“Philip!” Madeline shouted when she saw him, making the baby startle. Alysia cradled him before he woke, with Captain Cavendish still watching. Madeline bounded to greet her brother, and his sadness lifted a little as he caught her in his arms. Madeline saw Philip watching Alysia. Her eyes narrowed, then she dragged him by the hand into the room and chattered while showing him her sketchpad, obviously trying to distract him.
Alysia rose and offered to give the baby back to the father.
He lifted one corner of his mouth in an attempt at a smile then replied, “He seems rather content. Perhaps you might let him sleep a while longer, if you don’t mind?”
Alysia agreed and wandered to the window to rock the baby while Madeline and Christian held Captain Cavendish captive with their academic babbling. Alysia couldn’t help smiling as they launched into a detailed dissertation on the golden ratio, and all the useful applications of 1.62 in judging proportion.
When they began arguing about the best method of measuring and which specimens of organic nature demonstrated the most reliable ratios, Captain Cavendish rose out of his seat and threw his hands in the air. “Very well, my young scholars! Astounding, to be sure. You are hurting my head,” he complained as they laughed, and he strode away to stand beside Alysia.
“Forgive me for staring, Miss Villier. You make an enchanting vision I admit I am too weak to look away from.” His eyes fell to her shoulder, where his baby lay cradled. She quit rocking the baby and decided it was best to hand him back. She had seen such an expression on a man before, and although Captain Cavendish clearly didn’t wear it out of lust or greed, she knew what it meant and didn’t want to encourage him.
“I can only imagine your sorrow, Captain Cavendish. I am very sorry,” she said in a low voice. In her periphery she saw Madeline watching warily.
“Philip, please. Captain Cavendish is such a mouthful, and no one here stands on ceremony anyhow.”
Alysia nodded in acquiescence but wasn’t sure she wanted to be heard addressing him so. Philip ducked his chin to kiss the top of the sleeping baby’s head. He began to rock the baby, as everyone seemed to do subconsciously when holding a child.
Philip watched out the window. “I don’t think anyone expects they will experience suffering equal to their joy; yet it is the natural rhythm of life.” He stood straight and proud, his dark, dramatic features a masculinized version of Mary’s but with a steel edge emphasized by his fatigue.
“Perhaps, but that is little consolation for those who must endure it,” she answered, sinking into a nearby chair to watch out the window. Philip’s simple, humble words rang true for her; they may well have been her own.
Philip probably felt the same way watching a woman hold his child as she did watching Lord and Lady Devon worship each other. It was both beautiful and torturous.
She sat in companionable silence with Philip for a while then excused herself to find the always blithe and irreverent Lady Chauncey. If she didn’t find a reason to laugh soon, she would surely burst into tears.
****
A month after Rebecca Montegue was born, the guests went away one by one. Sir Walther Mandley, husband to Lord Devon’s Aunt Louisa, disconcerted Alysia by asking when she had last visited the royal Austrian court. He didn’t believe it at first when she insisted she hadn’t seen Austria since she was a young girl and had never been a courtier. He was adamant that he recognized her. Alysia wondered if he confused her with her mother somehow but didn’t want to discuss it, particularly.
Elyse returned home with her family, leaving Philip Cavendish and Jacob last of the guests. Philip had a few months on leave until his next orders to sail, and seemed reluctant to go to his own house in London. He was a genial companion; he didn’t speak much but seemed content to be in her company. Madeline or Mary could get him talking, and only then was it easy to glimpse the charming, carefree man he had been before losing his wife.
Madeline became vigilant about being the third party for Philip and Alysia. It didn’t help that Alysia spent half a week, hours on end staring at him to paint his portrait, at Mary’s insistence. Matters worsened when Philip unwittingly intruded on Alysia posing for Madeline’s painting. He came from delivering his horse at the stable and cut across the garden on his way to the house. As he passed the ring of hedges at the central fountain, he shouted in surprise when he found Alysia reclined in the bottom marble dish of the fountain wearing only a white sheet, draped Grecian-style.
