He slammed down his glass with a growl and strode from the library toward the stables, the pointed sword of his ignoble birth suspended above his head.
He did not want a mistress.
He could not take a wife.
So, what was left?
He dearly wished his erstwhile father were still alive. Never before had he so desperately wished to strangle another man with his bare hands.
Chapter Four
Phillipa sauntered into her family’s parlor energized by the restful slumber from which she’d finally roused herself. She’d needed it badly, for her sleep had been dogged with nightmares these past few weeks. Not to mention the last two nights filled with dreams of a very different sort—featuring a pleasing pair of emerald-green eyes doing things to her that was far better forgotten.
This morning’s long slumber had been welcomed, despite missing breakfast. The only thing to mourn was her morning ride with her Aunt Florence, the Countess of Merryweather.
“Good afternoon, Mama.” She smiled at the fetching picture her beautiful mother, Katherine Augusta Peppiwell, crème de la crème of Boston society, made perched on the sofa nearest the windows with the sunbeams lighting her coiffed red hair with fire.
It was her mother’s routine to view the lords and their ladies as they strolled past the Peppiwell’s Mayfair town house.
Her mother poured a second cup of tea the moment she espied Phillipa, immediately launching into her favorite topic. “You must do everything in your power to secure a marriage, my dear. Your father and I are depending on you. Payton has gone and fallen in love with the Viscount St. John’s son. It may be years before he inherits the title.”
Phillipa faltered, and she rolled her eyes. She had no intention of ever marrying and it seemed her mama had no intention of not pressuring her to do so. “Mrs. Pettigrew wanted to know if lamb with lemon sauce would be acceptable for tonight’s dinner, Mama.”
“My dear, you must stop this penchant for ignoring everything I say about you finding a suitable husband,” her mother snapped, then raised the dainty china to her lips and sipped delicately—something completely unlike her.
Their foray into London society had changed them all into something Phillipa hated. She did not understand why her parents wanted to remain in London, but her mother and sisters loved it. They adored the glitter, the gossip, and the scandals that could occur over any small mishap, and bubbled with excitement over the few balls and soirees they had been invited to.
Doing exactly as her mother accused, Phillipa pulled a letter from the stack of newspapers and journals that had arrived earlier. Gladness and relief surged through her when she noted the bold scrawl of Brandon Thomas, her dearest friend. She sank into the sofa facing her mother to read.
“Are you listening to me, Phillipa?” The rattle of the china had her looking up to meet the turquoise eyes of her mother.
“Yes, Mama.” She slit the seal with the letter opener and read the missive carefully. Shock stabbed through her at the news it carried.
“Are you quite well? You’ve gone pale,” her mother said.
The letter slipped from Phillipa’s hand, and she stared blankly at her.
Brandon had gotten married.
She swallowed as pain tightened her throat. She did not love him as she ought to, but to know he’d so easily abandoned his promises to her, hurt. She stuffed the letter in her pocket and forcefully pushed him from her thoughts. “Mama, you know I do not wish to marry.”
“Phillipa,” her mother snapped, then swung a furtive gaze toward the footman who waited at the door.
Phillipa waved her hand, dismissing him.
Her mother lowered her voice. “You know that servants gossip, and it was Lady Prescott’s own butler who recommended him to us.” Her teacup and saucer clattered as she placed them on the walnut table that separated their sofas. “I can only imagine what she’d think if she found out—”
Phillipa cut off the tirade before it could start. “Mama, you know I cannot marry.”
“My dear, must you persist in referring to that unfortunate incident? We are all working hard to fulfill the plan my sister has drafted for you,” she admonished.
That unfortunate incident. Pain squeezed Phillipa’s chest, along with the shame her family kept insisting she should feel.
The door to the parlor swung open and Lady Merryweather waltzed into the room. She wore a bright purple riding habit with a matching hat. The rosy glow in her cheeks indicated she had just returned from her morning ride.
“My dear niece,” she gushed, pulling off her gloves.
“Aunt Florence.” Phillipa tilted her cheek for a kiss, frowning at the excitement that sparkled in her aunt’s eyes. They were a perfect mirror of her mother’s, and the only feature they shared as twins.