by Rose Pearson
“My son is most diligent,” he heard his mother say, a little surprised at her swift defense of him. “He has always taken the greatest of care when it comes to his responsibilities, particularly when the title came to him.” Her smile slipped and a sadness formed in her eyes. “My husband, the late Lord Galsworthy, would have been immensely proud of the man my son has become.”
Philip’s gaze softened as he caught his mother’s eye, finding her to be a good deal more gentle of late. Her words brought him both relief and happiness, glad to know that she did, in fact, think highly of him and that he had not let her down when it came to his responsibilities towards his title and his estate.
“Indeed,” Lord Bridgestone said with a meaningful glance towards Miss Weston. “We are very glad to have you join us here this evening, Lord Galsworthy.”
“Thank you,” Philip replied, his stomach tightening as he saw the dark glance sent his way by Lord Henry, whose smile had faded and whose eyes had narrowed as Lady Galsworthy had begun her kind speech about Philip’s attributes. He was relieved when the conversation moved onto something entirely new – the little Season that was soon to begin, and what exciting occasions there might be. He had no thought of the little Season, knowing that he ought to be married by then.
“When do you think to return to your estate?”
Seeing Lord Henry direct him another question, Philip sighed inwardly, aware of how Miss Weston was now, by this point, blushing furiously.
“I have no intention of returning to my estate in the near future,” he replied firmly. “I have a few matters to take care of here in London. In fact, I have to consider whether or not I will return at all this year. It may be the start of next year before I decide to reside there again for a prolonged duration.”
Miss Weston glanced at him before setting her eyes back down in her lap.
“You will remain in London for the little Season, then?” Lord Henry asked, as the conversation buzzed around them. “You have no urge to go to address your responsibilities at your estate, even after a full year of absence?”
His gut tightened and Philip had to make a concerted effort to hold onto his temper. This gentleman had no knowledge of him at all, and to be making such remarks as these were both rude and entirely inappropriate. “My steward is an excellent man and keeps me informed of all that goes on at my estate,” he replied quickly. “Besides, I have a responsibility to take care of my mother and she wishes to remain here for the little Season also.”
“I see,” Lord Henry murmured, his eyes now flashing with a thinly veiled dislike. “I too hope to remain in town. There are a few acquaintances I wish to further and one cannot do so from one’s estate!” He sent a warm glance in Miss Weston’s direction and, to Philip’s horror, he saw her give the gentleman a tiny smile.
A lump formed in his throat. Lord Henry had managed to elicit something from Miss Weston that he himself had struggled with ever since they had first met, even in the midst of what had been a horribly inelegant discussion. In fact, the first time he had seen her smile at him with such freedom had been the evening on the terrace, which he had then gone on to ruin entirely. He watched, helplessly, as Lord Henry quickly managed to strike up a conversation with both Miss Marianne Weston and Miss Harriet Weston, making them both smile and laugh in turn. He was quite forgotten, it seemed. Yet again, there was none of the awkwardness he had so often felt between himself and Miss Weston. In fact, the gentleman had such an ease in his manner that Philip felt quite sure that not a single guest here would be able to turn away from the man, should he catch them in conversation.
Watching Miss Weston, he saw how her lips were curving in an ever ready smile, how her eyes fixed on Lord Henry without any of the uncertain glances that so often had come Philip’s way. It was obvious to him that Lord Henry had a fondness for both ladies, although he was well aware of how often Lord Henry addressed Miss Marianne Weston over Miss Harriet Weston. His stomach dropped to the floor and he set down his fork, no longer hungry. In fact, he felt a little nauseous. This was not what he had thought this evening’s dinner would be. He had prayed that he would have the opportunity to speak to Miss Weston quietly, to explain to her his foolishness and his awkwardness, to beg her to forgive him – yet again – and to continue their acquaintance with the intention of proposing to her very soon. What he had not ever expected was to see another gentleman capture his betrothed with his smiles and his conversation, drawing Miss Weston away from Philip and towards himself.
Are you truly going to propose to her, knowing that you would only make her miserable?
His pain and jealousy bit at him, hard. If he were to propose, as she had asked, then he would be tying them together for the remainder of their days. He would never be able to bring her such joy as was evidenced here, for, thus far, he had only made her miserable, hurting her with his words and turning her away from him entirely. If he was to propose, then the wedding would take place in a few short weeks with no opportunity whatsoever for him to change his mind – or for Miss Weston to change her mind either. In fact, she had even less opportunity than him, given that her reputation would be irreversibly damaged if she thought to break off their engagement entirely.
What was worse was that he now realized that he was eager to be as comfortable as Lord Henry was with the lady. He felt a desperation growing within him, such as he had never felt before. Part of him wanted to rise from the table, to push Lord Henry unceremoniously from his chair, and to take his place, forcing Miss Weston to speak to him so that they might attempt to find a way together.
