Aversley crossed his legs and studied Philip. “Are you asking me or trying to convince yourself?”
Hell if he knew. “Is an omission a lie?”
Aversley opened his mouth, but Philip interrupted him, his thoughts swirling. “I say not. I say it makes me a rake, and from where I sit, rakes win.”
“I suppose you could see it that way, but I feel obligated to interject that your sister changed me. I’m no longer a rake, and I was no longer a rake when I won her.”
Philip nodded. “Yes, yes. I know.”
Aversley’s gaze widened. “Then, I suppose, your decision is made.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve never been a rake, but I’ll become one in hopes of marrying a woman whose dowry can set to rights the mess my father left me but whom I also love, or if worse comes to worst, someone I can stand to have by my side the rest of my life.”
“Harthorne—”
“Not yet,” Philip grumbled, feeling as if he were much like sails finally catching wind. He wanted to surge forward before he lost momentum. “I want to love my wife, damnation, and I want her to love me.”
Aversley nodded. “Definitely wise.”
Philip bounded to his feet, feeling as if he could no longer sit still. “The best chance I have of achieving that result quickly is to become more like you and Scarsdale. Do you agree?”
Aversley tugged on his cravat. “I’m almost afraid not to. Your face is mottled red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you worked up. You’re usually the calm one.”
“This is the new me,” Philip growled. “Being calm has gotten me nowhere.”
“Does the new you have a candidate in mind?”
All the wind left Philip’s sails then. He sunk further into the chair and propped his booted feet on Aversley’s desk. The old him would have never been so rude, but this was the new him. “No. That is a minor problem in my plan.”
Aversley smirked. “Does the new you even know which debutantes in the ton have large dowries?”
“No. Which is one of the reasons I’m here. Do you know?”
Aversley barked with laugher. “Why the devil would I know that? I’m married, for one, and I never cared about that, either. You know who would be privy to that information, though...”
“I cannot involve my sister,” Philip snapped. “She’d never approve. She’s a woman and has never understood about a man’s pride.”
When the door to the study creaked, Philip twisted around to see Amelia sashaying into the room. “Philip!” She rushed over to him and, leaning down, hugged him. “I was thrilled when Colin told me you were coming to supper.”
Amelia was grinning at Philip as if she were up to something, and that usually meant she was. Philip stood, wishing he and Aversley had been able to finish their conversation but not willing to linger and be waylaid by his sister’s machinations. God only knew what scheme she was concocting. He took a step toward the door, and Amelia moved in front of him and placed a hand on his chest.
“Sophia told me you raced Jemma in the park today.”
Jemma. Philip liked Miss Adair’s given name. He’d not known it previously, but it suited her. Jemma was a gem, a rare breed of woman who spoke her mind and didn’t seem to care a thing about the “rules,” nor what people might think when she broke them. Maybe it was because she was American... No, he didn’t think so. Her sister was American, as well, and she was perfectly behaved.
Amelia poked him, bringing his gaze to his grinning sister’s face once again. “How did it come about that you raced Jemma?”
An image of how Miss Adair—no, he could no longer think of her as such; she was Jemma—had looked earlier today when she’d challenged him flashed in his mind. She’d flung her unruly red hair over her shoulders and boldly met his gaze with her bright blue-green eyes. Her appearance would make any man with blood coursing through his veins want to tame her. “She challenged me.”
Amelia cocked her head. “Bold, isn’t she?”
He laughed. “I suppose so. Which, I am sure, is why you are friends.”
Amelia laughed, too. “You know me so well, Brother. Do you think she’s pretty?”
“She has a spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.” That he found adorable. It whispered of her free spirit and love for the outdoors.
Amelia frowned. “That does not answer my question.”
Philip shifted his weight. Jemma’s voluptuous curves made his hands ache to slide over the gentle swell of her hips, but he couldn’t say that. Her mouth, too plump to be fashionable but perfect for kissing, was both enticing and surely to be her downfall, but he couldn’t say that, either. Devil take it, he didn’t even know why he’d thought it. He hadn’t even known he’d noticed these things about her, not really, until this moment.
He pulled on his cravat. “She’s lovely, and I’m quite sure will give any man who dares to court her a merry chase.”
Amelia leaned close to him. “Would you dare to court her?”
“Why the devil would you ask me that?”
Amelia bit down on her lip. “Well, Jemma is going to be debuting, and her grandfather is not going to settle a dowry on her.”
“How do you know that?”
“My cook’s sister is the Duke of Rowan’s cook, and she overheard him say as much. So I’m worried neither she nor her sister will have any suitors, and I thought perhaps, well, Sophia said she thought she saw a spark between you and Jemma and—”
Philip couldn’t stand listening to any more. He couldn’t just court anybody he wanted to. Not that he wanted to court Jemma. But even if he did, he couldn’t do it now that he knew she had no dowry. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”
Amelia plunked her hands on her hips. “Why not?”
Aversley started to cough, and Philip shot him a silencing look.
“Because I cannot simply decide to court someone just because you don’t want her to be without suitors.” That was true enough. The fact that he could only court women who had money didn’t need to be shared with his sister. His palms dampened at the despicable thought.
