Her earlier anger at his callousness faded, replaced by searing regret. They would have been happy together, and now, that bliss was lost to her. He would find some exquisite, unmarred bit of loveliness to wed, and she would settle on whichever man she could most stomach for the rest of her life.
“Perhaps some sixth sense alerted me, and that’s why Philomena enchanted me when I saw her just now.” He flicked a hand in her direction, though his attention never faltered from Giles.
“My sister is not some fast wench you can dally with.” Hand shaking, Giles stripped off a glove then whacked Bradford’s face, the slap echoing in the enclosure. “I demand satisfaction.”
“Giles, no!” This was a damned fine turn of events. All because she hadn’t the backbone to stand up to Mr. Wrightly.
Bradford cupped his cheek. “The devil you do. Are you dicked in the knob? You can barely stand upright.”
Philomena pushed her way between the men and pursed her mouth. “You’re being utterly absurd. Please, let’s leave, before this situation becomes any more ludicrous.”
“It’s my responsibility to protect you, Philomena. I may not have long left on this Earth, and I may be as weak as a suckling runt, but by God, I shall see you properly married and set up in your own home before I cock up my toes.”
Her eyes misted. He championed her, even sick as a cushion.
Giles swayed and stumbled forward, bumping into the arbor and sending a shower of leaves and petals cascading down upon them.
“Giles!” Something was definitely wrong.
Was there a physician in attendance? Perhaps their hosts could recommend one to her. He needed immediate attention.
“What’s this?” Bradford swiftly steadied him. “Are you ill, Pomfrett?”
Giles yanked free and laughed, the rasping bitter and hollow. “No. I’m not ill. I’m dying.”
Stunned silence reigned for a pregnant moment.
“My God, you cannot be. You’re only ... what? Seven and twenty?” Forehead puckered, Bradford sent Philomena a beseeching glance. “Consumption?”
Sagging against the lattice, Giles half-closed his eyes. “No. Scarlet Fever. Untreated. Damaged heart. I won’t see another Christmastide.”
“I’m truly saddened beyond words.” Neck bent, Bradford inhaled a hefty breath and rubbed his nape as if overcome with emotion. “Are you sure? I could arrange to have another physician examine you, if you would allow it.”
“Won’t change anything,” Giles said with a rueful slant of his mouth. “I’m as good as gone.”
Philomena stifled her agonized protest at his declaration and turned her head away to swipe at the confounded tears that insisted on seeping from her eyes despite her best efforts. “Enough of this wretched talk. I won’t hear it. We’re going home. Now. And I’m sending for a physician, no matter what you say, Giles.”
Surely someone with the manor could recommend a competent fellow whose fees she might afford.
Slouching further into the brace’s support, he shut his eyes and shook his head. “No. Either Kingsley meets me on the field or ...”
Thank God, he had another option besides a confounded duel. Relief weakened her knees, but she managed a tremulous smile. “Or what?”
He slowly opened his eyes, and the bleak despair warring with desperation sliced straight to her soul. “Or he marries you. It’s his choice which he does on the morrow.”
Chapter Four
Bradford snapped his head up, his jaw drooping. He didn’t see that coming, and he should have. “The devil I shall. Your illness has you talking nonsense, Pomfrett. I’m in agreement with Philomena—”
A bolder moonbeam lit Philomena’s stunned countenance, and she hastily averted her face.
“She’s Miss Pomfrett to you.” Pomfrett pulled his spine straight and faced him, although he swayed like a tree during a storm’s onslaught.
Bradford couldn’t help but admire Pomfrett’s devotion to his sister, though somewhat misplaced. Demanding satisfaction or marriage ... Over a kiss. An eager, willing kiss, at that.
It wasn’t as if he’d been caught with his hand up her skirt. Typical tonnish overreaction, except Pomfrett hadn’t been raised amongst the upper ten thousand, and Bradford had never known him to be the dramatic sort. Guilt stabbed him. If Wimpleton hadn’t already offered Olivia marriage, Bradford would have demanded he do right by his sister too.
That made him the worst sort of hypocrite.
“I’ll have my satisfaction. You will—” Shaking a finger at him, Pomfrett suddenly choked on a gasp then clawed at his chest.
