To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(4)

Miles sketched a bow. He opened his mouth to speak when the little girl piped in.

"Mama, this is Miles. He picked flowers for you."

He blinked and followed the ladies' gazes to the wilting bouquet in his  hand. Gifts between a lord and lady were forbidden. Even more so between  a gentleman and a married woman.

Color blossomed on the nameless lady's cheeks. "It is impolite to refer to a gentleman by his given name," her mother murmured.

"Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford," he supplied and turned  over the yellow buttercups. Surely improprieties could be forgiven for  the benefit of a child's happiness?

The lady hesitated, darting her wary gaze about. Did she worry about the  possible scandal should a passerby observe her receiving an offering  from a gentleman?

Her daughter tugged her hand. "Mama, you are being rude. He picked them for you."

The young woman lifted her eyes once more to his. The soft blue irises  momentarily froze him. When he'd been a small boy in the Sussex  countryside, so many summer days he'd lay on his back staring up at the  vibrant blue skies overhead. Her gaze harkened to summer skies and soft  pale waters. "Thank you," she murmured, jerking him back from that lapse  into madness. As she accepted the blooms, their fingers brushed and  even through the leather of his gloves, the heat of her naked fingers  penetrated the fabric.

Bloody hell. Miles let his arm fall to his side. He'd never been one of  those roguish sorts to lust after or bed another man's wife. He glanced  down at her wide-eyed daughter, staring up at him, and he forced a  smile. "I cannot fully take credit for the offering, my lady. I had a  most excellent tutor." The child giggled at the praise. "Thank you for  the lesson on how to properly gather flowers, my lady," he said. Faith  beamed and a radiant smile spread across her face. She was very much her  mother's daughter. Clearing his throat, he again turned his attention  to the midnight-curled mama. "I bid you good day, madam," he murmured  and turned to go.

"Wait." Her softly spoken request brought him around. She held her palms  up. "I did not properly thank you for helping my daughter."                       
       
           



       

"There is no need to thank me … " For some inexplicable reason that defied propriety, he needed to know the lady's identity.

The young woman sank into a flawless curtsy. "Philippa Gage, Countess of Winston," she murmured.

Lady Winston. He scoured his memory for remembrance of the lady or her  husband. With her midnight curls and full lips, he'd recall a woman with  a beauty to rival Aphrodite. Yet, he could not drag forth a single  memory of seeing the lady in any London Season. Stooping, Miles  retrieved the small leather book at the lady's feet and handed it over  to her. Their fingers again brushed and a rush of charged heat went  through him. Her breath caught on an audible intake. Did she too feel  that warmth? Drawing his hand away, he placed his hat on once more and  touched the brim. "It is a pleasure, my lady." He should leave. But he  hesitated, something kept his feet frozen.

Lady Winston held his stare; high-color in her cheeks.

"Come along, Mama," her daughter urged, giving the lady another tug.  That movement propelled the woman into motion and with another perfectly  executed curtsy, she turned on her heel and left.

Miles remained standing, staring after them, studying mother and  daughter. The lady hovered a hand on Faith's shoulder and spoke  animatedly to the girl. Periodically, the child would nod. Then, the  lady shot a glance back and their gazes collided once more.

A surge of awareness raced through him; an unexplainable, forbidden  hungering to know more about her. Only when mother and daughter  disappeared down a walking trail did it begin to subside. Giving his  head a bemused shake, Miles beat a path back toward his mount. For the  better part of ten years, his determined mother had been trying to match  him off to a respectable young lady. He'd had little urgency to make  one of those matches, because, well, there hadn't really been a pressing  need. Of course he would ultimately fulfill his obligations as the  marquess, but even if he did not, there was still his younger brother,  who'd admirably assume the role should something happen to him. In the  time since he'd left university, his friend, the Duke of Bainbridge, had  been married twice, suffered the loss of a babe, remarried, and  fathered two children. Yet, oddly enough, he'd not given thought of  himself as a husband. Or a father … beyond the obligatory end of his role  as marquess.

Thrusting aside thoughts of the young woman and her daughter, Miles  reached the spot where his horse lazily munched on the grass and  released his reins. Climbing astride, he nudged Whisper around and  guided him in the opposite direction. Finding a lost child and her  hauntingly beautiful mother was certainly enough excitement for the-

A sharp cry rang out. Heart hammering, Miles jerked on the reins.  Wheeling his mount around once more, he set out after the nearby call of  distress.





Chapter 3


Philippa was sensible. She'd long been practical and proper and demure.  It was those traits that had snared the notice of her late husband and  led to a predictable courtship and subsequent marriage.

Yes, she was hardly the manner of woman to note a towering,  ginger-haired gentleman with exquisitely sculpted features. And  certainly not the manner of woman who allowed herself to steal a glance  back for a final glimpse of said gentleman's perfect figure. Except, he  had rescued her wandering daughter … and picked flowers with her, and  surely a gentleman such as that warranted a lingering look.

Such intrigue was dubiously rewarded. She glanced back and promptly  stumbled. With a gasp, she fell sideways, coming down hard on her hip.  Her daughter's soft cry cut across her distracted musings of Lord  Guilford. "Mama!"

What in blazes had she stepped in? Philippa looked to her foot,  partially dangling inside a rabbit hole. Bloody rabbit hole. The  fairytale book she'd brought to read to her daughters lay mockingly  beside it. She really should have been attending where she was walking.

"Oh, Mama. You arrre hurt." Worry stretched out that syllable.

As she removed her foot from the hole, pain radiated from her ankle and  she moved it in a slow, experimental circle. "Not at all," she assured.  Seated on her buttocks, with her skirts rucked about her ankles, she  managed a smile. It was nothing other than her pride now smarting. It  was fitting that she was now so inelegantly sprawled in the trail after  being so gauche and clumsy in staring after a gentleman who'd been kind  to Faith. Philippa made to stand, when Cynthia's sharp cry cut across  the horizon.

The young nursemaid rushed over, shifting Violet in her arms. "Oh, my  lady," she cried, with a fervor more suited to a carriage accident than a  little stumble in the park.                       
       
           



       

She sighed. Then, she'd always been weak, pathetic Philippa, doing  exactly as people wished to keep everyone happy. Doted on by all. "I  assure you, I am fine," she murmured and once more made to stand, when  thundering hooves sounded in the distance.

They looked as one. Philippa's heart did a funny leap. He'd returned.

The Marquess of Guilford brought his mount to a stop. In one fluid  movement, he dismounted, tethered his towering horse to a nearby oak,  and strode toward their quartet. He dropped to a knee beside Philippa.  "Are you hurt, my lady?" he asked, in a mellifluous baritone that caused  her heart to speed up another beat.

Unable to drag forth words, Philippa shook her head and then glanced at  her ankles. She gasped and rushed to cover her exposed lower legs.

"My mama is hurt," Faith said, when Philippa failed to respond.

The marquess shifted his gaze from her feet and she braced for his  questioning. Instead, he moved his attention to the little informant.  "Is she, my lady?" he asked in gentle tones.

"Oh, yes. She stepped in a rabbit hole because she was not looking where she was going."

As her daughter proceeded to chatter like a magpie, Philippa cocked her  head. Never in the course of her life had a gentleman taken the time to  speak to her as a woman, let alone a small girl. Her own father, God rot  his soul, had been a dark devil who'd beat his daughters with the same  frequency he'd beaten his sons. As a woman, her elder brothers had taken  little interest in her future or her happiness, beyond the proper,  formal match coordinated by her eldest brother. And yet, here was this  man … a stranger, speaking to her child as though she were an equal, when  gentlemen tended to not see a child, and most especially not a female  one.