by Eva Devon
It was most absurd, but there it was. She hoped that time would allow him to reconsider, but she could not force his strange thinking.
And in her experience, humans could have very strange thinking, indeed. They could convince themselves of the most absurd ideas and do the exact opposite of what was good for them.
Stubbornness did not help.
In fact, it only aided in one going down the wrong path and insisting upon staying on it, even when there were many, many signs that one was on the wrong path.
If she was honest, she was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next.
She knew if she pressed, it would make things worse.
No doubt, the more she insisted that Anthony give up his pursuit of misery and choose her, the more he would choose misery.
It was the most infuriating thing about the nature of humankind. The only thing she could really do was to love him and step back. And if he had to go? She now had to allow him to do so and come to the conclusion of his ridiculous decisions, himself. But what if he never did?
A sharp ache built inside her, and she had to take a slow breath to keep it from fully forming and causing her heart to beat at an unpleasant pace.
What if he spent the rest of his life pursuing justice, chasing Captain Adams? And in so doing, would he cut her out of his life? Would he cut that part of himself off that welcomed her?
Love.
What would she do with her own love if he cast his aside now?
Where would it go?
Would she carry it around for the rest of her days, wishing that she had someone to bestow it upon, but knowing she could not, since she’d given her love to Anthony and he had given it back?
Truly, she did not know what to do at present. Why did not life have some better-established guide as to what to do in such situations?
Her own heart was aching at the thought of that boy, Joe, and the pain Anthony had gone through to try to save him and then. . . to lose him.
It was heartbreaking.
Anthony had suffered more than she realized, and she knew that he’d suffered a great deal. It didn’t seem fair, the amount of suffering men had to go through in war, for they were not just fighting for their country or for their family.
They were fighting for each other.
And so, often, their friends in arms were lost.
She did not know how one could come back from that. She supposed that many never did. And certainly not easily.
The young man she’d first met in those pages that had traveled over oceans no longer existed, but that didn’t matter.
She loved Anthony. She loved everything about him because, each day, he had grown and increased in his nobleness and his desire to help people.
He had not grown less. The young man that she knew? He had merely been a stepping stone to the man he was today.
Phillipa took another sip of wine and wondered if she might have another glass before lunch.
That seemed like another scandalous thing to do, but she was throwing herself into scandal, and it did feel like a day that might warrant it.
It wasn’t common for her to have wine before lunch, and neither was it for Clara. They were young ladies, after all, and young ladies were not supposed to imbibe so early, but it was proving to be quite a day.
The entire last two or three days had been remarkably strange and full of events ranging from heartache to wonder to horror. . . And this morning had been particularly rich in its wide range of revelations.
She contemplated the ruby color of her wine.
Should she simply wait for Anthony or Merrill to return?
She hated that so much of a young lady’s life was waiting. Sitting or pacing, waiting in some room for some gentleman to take some action somewhere.
It was one of the reasons why she had come to Cornwall. She’d wanted to take action and forgo the passivity relegated to her sex.
Before she’d come to Cornawll? She’d simply no longer been able to bear more sitting about, waiting some more. . . For Anthony to do something.
So, much to her pride, she’d put events into motion. . . with the help of Clara.
Her desire to no longer be a victim of waiting was also why she’d helped her sister Augusta marry the Duke of Blacktower.
Action.
It was so frustrating to be denied it almost entirely based upon sex. Truly, it wasn’t fair that men dictated the arena of action. After all, more often than not, they were terrible at it! They did make such poor and often dangerous decisions!
Really, perhaps such a wonderful tool shouldn’t be left in the hands of men, but instead, given to ladies who would no doubt do much better things with the choice of action.
She took another sip of her wine.
Clara groaned then laughed dryly. “I cannot describe your face just now. I think we should have another glass, don’t you? My goodness, what a harrowing day.”
Clara stood, her pale-pink skirt spilling about her as she went to the decanter, picked it up, and easily filled up her glass again before bringing it over and filled up Phillipa’s.
“We are being an absolute scandal,” Clara said as she waggled her brows.
“That is just what I was thinking,” Phillipa said with as much cheer as she could manage. “But I suppose I’ve already begun a scandal, so we might as well go on with it.”
Clara nodded firmly. “I am so proud of you and your scandal. I only hope I shall be able to act as boldly one day. If given the opportunity.”
Phillipa groaned. “Oh dear, that was your brother’s great concern in sharing this with you, that you might go and do something as rash as I.”
“I only hope that I do,” Clara said, arching a brow before she took a long drink of her wine. “Look at the happiness you’re grasping for yourself.”
“I’m not entirely sure yet that it’s happiness,” she replied honestly, taking a deep drink. She savored the rich notes slipping across her tongue before adding, “But I hope it is.”
“It is,” Clara said firmly, raising her glass in a salute. “You make each other happy; there is no question about it. I see the way he looks at you and the way you look at him. It is only other circumstances that are making your lives difficult.”