“Oh, my God, no!” Philomena lurched forward, trying to catch her brother as he slumped. “What’s wrong?”
The terror in her voice congealed Bradford’s blood. Pomfrett spoke truthfully; he wasn’t long for this world.
Bradford reached him first, managing to prevent her brother from plowing into the pavers. Illness had ravaged his sparse frame, and Pomfrett weighed little more than a woman.
“Philomena, hurry to the house and request Wimpleton send for a physician.”
“No, no.” Pomfrett shook his head. “I just need to sit. I know better than to become overwrought.” He tapped his chest feebly. “The ol’ ticker doesn’t like it. Blood doesn’t flow like it ought.”
Philomena came round to Pomfrett’s other side and, after wrapping her arm about his waist, helped Bradford lead her brother to the bench at the rear of the enclosure. Bradford might have carried him to the house but feared wounding Pomfrett’s pride.
Once he’d taken a seat, Philomena set to loosening her brother’s neckcloth. Bent over him, she brushed his pale hair off his forehead and presented Bradford a delightful view of her rounded backside.
“Please let Bradford send for a doctor. I would feel ever so much better.”
Did she realize she’d addressed him by his given name? He’d never thought to hear his name on her pretty lips again, and pleasure coiled around his ribs.
God, he’d missed her musical voice, the graceful length of her creamy neck, the way she wrinkled her nose and cocked her head when deep in thought—her sultry laugh which could cause the most staid person to smile.
“There’s nothing to be done, Phil. I shall be fine. Just give me a few minutes.” Pomfrett patted her cheek before resting his head against the arbor’s wall. “The leech would want to bleed me in any event, and I’m not forfeiting another drop of blood to cure my ill humors. Leaves me nauseated and weak every time.”
Gracefully sinking onto the seat beside him, she took his hand. “I agree. Senseless practice, but perhaps he can prescribe something to calm you and help you sleep.”
“Laudanum? I think not. Leaves me wooly-headed, and I cannot abide the bittersweet odor. Gags me, it does.” Pomfrett grunted or cleared his throat. Hard to tell which. “I’d rather have a glass of fine Scotch.”
Something he likely hadn’t indulged in for a very long while. Bradford made a mental note to ask Wimpleton where he might procure a bottle or two of top-notch whisky.
Standing to the side, Bradford slanted his head. That Philomena and her brother held one another in the deepest affection was clear. What would he do if he were dying and Olivia had no means of support, no family to rely on? Wouldn’t he be just as frantic to see her provided for before he passed?
At two and twenty, some dolts might consider Philomena past her prime, on the shelf even, and Pomfrett had said she bore scars from the fire, hence her unique gown. If known, that made her an undesirable to most of the shallow coves seeking wives, further reducing her chance of acquiring a respectable match.
Just how badly had she been burned?
His stomach clenched into a gnarled mass that threatened to burst. The pain she’d borne ... God, it didn’t bear pondering. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth and a leaden lump in his throat. That his Phil should be reduced to accepting the hand of someone unworthy of her made him gnash his teeth.
Life prove
d savage to a woman without means or protection. London’s East End teemed with harlots, many from respectable backgrounds, who had been left with no recourse to avoid starvation other than to lift their skirts for coin. Such a life guaranteed disease and an early death.
Philomena would not suffer such a fate.
Tilting his head skyward, he drew in a long breath and searched the fragments of firmament visible between the arbor and greenery. Stars flashed and winked a millennium away, but none careened across the expanse.
The Almighty wasn’t doling out any more wishes tonight.
“So, what’s it to be, Kingsley? Pistols or the parson’s mousetrap?”
The air left his lungs in a whoosh, Pomfrett’s feeble rasp and failed attempt at humor unceremoniously plummeting Bradford back to Earth.
Philomena made an impolite noise, somewhere between a snort and growl, and plunked her hands on her hips.
Bradford hid a grin.
“Do stop, Giles! He shan’t do either. Leave off with that silliness, or I shall become quite cross with you.” Worry rather than censure tinged her words. Her eyebrows swooping upward, she sent Bradford an apologetic smile.