He cast his eyes down and mumbled an apology as he tried to find his way out of the hedges. Madeline yelped then whined at Philip to move along. Alysia said nothing, mortified, watching Philip blush from his collar to the top of his ears. She wondered why she wasn’t as embarrassed as she should be and found Philip’s hapless reaction endearing. Perhaps she was shameless and brazen, but she couldn’t muster much guilt over that, either.
Madeline called to Philip, “Turn right.” She had meant her right — his left, and he caught another sight of Alysia draped in a sparse white banner before sighing and turning his face skyward with his eyes shut. His gesture didn’t reveal disdain; ironically he appeared a man whose self-restraint had been taxed.
Alysia finally stiffened with a twinge of embarrassment. She also puzzled over the sudden intensity of warmth that came over her. She often felt it, to a lesser degree, when she was near Philip. It was attraction, a natural, primal gravity toward one’s counterpart. A sympathetic connection of like minds, which gave the illusion of a long-established friendship. In truth Alysia could only count her acquaintance with Philip by weeks, yet it seemed she had known him all her life. She had no idea what to make of it.
Alysia was too distracted with maintaining a cautious friendship with Philip to be prepared when the promised correspondence from Lord Courtenay arrived. He had returned from the continent and requested her presence in London for a party. She made the mistake of opening the letter before the others and therefore had to invent an explanation for her gasp and crestfallen expression.
Philip pulled her aside into an empty drawing room. “Miss Villier, I hope I am not overstepping my right, but may I ask why the marquess sends for you, and why you so clearly do not wish to go?”
Alysia closed her eyes with a deep breath in an attempt to avoid his sincere gaze and handsome fairy-tale-prince face. Still there, when she looked again. “It is not within my power to refuse a summons from Lord Courtenay, as he is my legal guardian.”
His skeptical look meant he knew there was more to it.
She acquiesced. “I will be plain with you. Lord Courtenay is much concerned with keeping me away from Lord Preston. He is attempting to find me a husband.”
“And you have agreed?”
“Of course not. But it seems I have little choice in the matter.”
Philip was thoughtful a long while, but he still blocked her escape, and not for the first time she was acutely aware of his broad shoulders. He stood rather closely, and she watched his chest expand with his breath. She had a strange moment of yearning for him while being completely aghast with herself.
Finally he asked, “Then you are going? Alone?” Apparently he noticed her fixation; he paused to stare at her mouth then took a step back.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Would you permit me to accompany you?” He added, “For your safety, of course. I don’t like the thought of you traveling alone.”
She resisted making the snide comment that she had already traveled to Paris alone and had quite ruined herself long ago. Then she wondered why she felt so antagonistic, when Philip had only been chivalrous.
Her hesitation apparently made him uneasy — he amended, “I know Lord Devon would prefer to accompany you himself, but perhaps you might consider letting me take his place since he is not able to travel?” They both knew Lord Devon wouldn’t even go to the village while Lady Devon recovered, so London was out of the question.
Alysia wondered what complications might arise from having
Captain Cavendish among the potential suitors Lord Courtenay would have on display for her. She only hoped Andrew remained unaware of Lord Courtenay’s plans. It had been several weeks now since she last heard from Andrew, and she wondered where in the world he had gone and what he was doing. She wished she didn’t think of him as often as she did. He hadn’t even sent word to Christian, which was strange. And now Philip kept sneaking into her thoughts as well…
Alysia finally answered, “Certainly I do not wish to go in the first place and may yet find an excuse to decline. Might I answer your kind offer this evening?”
“Of course, Miss Villier. Until then.” He bowed politely and walked away more swiftly than usual. With great effort she held in a sigh — of relief? Or disappointment?
****
Alysia made the mistake of browsing the paper that afternoon. She didn’t admit to herself that she hoped to glean a clue about Andrew in the society gossip columns. Unfortunately she found precisely what she looked for. She read:
It seems our favorite Lord P. has formed his third attachment in less than a year. After a near-certain engagement with Miss E. last Season followed by a shocking coup d’état from the Parisian Miss V., it appears he has finally met his match in Lady L. Dare we hope this one makes him come up to scratch?