“Yes,” Phillipa allowed, trying not to grow disheartened. “But other circumstances are always about. We are surrounded by difficulties, and I fear those shall prevent your brother-”
Clara shook her head and rushed in, “I can’t agree with your fears. Do not wait for the perfect moment. Your love will sustain you through all difficulties. While life is happening, the two of you shall always be able to look at each other and feel that love which so few get to experience.”
Phillipa gazed at her friend, feeling awe at the intensity of Clara’s proclamation. “Is our love really so very obvious?”
“Yes,” Clara replied frankly, her eyes wide with determination to make her point plain. “I cannot tell you how much so, and I am so glad I’ve gotten to witness it because. . . Well, I knew you two were writing letters and that you had an affection for each other, but I had no idea the extent of your passion.”
Clara blushed and batted her lashes. “Goodness, when I saw you two together this morning, it was as if there was a crackling fire between you two, and nothing could put it out.” Clara cocked her head to the side and declared as if she would not be gainsaid. “You belong together, Phillipa, and I am so glad you did not give up on him.”
“As he gave up on me?” Phillipa queried, arching a brow, finding it difficult to trust just now, with things in such chaos.
Clara stilled and contemplated that seriously. Her gaze grew dark with recollection.
“I don’t think he gave up on you; I think he gave up on himself,” Clara whispered, her voice shaky with emotion before she cleared her throat and continued, “And you being here reminded him he had something to keep going for, to live for, beyond just vengeance. Because if he’s living for revenge for a boy who�
��s died. . .”
“Oh, that poor boy,” Clara lamented. “Just vengeance? That will not sustain him in this life, not for years, and once he has that vengeance? What will he do then? He must have something more, something greater to live for, and I think it is you. I think it is the love you share. It makes him more, and it makes you more too.”
Phillipa eyed her friend, Clara, as if she had suddenly become a sage. She and Clara had gotten along well for years, but Clara had never spoken quite so boldly to her, so passionately.
“I’m glad you think so, Clara,” she said, her heart full and yet so vulnerable. “I hope it’s true, but I am afraid he may not be able to embrace or accept it.”
“We cannot know the future, dear friend. But I’ve never believed my brother to be a total fool,” Clara said firmly, as if assuring the both of them. “To forgo a future with you? Such a thing would be the height of foolishness and privilege on his part. How many people get to have a love like yours and his? And I do declare it to be love. I don’t think it’s a temporary passing or fancy or just the mere passion of a love affair. It is more. So much more.”
“Thank you, Clara. I think. . . We all need support and understanding, and Anthony needs someone to believe he can achieve his justice, but also to know he can have love. It is not one or the other. He needs to know that if he is not perfect, he is still worthy of love and that I shall love him whether his body is wounded or not.”
She scowled, looking for words to describe her tangled thoughts. “It’s as if he’s just picked one narrow path and refuses to see it’s actually quite wide and that it will take him to many possibilities and beautiful things and not just to one destination.”
Clara cocked her head to the side. “What an interesting thing to say, and how true.” She blew out a breath. “Don’t we all do that? Our narrow little paths, going to one little place? And we don’t realize how many remarkable things we will be exposed to and see along the way. Yes, we may trip and fall. There might be curves, there could be hills and valleys, but the wonders we will get to see even amidst the sorrows? This life is grand, and we must not focus on just the painful things. We must also focus on the sunrises and the sunsets and the rainbows that breathtakingly summits and the flowers that bloom before our very eyes. It is not all just storms,” Clara firmly.
“Why, my friend,” Phillipa observed, feeling terribly proud. “You are very wise. How did you become so?”
Clara laughed. She shook her head, blinking as if she’d been entirely lost in the declaration of her feelings. “I have no idea. I suppose it is all the novels I read.”
Phillipa laughed too, glad for a moment of levity. “Well, if one has to get wisdom, I suppose that is a very good way to acquire it, indeed.”
The gentle knock upon the door before the servant entered the room startled Phillipa. They were not expecting anyone or anything, and luncheon was still not for at least another half an hour, but she swung her gaze to the servant who stood before them in his green livery.
He gave a slight bow and said, “Excuse me, Lady Phillipa, but your father, the Earl of Harrowton, is here to see you.”
“My father?” she gasped, surprised. Her stomach dropped, and her fingers tightened about her glass. She did not like her father at all.
His presence actually made her feel quite uncomfortable, for he was an unpredictable sot. And unkind one too.
He enjoyed making his daughters feel terrible about themselves. He guilted them into believing his impoverished, reduced condition in life was their fault and that they should do their utmost to ensure his comfort and to take care of him.
He did not care if the actions he deemed his daughters need take were damaging. No, all that mattered was his own pleasure, his own needs. And the very idea that he would have come down to Cornwall to see her?
She shuddered inwardly.
What ever could he need? Probably money.
Blacktower had insisted he go abroad, but her father was not good at listening to rules. He still believed himself to be above such things, and well, now. . . If her father was here, no doubt he was hoping she would be able to wheedle funds out of Grey for him.