Such an expressive face. She’d always been so readable, her candid, wide-eyed gaze giving away her every thought. And outspoken too. She didn’t mince words, didn’t dance around pretext or use coy innuendoes. If she thought something, she usually said it.
“This once, I’ll bear your displeasure, my dear.” His mouth compressed into a stern line, Pomfrett stared at Bradford expectantly. “Well, what shall it be?”
No force in heaven or hell could compel Bradford to meet the dying man on the field of honor, especially not over a single kiss, and Pomfrett damn well knew it.
Nevertheless, what a way to re-enter Polite Society. Scarcely a week back in England and Bradford had been challenged to duel, not that he gave a ballock what others might make of it. An hour ago, he might have cared a mite for Olivia’s sake, but she was neatly betrothed now, so ... Cock a snook at them all.
Marriage hadn’t crossed his mind either, at least not for a good while, though his pesky title now obligated him to find a wife and beget an heir someday. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. What he wouldn’t give for a cheroot and a swallow—a bottle—of brandy.
Meshing his lips, he scuffed his shoe across the flagstone, the blood rushing in his ears.
Only one thing to do, fiend seize it, and he would only consider it because Philomena was the woman. She made the sacrifice worthwhile. He plowed his fingers through his hair and tried not to sneer the word, for her sake.
“Marriage.”
“I beg your pardon? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Philomena gasped and lurched to her feet, outrage fairly billowing from her in tense waves. She flapped her hand back and forth, gesturing between them. “We cannot marry. Most ridiculous thing I ever heard.” She touched her eyebrow and squinted her eyes as if her head hurt. “Completely preposterous,” she muttered, glaring at him. “I shall not marry you.”
Arms folded, Bradford crooked one side of his mouth upward, not the least surprised by her vehement denial though, her fervency did rather bite. “See there, Pomfrett. She won’t have me. That’s the end of it, then.”
Her refusal rubbed the wrong way—chafed his arse, truth to tell—even if Bradford hadn’t been thrilled about a forced union. Philomena had always been his choice for a wife, and now that she’d miraculously risen from the dead, the idea held merit. Great appeal, in truth.
Just not at this precise moment or under these circumstances.
Hell, who did he think he fooled?
He’d marry her tonight if she’d have him.
Bloody good thing his uncle already lay rotting, or Bradford would have choked the life from the worthless cull for lying about her death. And Pomfrett’s. The manipulating cur had suspected Bradford intended to offer for her, and even though he was only fourth in line for the title, wanted to ensure a lowly vicar’s daughter didn’t become Viscountess Kingsley. Why else would he have gone to such extremes to keep the truth from him?
Any sympathy Bradford had entertained about his uncle’s drowning fled on the cool breeze wafting into the enclosure.
Pomfrett pressed a hand to his forehead. “Phil, though I’m not keen on the idea of you marrying this bounder, you must admit, he’s far superior to the others.”
Indeed? How many others?
“And how is coercing him into marrying me better exactly?” She flung Bradford a brusque look.
Offering a puny grin, Pomfrett quipped, “He has all his teeth, and he smells rather nice.”
Her determined chin jutted up as she leveled him a withering look. “The Season is not yet over. I may still attract the attention of someone else.”
“Who can offer you a title, a fortune, and who you already know?” Bradford shook his head. They’d gotten on well before, and the misunderstanding about her death aside, he saw no reason they shouldn’t again. “I don’t think so. Phil, be sensible.”
“I am being sensible. I am not the naïve young girl I once was, and a title and fortune hold no allure for me. As for knowing you, youthful infatuation does not make a solid basis for a successful marriage, and I’d be a gullible fool for thinking otherwise.” She flicked a bit of something off her skirt. “The adults we’ve become know nothing of the other.”
Pomfrett valiantly pulled himself upright and faced her. “It would ease my mind greatly if you married Kingsley, and I would be spared further outings. They do rather test my stamina, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to manage. And Phil, the doctor advised rest, even taking the waters at Bath. That I cannot do until I see you wed.”
To admit to his weakness must have come at a tremendous cost to Pomfrett’s pride.
