To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(9)

A small figure, a familiar figure, came racing down the corridor. "Miles!"

He smiled as Faith skidded to a halt before him. "My lady," he greeted, sketching a deep bow.

She giggled. "I'm not a grown lady, I'm just a girl." Nonetheless, she  sank into a flawless, very mature curtsy. Had life taught the girl that  maturity?

"Have you come to see my mama?" she asked with the guile only a child was capable of.

"I have," he answered, snapped out of his musings. "Though I expect you've seen she is well-cared for."

Faith gave a solemn nod. "Oh, yes." She wrinkled her nose. "She wouldn't  let the doctor come and check her foot. She says she is fine." Yet  again, images of Philippa's delicate slip of flesh in his hands, the  satiny softness of her skin, burned in his memory. I am going to hell.  There is nothing else for it. "She sent me abovestairs," the girl was  saying.                       
       
           



       

He furrowed his brow.

"To the schoolroom," she said by way of explanation.

"Ah, of course." As a child, he'd chafed at being shut away in those  miserable nurseries, preferring the invigorating Sussex air to the  closed-in rooms every previous Marquess of Guilford had lost countless  days to.

"Lessons on reading," she said with the same dejected tones of one who'd been deprived of a year's worth of dessert.

His lips twitched. With her flair for the dramatics she called forth  memories of his now married sister, Rosalind. "And what does your  governess have you reading that has you avoiding your lessons?"

"Lessons on propriety and decorum," she said in a high-pitched, nasal  tone which, he'd wager these last three weeks of his bachelorhood, was a  rendition of the nursery governess responsible for her tutoring. Then,  the girl flared her eyes. "But I heard you had come for a visit and I  sneaked away," she whispered and then stole a glance about.

Miles dropped to a knee and leaned close to her right ear. He spoke in a  conspiratorial whisper. "I was known to avoid my own lessons," he said  with a wink.

She blinked and shook her head. "What did you say?"

Miles creased his brow. "Uh … "

Color rushed to Faith's cheeks and she glanced down at the tips of her  toes. "You said it against my right ear. I cannot hear out of my right  ear."

A vise squeezed at his chest. She was partially deaf. Of course. This  was why she'd failed to hear his approach at Hyde Park and the questions  he'd posed. Missing just a beat, Miles angled his head and repeated his  admission in her opposite ear.

The little girl widened her eyes all the more, so they formed round  moons in her face. "My father said only terrible children skip their  lessons. He said proper, good children attended their studies."

Her father sounded like a miserable, stodgy bore. As soon as the thought  slid forward, guilt settled in. It was hardly fair to judge a man in  death. "I suspect there is much to be learned in visiting the park and  being outdoors, too, no?" he asked, instead.

She flashed him a gap-toothed grin. He dropped his voice to a  conspiratorial whisper once again. "And also from reading enjoyable  books about far off places." He fished her forgotten book from the front  of his jacket and held it out.

A small cry escaped the girl. "My book." She hurled herself into his  arms and he staggered back. "I forgot that I forgot it. And it is one of  my favorites. It is about a princess and prince."

Warmth filled his chest at that absolute lack of artifice. Aware of the  ancient butler staring, Miles set the girl away. "Off you go with your  fairytale then," he said with a wink.

Faith waved and, turning on her heel, skipped off. He stared after her a  moment and then fell into step behind the aged servant. At last, the  man brought them to a stop outside an open door and Miles did a quick  search of the room; his gaze landed on the delicate, slender lady  stretched out on the sofa. Even with the distance between them, her eyes  sparkled with some emotion-emotion he could not singularly identify,  but desperately wanted to. "The Marquess of Guilford," the old servant  announced.

"Joseph, would you see refreshments brought?" she asked.

The servant nodded and backed out of the room-leaving Miles and Philippa-alone.

"My lord," she welcomed in a soft, husky contralto that sent a bolt of lust through him. "Would you care to sit?"

Miles smiled and strode over, claiming the seat nearest her. "I thought we had agreed to move past the formalities of titles?"

"Very well," she conceded. "Miles." Her cheeks pinked, stirring intrigue  with a widow who blushed like a debutante. She stole a furtive glance  about. Did she fear recrimination over the use of his given name? His  interest redoubled. "I did not expect you to … " She turned crimson. "That  is … "

"I found a forgotten volume of The Little Glass Slipper and sought to return it."

"Oh." Did he imagine the lady's crestfallen expression? "That is, I  meant, thank you. For returning it and for coming to my aid this morn."

The young widow dropped her gaze to the embroidery frame in her lap.

"I also wished to ask after you, Philippa," he said quietly.

"I am well," she said automatically.

She fiddled with the wood frame, drawing his attention to the skillfully  crafted floral artwork on that white fabric. The delicate flowers, so  expertly captured, demonstrated proficiency with a needle. Only …  Miles  took advantage of the lady's distracted movements to study her. To truly  study her. The white lines pulling the corners of her mouth; the frown  on her lips as she glared at that scrap. Such details shouldn't really  signify. Not when he'd only come to return that child's book, which he'd  since done. Liar. You wished to see this woman before you now. "You do  not enjoy it, then?"                       
       
           



       

She jerked her head up. "Beg pardon?"

Miles hooked his ankle across his opposite knee and motioned to the  scrap of fabric on her frame. "You look as though you'd singe it with  your eyes if you could," he said with a smile.

Philippa followed his stare and then her perfect, bow-shaped lips formed  a small moue. She blinked and drew that frame close to her chest with  the same protectiveness of a mother bear defending her cub. "How … why … ?"

He leaned forward and dusted the backs of his knuckles alongside the  corner of her eye. "Here." The lady's breath caught. "You were frowning  with your eyes when you were staring at it," he said quietly. Drop your  hand. Drop your hand because coming here and putting your hands upon  her, in any way, is forbidden …

Her lashes fluttered and Miles quickly dropped his hand to his side. By God, what madness had overtaken him?



In the scheme of all that had transpired in the past handful of minutes,  Philippa should very well be fixed on the marquess' brazen, if  fleeting, caress.

And yet, instead, she was transfixed not by his gentle touch, but  rather-his statement. You look as though you'd singe it with your eyes  if you could …

Philippa ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. "I do not," she said softly.

Miles furrowed his brow.

"Enjoy it," she clarified. And with that admission, which went against  every ladylike lesson ingrained into her from the cradle, there was no  bolt of lightning or thundering from the heavens … and there was  something … freeing in it. A wistful smile pulled at her lips. "Do you  know you're the first to ever ask me that question?" Before he could  reply, she rushed on. "Of course, you couldn't possibly know that as  we've only just met. But you are. Correct, that is," she said, setting  aside the frame. And for that, she thanked him. For seeing past her  ladylike skill with that scrap and the well-built façade.

They shared a smile, as with his observation and her admission, a  kindred bond was forged. A connection born in actually speaking with a  person … something she'd never shared with her own husband. A thrill went  through her. This was the intoxicating stuff recorded on the pages of  those fanciful fairytales.

Miles glanced about the room and, for a moment, she believed he'd take  his leave and restlessness stirred in her breast. Then, she'd be left  here with the pitying stares and the sad glances and people who didn't  know she despised needlepoint and proper curtsies and false smiles. She  searched her mind, never more wishing that she'd been one of those  ladies skilled in conversing with all the right words. "Do you ride  often?" she asked tentatively. As he trained his eyes on her face, she  cringed. Do you ride often? That is the best that I could come up with?