Such a thing was positively preposterous. She wished her father had a sense of limitation. But he did not. Nothing seemed to inhibit his requests for assistance. No matter how shaming.
He did not feel shame as far as she could surmise.
The truth was, Phillipa wasn’t about to ask Grey for money or support of any kind for her errant father.
She’d have to send the earl packing and firmly.
But she’d also have to be careful. For if he’d risked Blacktower’s wrath coming back to England to seek funds from his youngest daughter, he was growing ever more cornered, like an awful rat who was worried about being extricated by a terrier. She didn’t wish her father ill will, but she did wish he would not keep crawling back into her or her sisters’s lives.
His continual return made it quite painful and hard to thrive.
At least now, she was strong enough to know she could tell him to go to the devil. And that he couldn’t force her to anything. He might think he had the power. He might even try to use the law. . . But she was no longer friendless. With two dukes in her corner, the Earl of Harrowton was in check.
“Fine, then,” she said. “I shall see him. Take me to him, Tom.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Tom replied evenly.
Phillipa reluctantly set her wine down and stood. “Clara, I shall be back as quickly as I can.”
Clara looked distinctly concerned at the idea of leaving them together, for she knew a great deal about the Earl of Harrowton’s antics regarding his daughters.
“Would you like to invite your father to lunch?” Clara asked, her eyes wide with skepticism.
“No, he shall not be staying,” Phillipa stated flatly. “That would be the very worst of things. We shall have him gone in a trice, and if he refuses to listen to me, I’m sure he will listen to Grey.”
Clara laughed dryly before she reached out and squeezed Phillipa’s hand. “Oh, I’m certain that can be arranged. And we have a host of big, fine, strong male servants. We shall have him chucked out if necessary.”
Phillipa laughed too though she felt no mirth. “Thank you for that, dear friend.”
She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts and headed out into the hallway, following Tom, ready to confront her father.
She would tell him to go immediately and to not return, and that if he stayed or attempted to cause her difficulty, she would have to tell the Duke of Blacktower that he had violated the terms of his agreement.
And that? That would make his life very difficult, indeed, without the toleration of the Duke of Blacktower.
Tom stopped before the door. Reached out with his snowy glove, he took the brass handle in hand. He turned it easily and swung the panel open.
He gestured for her to enter. “My Lady, is there anything you require? Tea for you and the earl?”
“No,” she said, her shoulders squaring as she stiffened her resolve. “My father does not require tea. He shall go as quickly as possible.”
And with that, she faced the door, drew in a deep breath, and crossed over the threshold, ready to take a stand against the man who’d made her life almost entirely miserable.
Chapter 15
The man standing by the fireplace was most certainly not her father.
Phillipa came to a halt, her slippers pressing into the woven Persian rug. She stared at the man as her stomach dropped and the room seemed to spin about her.
She had no idea who this man was and no idea why he would make such a pretense as to declare himself to be the Earl of Harrowton.
His dark hair was lined with silver. His eyes were jagged black, and his skin was burnished to the point of leather. He looked as if he had been beaten by wind and sun, and that’s when it hit her.
A spike of dread and horror pierced her, stealing her breath and, for a mo
ment, all reason.
She blinked and collected herself. She’d need all her wits about her for this.
Of course, she knew who this was!
There was really only one possibility.
Someone who had practiced such duplicity and who was of such an age and of such a disposition?
Yes, there was only one conclusion.
For, the man stood as if he was a man in command. His shoulders were broad and back under his simple, yet elegantly cut black wool coat. His eyes shone with a strong intelligence but also. . . They were merciless as they penetrated her.
And they did penetrate.
They looked as if they were assessing her for any possible weakness, for any possible way he could manipulate and maneuver her to his advantage. It was a look she was all too familiar with. . . Except there was a particular ruthlessness she had not seen before.
This man had lived by the sword and was clearly prepared to wield it if necessary. His eyes bespoke a certain propensity to do violence. And to enjoy it.
His hands were clasped behind his back, and his legs were braced slightly apart as if he was attempting to maintain his balance like one did aboard a ship.
His breeches clung to strong legs, and white stockings shone like snow as they descended into polished black shoes with silver buckles. He was a man of distinction, certainly, but not a nobleman.
She could tell he was not a lord.
He didn’t have quite the right manner for it.
Oh, he could command, but there was still something missing. He cocked his head to the side. “Lady Phillipa?” he asked in clipped but perfectly gentlemanly tones.
And yet, there was a hard edge to his voice she could not deny.
No doubt, he was used to barking above the wind along the deck of his ship. She did not bother to incline her head or to curtsy. Instead, she merely acknowledged him with a simple, “Yes.” She paused, arching a brow. “And you, I presume, are Captain Adams?”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I see my reputation precedes me.” Captain Adams’ lip curled into a sneer. “He denigrates me to anyone he possibly can.”
