To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(6)

Some of the tension left Miles' shoulders.

At last, they reached the waiting carriage and the marquess effortlessly  shifted her inside the conveyance. His broad, powerful frame swallowed  up the expansive carriage. He paused, their gazes locked and another  shock of energy passed between them. "Philippa," he said for her ears  alone.

And then he ducked out of the carriage. An inexplicable rush of  disappointment went through her at the loss and she gave her head a hard  shake. Silly thoughts. And she was never, ever, ever silly.

Moments later, her daughters and their nursemaid occupying the opposite  bench, the driver closed the door. As the elegant black barouche rocked  forward, she pulled back the edge of the curtain and stared after the  retreating marquess. He, in their brief, chance meeting, had shown more  interest in her daughter than her late husband ever had.





Chapter 4


After carrying Philippa to her carriage, Miles returned for his mount.

The chance meeting with the lady with midnight curls, thoughts of the  quiet young mother with her expressive eyes, swirled around his mind.  Unwelcome thoughts. One about the lady's bow-shaped, crimson lips and  trim, delicate figure. Thoughts he had no right having of her, given the  lady's status as a married woman. For even as most lords took their  pleasures with unhappy wives, Miles had never been that man. He'd never  been a rogue or rake or deliberate charmer. Mayhap that was why ladies  of the ton had never clamored for his notice.

As Miles gathered his reins and made to climb astride and resume his  previously interrupted ride, something from the corner of his eye caught  his notice. Reins in hand, he walked over to it. Faith's leather bound  volume of The Little Glass Slipper lay forlornly forgotten beside the  spot Philippa had fallen.

Miles quickly retrieved it, studying the gold lettering on the front of the tome.

Who was Lady Philippa? His own mother, devoted to her family though she  was, had never done something as outrageous as gallivant through Hyde  Park. And certainly she hadn't read to her children. No, there had been  nursemaids and tutors to properly attend her offspring. From two  exchanges alone, Philippa had shown herself to possess more unrestrained  love and emotion and there was something beautiful in that  unwillingness to prevaricate.

Miles tucked the small book inside his jacket.

Abandoning his hope of a distracting ride, he mounted Whisper and made  for his Mayfair townhouse. As he guided his horse from the park, through  the awakening streets of London, the memory of Lady Philippa's full,  crimson lips tempted him. Taunted him. And he thought of all the wicked  things he would do with-Miles swallowed a groan. Enough.

Reaching the front of his ivory stucco townhouse, Miles drew on the reins.

The dutiful servant, Gavin, came forward to collect Whisper.

"Gavin, a good day, isn't it?" he asked as his feet settled on the pavement.

"Lord Guilford," the older groom with his white, more than slightly  receding hairline smiled. "You are late." Such a statement came from a  man who'd long, long ago learned Miles' daily routine in London of  riding early; a routine he'd not deviated from … not even during the  winter months.

He grinned. "I was detained." Thinking of another man's wife. He made a  sound of disgust. Doffing his hat, Miles took the handful of steps two  at a time and sailed through the front entrance as the butler opened it.  "Terry," he greeted, tossing the article to the other man who easily  caught it.

"My lord."

With excited energy thrumming inside, Miles whistled and made his way  through the townhouse to the breakfast room. He stepped inside and his  whistling tune trailed off for a discordant, weak finish. His youngest,  unmarried sister, Lettice, sat at the table, staring at him.

He caught her gaze. Go, she mouthed. "Er … " Miles briefly eyed the door and then wheeled around.

"Miles?"                       
       
           



       

Swallowing a sigh, he shifted his direction and made his way to the sideboard. "Yes, Mother?"

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, as he piled his plate with eggs, bacon, and sausage.

"My breakfast?" he drawled, not deigning to glance at his perturbed mother. "I am having-"

"Not your morning meal, Miles," she said sharply as he turned around.  She gave her daughter a pointed stare and Lettice promptly surged to her  feet.

He silently cursed. So it was to be one of those mornings. Miles stared  after his quickly retreating sibling with no small degree of envy.  Usually, the only thing that set their mother off on such a temper was  the unwedded state of her children. The remaining three of her children,  that was. Alas, one of them did reserve the majority of that  displeasure.

"I asked you, what is the meaning of this news?" his mother repeated, brandishing a note at her side.

With deliberate, methodical movements, he snapped open his white linen  napkin and placed it on his lap. "I daresay I've no idea what you are  talking about, Mother." And he didn't. Usually, he did. But he was never  one of those, nor had he ever been one of those rogues whispered about  in the papers so, usually, her displeasure just had to do with his still  unwed state.

"Well, I expect this from your brother. He is a shameful rogue who  cannot be bothered to leave his clubs and bachelor residence. But you?"  In a very unladylike display, his mother tossed the ivory vellum at him.  It landed with a thump beside his plate. "You are no rogue." Yes, she  was right on that score. But there had been something decidedly  wonderful in holding Lady Philippa's delicate foot in his hand.

Ignoring the page, he picked up his knife and the flaky, white bread off  his plate. "I am not in the mood for your games, Mother," he drawled,  buttering the bread. He'd much rather think about the lovely Lady  Winston with her guarded eyes. What made a woman so cautious? And why  did he have this desire to know?

"Then mayhap you are in the mood for this?" she carped and brandished  that same folded sheet. "It is a note from the Viscountess Lovell." He  paused, mid-bite. Viscountess Lovell, one of his mother's many second  cousins. The two women, both mothers to twins and also three unwed  children had struck up quite the friendship over the years. Nor had  either of them been discreet in their intention to see Miles wed the  viscountess' oldest daughter, still unmarried at eight and twenty. In  fact, an understanding of sorts had been reached between those women. "I  see I have your attention now," she retorted. "What were you doing in  the park with an Edgerton?"

He furrowed his brow, his mother's unexpected question throwing him off  course. An Edgerton? And here he'd been thinking her displeasure stemmed  from the striking beauty in the park. "What in blazes is an Edgerton?"

His mother closed her eyes and her lips moved as though in prayer. When  she opened them, impatience sparked in her gaze. "The Edgerton family.  The men are rogues who marry scandalous creatures. The daughters are  deplorable."

He tightened his mouth. As devoted as she'd proven to her children  through the years, his sole surviving parent had long put rank and  respectability above all else. And given his still unwedded state at  nearly thirty, he'd earned her greatest frustration. "I do not  personally know the Edgerton family," he said between tight lips and  motioned a servant forward. "Nor if I did, would I be in the habit of  defending my connection to those people, as though I were a child." He  held out his glass for the footman, who filled his glass with steaming  coffee and backed away.

His mother opened and closed her mouth. "You do not know the Edgertons, then?" Suspicion laced her question.

Miles blew on the contents of his glass. "I do not."

Furrowing her brow, she reached for the paper and folded it closed. "My  apologies," she said in an unexpected display of remorse. Some of the  tautness left her shoulders as she sat back in her seat. "I should trust  Alaina's sources are not always correct." Ever correct. "I will tell  her." She let loose a relieved laugh. "Of course you'll not deviate from  the pledge to marry Sybil."

The pledge. That long ago promise to his mother, he'd made years earlier  that if he was unwed at thirty, he'd marry the viscountess' eldest, now  spinster daughter, Miss Sybil Cunning. He shifted in his seat. Odd,  with that inevitable date rapidly approaching, that long-ago pledge sent  unease tripping in his belly.                       
       
           



       

"Why are you doing that?" With a renewed wariness, she leaned forward in her seat.