They have been observed in near-constant company and have delighted the ton with recent appearances at St. James, Mayfair and Belgravia, Almack’s, as well as a garden luncheon hosted by Her Majesty the Queen.
The rumor was confirmed that Lady L. was seen leaving Lord P.’s London residence alone at dawn last Friday. Did we mention the naughty, handsome couple now share a box at the Royal Opera House? An announcement is expected any day. The matter of—
Alysia could read no more. She had told Andrew in no uncertain terms that he should forget her. She had repeatedly instructed him — rather unkindly the last time — to find an eligible woman to marry, and it seemed he had finally taken her advice. She wasn’t angry, but she could not deny being jealous. Ferociously jealous. The air grew thicker with each breath.
That she had read the news from a gossip column made it difficult to swallow. No wonder Andrew had been silent the past several weeks. It was no coincidence she had correspondence from Lord Courtenay today; he knew she would hear the news and would be eager keep her out of the way.
She stood as calmly as she could and excused herself while avoiding Lady Devon and Philip’s questioning glances. The typically oblivious Mary also appeared suspicious, so Alysia knew she didn’t disguise her distress well. She escaped from the drawing room then ran. She stumbled through the east entrance and let the outdoor wind blow away the tears she couldn’t hold back any longer.
Rougemont didn’t have a lake, but it did have a duck pond, and Alysia didn’t stop running until she found the eastern bank. She sat among the tall reeds and released her grief. At first she was angry at herself. Why was she weeping over Andrew’s impending engagement?
This is right, she reassured herself as an anguished wail escaped her lips.
Duty. Andrew’s family, his title, his tenants, investments, and politics. A brilliant future, his potential within reach, as it should be.
He was never mine.
“He should have been!” she shouted, and collapsed weeping into the grass. Logic wouldn’t keep her warm at night. Her heart was broken. Again.
Once she had shed every tear she had for Andrew, she lay exhausted, watching the grass bend in the breeze. She wasn’t ready to present a sanguine face. She rested in a disturbed and lethargic state, nearly asleep when she felt a strong, warm hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard footsteps approach. She lifted her head and saw Philip crouching beside her, wearing a sympathetic expression. She was ready to cuff him in the face if he spouted some trite platitude about fortitude and unselfishness.
Wordlessly he sat next to her in the grass and handed her his handkerchief without looking her way. He watched the pond and made no demands, offering his silent company. Alysia heaved a sigh and righted herself to sit on the ground. She was a terrible mess but could muster neither concern nor vanity.
“I read the paper. I am sorry,” he said simply.
Alysia closed her eyes and nodded, grateful for his short speech.
He didn’t utter another word, nor did he attempt to touch her. Something about his sincerity made her trust him. “I am a fool. This is just as it should be. He did what I asked of him, as his duty demands. What is wrong with me?” She nearly wept again and dropped her face into her hands.
“It is a loss. Loss brings grief.”
She felt his gaze on her, and finally dared meet it. He wasn’t close; he sat more than an arm’s length away. She found she desperately wanted comfort, so she crawled to him and leaned on his shoulder. It felt foreign — he wasn’t as tall and was stockier than Andrew, but he was just as gentle and warm. Philip hooked an arm around her waist and rested his chin at her temple. She felt his even breath on her cheek, and she concentrated on the steady rhythm of it to calm herself while yet more tears streamed down her cheeks. His stillness and patience was comforting, and after another long while, she settled again.
No simmering burn and giddy feeling as she experienced with Andrew, but a deep warmth and solace that was Philip’s own essence. In her muddled head she had no idea what it meant, but at the moment she felt grateful for it — far better than stabs of agony.
“Philip, I want you to take me to London, please.”
“As you wish.”
