To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(3)

Alas, there would have to be others Chloe maneuvered into marriage. "My  husband is dead," Philippa said with a solemnity that dimmed the  mischievous sparkle in her sister's eye. She managed a smile, grateful  as her maid approached with a silver satin dress. Desperate to be free  of her sister's probing stare and words, she set her a task. "Will you  see the nursemaid has the girls readied?"

"Of course," Chloe said. She opened her mouth. Please do not say  anything else on my husband. And perhaps, their thoughts had moved in  some kind of harmony, for Chloe left.

As soon as the door closed, Philippa's shoulders sagged. Where she was  concerned, her sister saw precisely what Philippa had allowed her to  see. Broken-hearted, widowed-too-soon wife. And as her maid helped her  change out of her long-worn widow's weeds, guilt stabbed at her for  perpetuating a lie.

Just as Lady Martindale did, the world had expectations of a widow. And  Philippa had played her part. Just as she'd done since Calvin drew his  last breath. Yes, she'd convinced even her family that she was a woman  desperately grieving the loss of her husband. But the truth was, ever  since Calvin's death, she'd never felt more alive. And she certainly  wasn't sad.                       
       
           



       

Not even a little bit.





Chapter 2


Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, preferred riding in Hyde  Park during the early morn and this nine o'clock hour belonged to him.  There was no nagging mother worrying about her four marriage-aged,  unwedded children. There were no marriage-minded young ladies seeking  his attentions. There were no headaches or hassles that came from being  forced to make insignificant greetings to other lords just for the sake  of propriety.

What there was on this particular day was a child in the middle of the  path. Peering down the gravel riding trail, Miles drew on the reins of  his mount, Whisper, and brought the chestnut to a quick halt. Of all the  blasted …  How had a child come to be alone in the middle of Hyde Park?

Particularly such a small child. It looked practically a babe to him,  but as a bachelor still at almost thirty years of age, the whole details  of those tiny persons were really beyond him. Furrowing his brow, Miles  skimmed his gaze over the horizon, looking for the attending nursemaid.  But for the morning birds taking flight overhead, the landscape  remained empty. With a click of his tongue, he nudged his mount into a  slight trot. Careful to not startle the child by riding up quickly on  her, Miles brought Whisper to a stop and swung his leg over his mount.  He swiftly looped the horse's reins about a nearby elm and started over.  "Hello," he called out as he strode forward.

Kneeling on the side of the riding path, a girl with tight, dark  ringlets and dressed in a fine white frock remained with her head bent,  while gathering yellow buttercups from the edge of the graveled trail. A  small book lay discarded at her side. By the quality of her satin  skirts, she belonged to a respectable family. His frown deepened and he  glanced around once more. What manner of nursemaid lost her charge? And  what in blazes was he to do with a lost child?

Miles stopped beside the girl and she glanced up. "Hullo." She smiled and returned her attention to the small flowers.

Doffing his hat, he beat it against his leg. Why in blazes could he not  have brought Bainbridge with him? In addition to being his only friend  in the world, Jasper Waincourt, the Duke of Bainbridge, had the  distinction of being a father and he'd certainly know a good deal better  how to be with a lost, peculiarly silent girl. He looked around again,  hopeful that reinforcements were on the way-surely, someone had to be  looking for the child. All he had to do was wait for them to arrive.  When no much-needed nursemaid or mama came rushing forward, he dropped  awkwardly to his haunches. "Uh-do you have a mother?" he asked and then  grimaced. Of course she had a mother. The better question being, was  whether that negligent parent or servant were about. "Or, rather, do you  have a mother, here?" he amended.

The little girl hummed a discordant tune and tipped her head back and forth in time to her off-tempo song.

Miles shoved to his feet. At an absolute loss, he beat his hat hard  against his leg in tune to her singing. Now, what? His last dealings  with children had been two decades earlier when he'd been ten and the  last of his siblings had been born. Since then, beyond the Duke of  Bainbridge's two small children, he'd no interaction with those little  humans.

Even with his limited experience, he readily saw the folly in picking  wildflowers alone, in the middle of a riding path. Moving in front of  the girl, Miles again fell to his haunches.

The little girl paused and looked up. Surprise shone in her cornflower blue eyes. "You again," she blurted.

Despite the peculiarity of finding an unattended child, Miles grinned.  "Me, again." He nodded to the flowers gathered in her hand. "They are  pretty."

"Would you like to pick some with me?"

Miles tugged at his cravat. He'd wanted to ride his horse, which, of  course, in the midst of a nearly empty Hyde Park would have been vastly  more uncomplicated than picking flowers with a lost child. Nonetheless,  he sank to a knee, and proceeded to pick-

Incorrectly. "Not like that," she chided. The little girl swatted at his  fingers and the ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. "Like this," she  said, proceeding to demonstrate. "You have to pick the stem." She lifted  her head up and gave him a look.

Something was required of him. What was it? "Uh-"

"For the flowwwers," she said with an eye roll and by the faint  exaggeration of that single word, she'd found his flower-picking  skillset wanting. Then, she narrowed her eyes and gave him a frown.  "Don't you give your mama flowers?"

The only thing his mother desired from him was a suitable match with  Miss Sybil Cunning. "I have given my mother flowers," he settled for.  Years and years ago when he'd been a small boy. He grasped at what she'd  said. "And I take it these are for your mother?" Her absent mother.  Then, given the cold ways of the ton mothers, they generally didn't  accompany their offspring on outings to the park.                       
       
           



       

"Yes. To make her smile," she explained.

Something tugged at that thoughtful spirit. "Well, I expect they should  do just that," he said solemnly. "Perhaps you might bring them to her."  He paused. "Now."

The nameless child blinked and glanced about. Her eyes widened, giving  her the appearance of a frightened owl. Her lower lip trembled. It was  then he had confirmation of something he'd suspected from down the  riding trail. "Where is my mama?"

Blast. Well, there was no avoiding it now. Forcing a smile, Miles  straightened and held out a hand. "I expect we should be off to find  her."

She hesitated, grabbed her book, and then placed her spare hand in his.  The other clung tightly to the buttercups she'd gathered.

"Do you have a name?"

The little girl giggled. "Yes."

Miles' lips twitched. How very literal a child was; incapable of artifice that drove the world she'd eventually grow into.

"Do you?" she asked.

He paused and dropped a deep bow. "Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of  Guilford. And what is your name, then?" he asked. While guiding her down  the path, he worked his gaze over the grounds.

Another little giggle escaped the girl's lips.

"My name is-"

"Faith!" A cry sounded in the distance and startled the wrens from the  branches of a nearby elm. The birds took off into sudden flight.

Miles peered ahead, to where a woman sprinted down the riding path  tripping and stumbling over herself. She skidded to a stop before them,  landing hard on her knees. She dragged the girl into her arms and  knocked his hand free of the child's. The book slipped from her fingers.  "Faith," she said between her panicky, raspy breaths. The fine quality  of her gray satin skirts was not the type befitting a maid.

The mother. The midnight tresses and like cornflower blue eyes hinted at the familial connection.

"Where did you go?" the lady entreated.

"I was picking flowers," the child's words came muffled against her mother's chest.

The young woman drew back, searching a frantic gaze over the small  figure. "Do not wander away from me or Miss Cynthia," she demanded.  "Ever." The stern rebuke underscoring that utterance set the girl's lip  atremble.

An interloper on the reunion    , Miles shifted his weight back and  forth … when the lady looked up. The panicked terror receded from her  gaze, as she blinked up at him. She blinked again. And once more.  "Hullo," she said hurriedly and scrambled to her feet.