But he knew that would not only be mortifying for them both, but might, in fact, bring even further difficulties. His heart and mind were going from one place to the next, clouded with indecision and anxiety. He wanted to do what was right by Miss Weston and that included considering her future happiness.
Philip wanted to put his head in his hands right there at the dinner table, such was the depth of his unwanted and confusing thoughts. To see Miss Weston so happy in conversation with another gentleman only revealed to him just how poorly he had done thus far. To see her now, smiling and laughing with the same freedom in her expression as he had seen in her at the park when he had first arrived in London tore pieces out of his soul. It was as if he realized too late that Miss Weston was, or could be, a truly wonderful wife, had he only taken the time to talk with her, to further his acquaintance with her. Why had he shied away from it? Yes, he had been afraid and yes, he had not wanted to marry someone his father had simply forced on him, but that was no excuse for his lack of effort. The truth was, he had not needed to run away to India. Had he any courage at all, he would have remained in London and done his duty to Miss Weston as he ought. Perhaps then he would have realized just how blessed he would be to have her as his wife.
Mayhap it was all much too late. He could fall on his knees before her and declare that he had been weak, that he had been a coward, but that he was more determined than ever to prove himself to her. He could tell her of his envy, of his jealousy which had stung him almost incessantly all evening. Would that make her consider him again with fresh eyes? Would she be willing to set aside his past behaviour and see the man he was trying to become?
“Lord Galsworthy?”
Managing to contain his surprise with an effort, Philip turned his attentions back towards Lord Bridgestone, who was looking at him with a broad smile plastered on his face.
“Yes, Lord Bridgestone?” Philip asked, aware that most of the guests had quietened their own conversations in order to listen to their host.
Lord Bridgestone’s smile was bright, his eyes glistening as he glanced from Philip to his daughter and back again. A heavy weight settled in Philip’s stomach.
“I thought, since you are only just returned to England, that you might wish to say something,” Lord Bridgestone replied, as though this was quite the done thing at a gathering such as this. “A toast, perhaps?”
Dread ran all through
him, a sheen of sweat appearing immediately on his brow.
“A toast, Lord Bridgestone?” he enquired, feeling quite certain that he knew what Lord Bridgestone expected.
“Indeed,” the gentleman replied, gesturing for him to stand. “Speak as freely as you wish, good sir.”
Philip rose to his feet feeling a little unsteady, quite unsure as to what to say. It was more than obvious that the gentleman expected him to use this supposedly delightful opportunity to propose publicly to Miss Weston but given what Philip had just seen of her interactions with Lord Henry, he felt entirely unable to do so. In fact, he could not even look at her, hearing the silence fall across the room. Every eye was on him, an air of expectation settling on each and every guest. Philip’s mouth went dry and, realizing that he had not picked up his glass, he attempted to do so, almost knocking it over in the process.
A chuckle came from Lord Henry, unsettling Philip further. His face burned with mortification as he cleared his throat, not quite sure where to look. The silence lingered for a little too long, making the guests expectations change into a growing awkwardness that burned into Philip’s mind. He could not think what to say, was not even certain that his voice could be trusted to speak whatever words he eventually chose.
“Lift your glasses, everyone.”
Philip shot a glance to his mother, who, in her calm, clear voice, had broken the tension and had allowed Philip a moment to himself to gather his thoughts as the guests made sure they each had their glass in their hand, with some requiring their glass to be filled again before they could continue. Philip let out a slow, quiet sigh of relief, finally able to think coherently again. He could not propose to Miss Weston, as Lord Bridgestone expected, not here at this very moment and certainly not when he was no longer certain it would be either right or fair for the lady. Therefore, he would have to think of something else to say, something else with which he could make a toast to.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, relieved that his voice was neither weak nor hoarse. “I am recently returned from India, as you all know. I am truly overwhelmed with the welcome I have had since I returned, including this evening’s wonderful dinner.” He smiled at Lord Bridgestone, who inclined his head but did not smile, seemingly a little puzzled.
“There are several things I still have to consider and a good many decisions which must be made now that I have resumed the responsibilities of the estate and title, but I am quite sure that I will have no difficulty in doing so, not when I have such wonderful friends and family to support such endeavours. Therefore, I would raise a toast to you all, for your warm welcome and your continued friendship. I am glad of it all.”
The guests all appeared rather taken with this and smiled, lifted their glasses, and then took a sip, allowing Philip to return to his seat. He could see, from the way that Lord Bridgestone was looking at him, that he was not particularly pleased with the speech and the toast, given that he had evidently expected it to be directed towards Miss Weston. His mother was smiling at him gently, her expression one of understanding. He saw her lean towards Lord Bridgestone and begin to discuss things in low tones whilst the other guests returned to their conversations, and Philip prayed that she would be able to remove any frustration from Lord Bridgestone’s mind so that he would not have to deal with the gentleman later. There was too much weighing heavily on his mind for him to have any further conversations which would require any sort of explanation of his lack of willingness to propose outright to Miss Weston.