“That makes sense,” Amelia said. “Luckily, I’ve invited Jemma for dinner, and the two of you can become better acquainted.”
Hellfire. The last thing he needed was his sister trying to match him with the dowerless Jemma, no matter how enticing the lady was. He shook his head. “I cannot stay for dinner.”
Amelia scowled. “Do you have a better offer?”
“No, but Mother agreed to sponsor Cousin Eustice for the Season, so she may need me at home.”
“For what?” Amelia demanded, her voice full of skepticism.
“I don’t know,” Philip growled, starting to feel trapped. His sister was making it incredibly hard not to lie to her, a thing he did not want to do. “Maybe Mother will want my help making a list of eligible bachelors for Eustice.”
Amelia shook her head. “Mother wouldn’t do that.”
“She may,” Philip argued. Who was Amelia to say what someone would never do? She probably thought he would never marry for money, after all.
Amelia narrowed her eyes. “All right. I’ll play along. Let us say Mother did want to make a list. That’s not something you would do.”
Philip stepped around Amelia and edged his way toward the door. “I’d do anything for Mother,” he said without looking back. “You know that.”
“Well, any man who writes a poem titled The Champion of True Love would never make a list of men for a woman trying to catch as a husband,” Amelia said to his back.
Philip scowled at the reference to the poem he’d written after Mary had broken off their betrothal. “Only a sister would dare to allude to the lowest point in a man’s life.”
Amelia clicked her tongue. “I’m here to remind you of your true self.”
He stepped through the threshold with one foot in the study and the other in the passageway. “Do I appear to have forgotten my true self?” He faced his sister, wanting to
see her expression. He had a sudden suspicion that his sister had been eavesdropping at Aversley’s study door.
She stood wide-eyed and the picture of innocence, which he knew could be quite deceiving, knowing Amelia as he did. She offered him a sweet smile. “Are you not the one always saying true love simply happens and that one cannot plan for it?”
“Mother is not planning for love,” Philip grumbled, not liking that Amelia’s comments were making him feel as though he was betraying who he was when all he was doing was trying to save his family and maintain his pride. “She is planning for marriage.”
Amelia’s brows dipped. “Do you no longer believe the two go hand in hand?”
“In a perfect world.”
“Oh, Philip!” Amelia’s voice trembled slightly. “When did you quit thinking like a poet?”
When I realized I was about to no longer be able to afford food, he wanted to say. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to go.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He charged out of the study, down the corridor into the main hall, and brushed past the footman who was reaching to open the door for him. Philip, needing an escape from his own thoughts, flung open the door and stormed outside. He would have kept going straight to his awaiting carriage if he hadn’t crashed right into something very soft. That something let out a hearty umpf that told him right away the something was a someone. And when he looked up, he realized that someone was Jemma, teetering on the edge of the steps, her eyes wide and her arms waving frantically in the air as she tried to right herself.
For a moment, he stood stock-still, fascinated with the emotions careening across her lovely face. Determination. Fear. Frustration. Back to determination. An inspiration of words hit him: An Ode to a Tempestuous Woman.
She swayed backward, and he reached out and snagged his hand about her waist to save her. He meant only to bring her forward, but he overestimated how hard to tug and she ended up barreling into his chest, her hands grasping—no doubt in self-preservation—both his arms. The beat of her heart hammered against his chest, and the poetic words that had failed to come to him for more months than he could remember flowed through his mind as he stared down into her dazzling eyes. How had he failed to notice that gold flecked her blue-green eyes? He’d never seen the likes of the color.
“I could write a hundred poems about your eyes,” he blurted, lost in them.
Immediately, she tugged away, then moved down to the step below him and tilted her head up to look at him. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun, or maybe to hide her eyes from him so he wouldn’t wax eloquent about them anymore. He felt like a fool. He could make a joke of it to save his pride, but he refused to do so.
The moment she realized he wasn’t jesting was clear by the flare of her nostrils and the subtle way she tried and failed to inhale a deep breath. “How boring that would be,” she finally said. She lifted her chin. “Would it go something like, She had round eyes, very oddly colored both green and blue?”
Ah. She didn’t truly see herself. Given that he barely knew her, he couldn’t decide if the revelation was surprising or shed light on her prickliness. If she saw herself as odd, maybe her sharp wit was a defense against her insecurity. The thought tightened his chest. His sister had seen herself in that same light for most of her life, and it had been hard to watch the toll it had taken.
Devil take it. He should simply leave, but he couldn’t do it. He wanted her to see herself through his eyes, so she would have a bit of confidence when having to brave the cruel ton in her debut. “I think the poem would go more like this: She had eyes of emeralds and sapphire ice, entrancing and fearsome at once. Beguiling, beseeching, bewitching in thrice...”
His heart pounded as he looked at her. He didn’t know where that had come from, but he was damned proud of it. That was his one last act as a non-rake.
She turned her face away for a moment, and when she glanced back at him, she shook her head, almost as if at herself. “You have a beautiful gift for lying.”
He frowned. “Was that your version of a compliment?”
She cocked her head and drew her eyebrows upward. “Take it as whatever you desire.”
