mother pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Miles,” she said without preamble and drew the door shut behind her.
He tamped down a curse. The last thing he cared for in this moment was a discussion or debate about Miss Sybil Cunning. She stalked over with the determined stride of a military general and sat in the leather chair at the foot of his desk. “You are drinking,” she observed, needlessly.
He lifted his glass in salute.
“It is early,” she snapped.
Miles rolled his shoulders. “Given my nearly thirty years, I expect I am well past lectures on expected behaviors.” Nor had he given her reason to question his judgment or actions.
She tightened her mouth. “This is about that widow, isn’t it?”
He stiffened, but said nothing. She was his mother, but he’d not answer to her or defend the company he kept. “I do not know what you are—”
“Sybil and her mother were here earlier. And where were
you when they visited? Hmm?” Ire snapped in her eyes.
“I’m not discussing this with you.” He couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know what to make of this hold Philippa held over him.
“Do you still intend to marry Sybil?” his mother asked bluntly.
Miles attempted to drag forward the promise he’d made. Except, he’d not made a promise to the lady. He’d given his mother until his thirtieth birthday to fulfill his responsibilities as marquess and marry the lady if they were still, as of then, unwed. He raked a hand through his hair. “It is…complicated now,” he settled for.
Silence blanketed the room, punctuated by the ticking of the ormolu clock atop his mantel.
“Complicated,” his mother said in succinct tones that stretched out every one of the four syllables.
After taking another sip of his brandy, Miles set it down and leaned forward. “Mother,” he began, folding his hands on the desk before him. “I promised if I was not wed—”
“And you are not,” she bit out.
“—by my thirtieth birthday I would marry,” he continued over her interruption. “No, even though there has been no formal courtship made or offer of marriage, I cannot now in good conscience bind myself to Sybil.” His mother had been so driven to cement the connection between their families and her devotion to her goddaughter. But surely she’d see her son’s happiness came first. He didn’t know, given what she’d shared in her past, whether Philippa ever wished to marry but he knew three meetings with the lady were not enough.
His mother pressed her palms to her cheek. “You surely are not speaking of courting Lady Winston.” Shock laced that statement.
“She is the daughter of a marquess,” he said ignoring her question. The young woman at the park had spoken with revelry for her newly attained freedom. Such a woman wouldn’t be eager to bind herself to another husband. His stomach knotted. Oh, the irony. That he should desire more, and the lady spoke of her previous marriage with the same tones of one relishing the hereafter. “Furthermore,” he went on, “the lady is a countess by her own right.” Surely his mother, who could see nothing beyond titles, would, at the least, appreciate those pieces; the ones he cared the least for. He cared about her smile and the way she’d tossed that embroidery frame at him.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 68