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she woke before dawn in her own bed. Apparently Philip had carried her all the way back to the house, up the stairs, and laid her in bed. He had placed her on top of the counterpane and draped a blanket over her. He had removed only her shoes and hairpins.
Perhaps if Philip Cavendish was interested in her, she shouldn’t box him in the nose. Andrew had obviously moved on; perhaps she could too. Philip would certainly be far superior to the fortune-hunting mercenaries Lord Courtenay rounded up, and Philip badly needed a mother for his child.
Ah, but she had gone quite ahead of herself. Philip had expressed no interest in her beyond gentlemanly regard and friendship. And although the Montegues likewise accepted her as a guest and friend, it didn’t mean they would sanction a match between her scandalous bastard self and one of their prestigious family. He is a Cavendish and a baronet, for pity’s sake!
She lit a lantern and finally noticed an unopened telegram on her writing desk, from Lady Chauncey. It read, Much confusion. Stop. Sorting it out. Stop. Do not leap off tower. Stop. Alysia went nearly out of her mind wondering what it meant.
The hope dancing around her insides had to be an ill omen. Even if the gossip proved to be misconstrued, the damage to Andrew’s reputation — and “Lady L.’s” — had already been done. He was obliged now as a matter of honor, possibly in a legal regard. Andrew would marry some sparkling heiress sooner or later anyhow, so the brutal dose of reality she experienced today was a necessary adjustment.
Alysia vowed to avoid newspapers, survive Lord Courtenay’s matchmaking, and most importantly resist snaring poor Philip Cavendish. He was a kind, respectable man, a bereaved man, and she had no right to prey upon his weakness with her wiles.
Wiles?
Alysia was supposedly a vixen and a Jezebel yet lacked the requisite credentials. She scoffed in a poor attempt to convince herself of the humor, and packed her case for the journey to London.
Chapter Twelve
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
King Henry VI, William Shakespeare
Summer of 1872, London, England
Alysia allowed herself a smile. The sixth gentleman Lord Courtenay introduced her to that evening was stiffly polite then conspicuously absent. Despite his best efforts, Lord Courtenay’s eligible bachelors seemed to think she carried an infectious disease, which was fine by her.
Then came the infamous Lady
Langton, Andrew’s supposed fiancée. She was elegant, witty, and even more ruthless than Miss Everett, who was Lady Courtenay’s previous choice for Andrew. Alysia found Lady Langton insidious; she appeared congenial and sweet, but the other side of her nature was frightening. At the rate Lady Courtenay chose potential brides for her son, the next hopeful might be demon spawn.
Philip ran himself ragged watching over Alysia and working reconnaissance. He had already discovered the prevailing rumor that Lady Langton had indeed stayed alone at Lord Preston’s house after a party and didn’t leave until dawn as reported, but it was all conspired by her. She wanted to be ruined by Lord Preston so he would be obliged to marry her or face defamation.
The great joke among her intimates was that Lady Langton was no lily-white. All rumors seemed to concur that she’d had an affair with Andrew a few years past and never forgave him when he moved on. Some thought her latest ploy must have worked, as she and Lord Preston were often seen together, and he hadn’t publicly refuted the rumors about the engagement. Others thought she walked a dangerous line, trifling with the formidable Lord Preston.
Lady Langton was indisputably magnificent, a vision of perfect English beauty in blond, blue and rose. Flamboyant and alluring. If she wasn’t also crafty and mean-spirited, Alysia would have wished for Andrew to fall in love with her. She only appeared to be perfect. She obviously had Lady Courtenay fooled.
Lady Langton sought out Alysia and seemed to consider her a threat. She said, a little too loudly, “Why, you could be none other than the incomparable Miss Villier! I quite recognized you, but from where?” She pretended to fish for the memory, and Alysia sipped her champagne with sincere carelessness.
The conversations around them fell silent and the guests turned to see the impending duel between Lord Preston’s fiancée and his mistress. It wasn’t the first time Alysia had been scrutinized by a jealous lady. She had been scandalous all her life; it was far too late to be mortified by it now.
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 14