He wanted her to realize she was lovely because soon she would realize how little it might matter without a dowry, but it appeared he had bungled it. He could feel the heat in his cheeks. Rakes didn’t blush, damn it all.
“I do not lie, Miss Adair.”
“You’d be the first man, then, Lord Harthorne.”
“Jemma!” a voice said in clear dismay from a few steps beneath her. Philip blinked in surprise at Jemma’s sister, Miss, Miss— Ah, hell. Her Christian name had completely escaped him. He could recall she was the younger sister, though, so propriety demanded he use her Christian name. Jemma had struck him dull-witted. Fine start to being a rogue, this was.
He sketched a hasty bow. “I didn’t see you standing there Miss...?” He certainly couldn’t pretend he remembered her name when he’d just told Miss Adair he didn’t lie.
“Miss Anne,” she said, offering one of her pleasant smiles.
She was a pretty thing, her pale looks currently all the fashion, but strangely not compelling to him as her flame-haired, freckle-flecked sister was. Everything about Jemma begged inspection, dissection, and quill to paper to figure out the conundrum she presented. Whereas Miss Anne appeared to be an open book. There was nothing wrong with that, but he had always liked the puzzles of life.
He cast a sideways glance at Jemma and found her studying him as if he were some foreign specimen she wasn’t sure whether to crush under her slipper or capture in a jar. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he said to Miss Anne.
“You’ll be seeing more of me,” the young lady gushed. “And my sister. We’re making our debut this Season.”
His gaze immediately went to Jemma’s face. He couldn’t help it. She displayed her displeasure vividly. A dark scowl marred her lovely features, and her lips pressed into a thin, white line. Clearly, she was not nearly as pleased to be making her debut and partaking in the Season as her sister was. He could relate. The prospect of countless balls filled with nonsensical chatter and false smiles, not to mention his having to actively search for an heiress, did not entice him in the least, but it was necessary.
“I wish you both happy hunting,” he said, unsure what else to say. “I’m certain we will run into one another again very soon.”
Jemma snorted, and her sister elbowed her in the side. Jemma cut her eyes to her sister before focusing on him once again. Something mischievous stirred in the depths of her eyes that matched the wicked smile suddenly lighting her face. “Is that what you are doing, Lord Harthorne? Hunting?”
“Are you?” he parried to sidestep the need to lie.
“No. I’m running.”
“Jemma,” her sister groaned.
She shrugged. “I doubt Lord Harthorne is bothered by me speaking my mind. Are you, Lord Harthorne?”
He had to smile. He rather liked her bold nature. “As long as your words don’t sting me, I am not bothered a bit. In fact, I find I’m quite intrigued.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “My aim is not to intrigue.”
“Don’t you want a husband, Miss Adair?”
“About as much as I want the plague,” she replied cheekily.
He threw his head back and laughed, even as her sister grabbed her hand and started tugging on her. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Harthorne. My sister is not herself tonight.”
“I’m myself,” Jemma called over her shoulder as her sister dragged her up the few steps to the front door.
As the door opened, Philip remembered the money in his coat. He’d forgotten to give it to his sister. “Miss Adair!”
Jemma swung around to face him and quirked her brows up. “Miss me already?”
By God, she was an outspoken lady. He itched to get home and create a poem worthy of her. He pulled the paper out from his coat.
“I believe I owe you this.”
Her eyes widened, and she scurried down the three steps and took it. As she read what he had scrawled on the outside of the note she laughed, and he smiled. He’d written the name Katherina across it. “Thank you, Petruchio,” she said, performed a perfect curtsy, and then swiveled away and disappeared within the house.
Philip was left standing in the growing twilight, staring at his carriage and thinking of Jemma and her sister. Jemma was beautiful and Anne was lovely, but most men of the ton would place a good dowry over appearances, with disposition coming in last. Disgust filled him, and he jerked. Now he had to put himself in the classification of those he had long held in contempt, those who considered a dowry the most important thing on the list of qualities to be had in a wife.
A sweat broke out on his forehead as he trudged toward his awaiting carriage. He was looking forward to the start of the Season about as much as one looked forward to the prospect of death.
Two Days Later
Jemma sat as still as she could while her lady’s maid, Eliza, carefully arranged her hair into a coil atop her head and placed a circle of white flowers in her hair. She’d told Eliza that she’d planned to wear it down, but Eliza, her face turning fiery red, had stuttered and stammered and finally spit out that Grandfather had given her specific orders to make sure Jemma’s hair was up and tamed. If she didn’t make it so, Eliza would likely hold the record for the shortest-employed lady’s maid to ever work in this home. Jemma had relented at once. She may want to shock and dismay Lord Glenmore when she met him at the ball tonight, but not at the expense Eliza’s job.
“I’m finished,” Eliza pronounced, handing Jemma the looking glass. Despite herself, Jemma smiled. Eliza had indeed tamed her hair and made it look quite lovely. Jemma complimented her profusely while Eliza helped her get into one of the ridiculous white, frothy gowns her grandfather had ordered made for her and Anne some time ago. The only thing good she could say about the gown was that the color white did not flatter her one bit. In fact, it made her freckles contrast vividly.
My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) Page 6