“I know, Giles,” Philomena whispered, folding her hands in her lap and tucking her chin to her chest, her voice thickened by tears. “I’m sorry to be a burden.”
Pomfrett gathered her into his arms and kissed her temple. “Stuff and nonsense. I never said you were a burden. I know you had deep feelings for Kingsley at one time, and that cannot be said of any of your others suitors. I’ve more of a desire to see you happy long after I’m gone then marched down the aisle with someone you can never care for.”
“I know you only have my best interests at heart.” Acute consternation turned her pretty mouth down, and she fiddled with her fan’s handle. Shoulders slumping, she released a long-suffering sigh. “I just wasn’t prepared to wed so unexpectedly.”
Bradford certainly understood that. Since learning that she lived a few moments ago, his thoughts clanged around his skull, helter-skelter, making it deuced impossible to form a coherent thought.
Married.
He gave a sardonic shake of his head. He’d been worried about Olivia’s reception this evening and what would happen when she encountered Wimpleton again. Egads, now it seemed he, too, was destined to marry his first love, only unlike Olivia and Wimpleton’s joyous match, his bride might choose him as the least undesirable of her suitors.
Rather humbling.
Bradford eased to the entrance, not only to give them privacy, but to check on the prattle growing ever louder. Others approached, and he’d rather have this conversation kept amongst the Pomfretts and himself. He folded his arms and crossed his ankles, leaning a shoulder against a supporting brace. Of its own accord, his gaze trailed to Philomena before he drew it back to rest on the signet ring circling his little finger. He couldn’t see the Kingsley crest or motto engraved there, but he’d heard it his entire life.
Misericordia et Fortitudo. Compassion and courage.
Philomena possessed both in abundance. He could ask for no finer viscountess, and even if her dress covered a myriad of unsightly scars, she was his choice.
“I propose we wait three weeks to wed. Olivia and I are currently staying with our aunt, the Duchess of Daventry, as my uncle let the Mayfair house.” Anything to gain a farthing or two
. “I need time to find us accommodations, since I’ve never been partial to the place and have no interest in living there. Three weeks allows time to have the banns read, and also eliminates gossip fodder.”
“I suppose that’s more acceptable, and,” Philomena extracted a kerchief from her bodice, “it’s not quite so rushed.” She dabbed at her eyes. Not ecstatic at the notion, by any means.
“No.” Pomfrett shook his head. “It is not acceptable.”
“But, Giles ...” She slowly lowered her hand, confusion and chagrin warring in her eyes.
He waved her off with a curt flip of his wrist. “I must insist you wed Philomena tomorrow by special license. If I die within the next three weeks—” A strangled cry escaped Philomena, and Pomfrett patted her knee before continuing. “Mourning protocol would require her to wait at least a year to wed. That I cannot—shall not—allow. She has no funds to live on and nowhere to go.”
Her cheeks dashed scarlet, she majestically lifted her head. “That’s none of his lordship’s affair. I should manage somehow.”
Ah, here came the formality. He’d been Bradford till now.
“How, pray tell?” Frustration and desperation hardened Pomfrett’s voice. “I’ve thought this through, from every possible position. If I die before you are wed, you are destitute, Phil.” He clasped her hands in both of his. “You know what that could mean. I won’t have it, I tell you.”
His voice broke on the last word.
Tears tracked down her high cheekbones, and it was all Bradford could do not to gather her in his arms and promise her anything she desired to dry her eyes and bring a smile to her beautiful face once more.
To allow Philomena and Pomfrett time to marshal their composure, Bradford dipped his head on the pretense of sniffing a fully-bloomed peach rose. He inhaled too deeply and sneezed.
“Even if I can procure an appointment with the Archbishop of Canterbury on the morrow, I still need time to find lodgings for us.” One suitable for his exquisite bride, though Aunt Muriel would offer to let them stay on with her, he’d warrant. Neither her son nor her daughter lived nearby, and, although she’d lick a blacksmith’s anvil before admitting it, she was lonely. “And you can bet your brass buttons the rumor mills will churn furiously if we wed so hastily when I’ve only been back in England a week.”
Her Scandalous Wish (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 3) Page 4