The rest of the dinner seemed to take an age. Philip said very little to anyone else and was thoroughly relieved when the ladies rose from the table in order to leave the gentlemen to their port. He had no intention of remaining at Lord Bridgestone’s house for very much longer. Once the remainder of the evening’s events began in earnest – most likely singing, music and mayhap even some dancing – he would remove himself and return home. If anyone asked him, he could simply claim that he was still recovering from his journey home, which he was quite sure everyone would accept without question.
His heart was sore, his mind was clouded. He longed for home, for the silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. He did not want to be here, not when he knew that he could not make Miss Weston as happy as Lord Henry did. He had realized his need for her too late. He had behaved foolishly, speaking without consideration, and was now bearing the consequences of such behaviour. Whose fault was it other than his own?
The thoughts did not leave him, long after he returned home to his own bedchamber. Even as he lay on his bed, attempting to let sleep take him, his mind would not let go of her. How he longed to see her as she had been that day at the park, with her sparkling eyes and gentle smile! Why could he not bring that joy out in her? Why could Lord Henry so easily manage to do what he could not? And why did the desire to know Miss Weston better refuse to leave him when he already felt as though it was much too late for that?
The vision of her standing before him on the terrace, laughing at a remark he had made, still clung to his mind. That was the lady he wanted, that was the lady he desired to know. No longer did he feel resigned to their marriage, no longer did he feel compelled to turn and run from it. No, he wanted to further his acquaintance with her, to consider their future together, turning towards her instead of running from her.
“And it is much too late.”
The words echoed through his mind, a cold hand of fear clutching at his heart. He could not let her go, not yet, but neither could he tie her to him forever. The decision would not come, his heart was not settled. It remained torn, agonizingly painful, and Philip finally fell asleep, still in an utter quandary over what he ought to do.
Chapter Ten
Marianne smoothed her gown with trembling hands, more than a little anxious about what her father would say to her. Having been summoned to his study, she had very little doubt as to his mood, aware that he had been utterly silent last evening on their drive home.
“Come in, Marianne.”
Closing her eyes, Marianne swallowed the ache in her throat and, attempting to put a smile on her face, stepped into the study and closed the door behind her.
“Yes, Father?”
To her utter astonishment, he smiled at her, beckoning her over to the two chairs by the fire. When she moved towards him, he took her hands in his and pressed them tenderly, shaking his head as he did so.
“My dear girl,” he murmured softly. “How do you fare this morning?”
She did not know what to say, such was her surprise. Her father had never shown such consideration to her emotional state before and, having expected him to be either outwardly furious or white-lipped with inner rage, she felt almost entirely overwhelmed with his consideration of her.
“You are still upset,” he continued, pressing her hands. “Do come and sit down, my dear girl.”
“Thank you, Father,” Marianne managed to say, sitting down carefully, and settling her hands in her lap. “I confess, I thought you would be more than angry with me considering Lord Galsworthy’s lack of attention towards me.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “I would not be angry with you, Marianne,” came the reply. “Why should you think so? It is not anything you have done.” His lips tightened, his eyes a little angry as he spoke. “From what Harriet tells me, Lord Galsworthy did not so much as send you a note when he arrived back in London!” Returning his gaze to her, he sent her an inquiring glance. “Is that so?”
Rather thankful that her sister had evidently been talking to their father in her defense, Marianne nodded. “It is, Father.”
“I cannot understand it,” her father frowned, rubbing his chin as his expression grew confused. “Nothing has changed, for the betrothal still stands. He has not spoken to me about any changes he wishes to make and, therefore, I have no doubt that he intends to wed you. However, even though he was given ample opportunity to propose to you both at his celebration and now at the dinner, he has chosen not to do so! I cannot u
nderstand it and I confess, my girl, that I find it a little insulting.”
You are not the only one who feels that way, Marianne wanted to say, but wisely chose to remain silent, given the dark expression on her father’s face.
“I think I shall have to say something,” her father continued, glancing back at her. “Unless you have already had a private conversation with the gentleman and know something that I do not?”
Marianne shook her head, half wishing that it was so. “I am afraid not, Father.”
“Then I will have to speak to the gentleman,” he continued, shaking his head. “I have also become aware, Marianne, that Lord Henry appears to be quite taken with you.” Seeing her immediate blush, he sighed heavily. “I thought it was to be a match for Harriet, but…” Trailing off, he rose from his chair and wandered to the window, evidently deep in thought. “Lord Henry is not, by any means, an unwelcome gentleman. He is titled, wealthy and would make you an excellent husband. The problem is, my girl, that you are already betrothed.”
“I am aware of that, Father,” Marianne replied hastily. “I have not encouraged the gentleman, I swear to you.”
Her father held up one hand, stemming the flow of words from her lips. “You have been nothing but polite and engaging with everyone, I am well aware of that. Again, you need not fear that I will think badly of you.” Tilting his head, he looked at her steadily for a moment, his gaze severe. “Am I that much of a tyrant, Marianne?”
