Which only stirred that slow-building annoyance with the life she'd lived these past five and twenty years.
Desperate to break that perfect calm, Philippa bent, grabbed the nearest stone, and skipped it onto the surface.
Or tried to.
The rock hit the water with a loud thunk and promptly sank. If the Dowager Marchioness of Waverly was scandalized by Philippa's recently discovered appreciation of Mrs. Wollstonecraft's work, seeing Philippa now at Hyde Park, hurling stones into the water would send the woman into apoplexy.
Philippa glared at that smooth lake; that mocking reminder of her being the vapid creature she'd allowed herself to be molded into. She couldn't even manage to skip a proper stone.
With a growl she plucked another stone from the ground and drew her arm back-
A deep, familiar baritone called from beyond her shoulder. "Have you ever skipped a stone before?"
Spinning, she shrieked and reflexively launched the stone. A horrified gasp exploded from her lips as it hit Miles squarely on his chest. "Miles," she cried, slamming her palm over her mouth. He is here. Why is he here? She swallowed a groan. Then … "I hit you with a rock."
Dismounting from his horse, he looped the reins around a nearby tree. "I daresay this is the first time I've ever been greeted by someone hurling rocks." Miles tugged off his gloves and gave a wry smile.
Horror filled her breast, threatening to choke her on embarrassment. "I am so sorry," she sputtered. "I was just … skipping stones." She gesticulated wildly and she, who was so guarded with words, found them flowing freely. "Or trying to. And … " What a blithering fool. She clamped her lips closed.
"I trust your ankle is well?" he asked, coming forward. A twinkle lit his eyes.
"Quite." Heat stole up her neck and stained her cheeks. "But do not tell my mother, as it will prove helpful for me to avoid certain activities."
"Then it wouldn't do for you to be discovered standing on the same ankle, lest it be reported back." He followed that conspiratorial whisper with a wink.
Just like that, all embarrassment at being caught skipping stones at the lake and failing miserably at the endeavor left her. An unadulterated laugh spilled past Philippa's lips. And how very wonderful it felt to laugh.
"Have you ever skipped them before?" he puzzled aloud.
She cocked her head and he motioned to the lake.
"It was deemed improper," she explained with another wry twist of her lips. How many years had she spent shaping herself into the dutiful daughter? And what happiness had that brought her?
"Ah, you are long overdue for a lesson then, my lady." Miles sifted through the pebbles littering the earth and tested one in his hand. "The secret is to find a flat, smooth stone." He pressed it into her gloveless palm and delicious shivers radiated from the point of contact. His touch was hotter than the late spring sun beating down on them. Her mouth dry, she curled her hand tight around the stone. Never in all her husband's quick, painful couplings had she known the thrill of heat as she did with this man's touch.
"Not too tight," he schooled, his grip firm but gentle upon her. How could he be so calm and unaffected while her heart raced at his nearness? "Like this," he explained, coaxing her fingers open. He drew her before him so they faced the lake, her back pressed to his chest. Oh, goodness. She closed her eyes a moment drawing in a deep, steadying breath. "Hold the stone between your thumb and forefinger with your thumb on top," he murmured against her ear. "Draw your arm like this," he coaxed, guiding her arm back, his mellifluous baritone washing over her like warmed chocolate. "As you fling it, cock your wrist back and give a flick." His breath fanned her ear. Coffee and mint. She breathed in the intoxicating scents. "And throw out and down at the same time," he whispered.
Philippa gave a flick of her wrist. The stone hopped three times before sinking under the surface. She gasped, touching her fingers to her lips. A giddy lightness filled her chest and she swiveled her gaze from that small triumph now below the lake to a grinning Miles. "I did it," she said with a breathless laugh. It was a small accomplishment. Surely an insignificant victory over the staid lifestyle she'd lived, but it felt real and magnificent and so wholly wonderful.
The smile on his lips faded and he passed solemn eyes over her face, lingering his gaze on her mouth. What was he thinking now?
Miles doffed his hat and beat it against his leg. "I should leave." Did she merely wish for the heavy regret coating that acknowledgement?
"Must you?" That question emerged frantic as he turned to go. He paused and her mind raced. Yes, the world would be shocked at her boldness in all but pleading with this gentleman to remain. Philippa claimed a spot on the blanket and motioned to the spot beside her. "That is, you are welcome to stay. If you wish."
I should leave.
There were countless reasons to leave Philippa and resume his morning ride. But one, more important, reason to stay-he wished to be with her. Where his younger brother, Rhys, had acquired a reputation as a rogue with an ability to effortlessly woo a lady with lies and flattery, Miles had always been direct. Not that he required any skill to woo Philippa. He wasn't here for that purpose. You are a bloody liar. You searched for her the moment you entered the park …
Philippa stretched her legs out so that her heels nearly brushed the still water and turned her face up to the morning sun.
Possible notice from a passerby be damned, Miles claimed a spot beside her on the white blanket.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" There was a wistful quality to her question as she stared at the sun's rays shining from the glass-like surface of the lake.
He caressed her heart-shaped face with his gaze. "Most beautiful," he said quietly.
"I hate London," she said, not taking her eyes from the water. "When I am here, I can almost believe for a moment that I'm in the country."
How alike they were in that regard. "It is stifling," he said softly. "All the rigid expectations."
She shot her gaze to his. Surprise flared in their depths. "And the constant stares and absence of laughter," she added. Philippa picked up the leather book beside her and absently fanned the pages. "How odd," she whispered, more to herself.
He edged closer and the fragrant scent of lavender that clung to her skin wafted about his senses, heady and intoxicating. "What?" he urged, his tone hoarsened with a desire to know her secrets and the taste of her lips.
Philippa angled her head up. With their lips a mere handbreadth apart, their breaths mingled. "I never suspected a gentleman would know those same constraints."
Miles concentrated on his even breathing and her words to keep from claiming her lips under his. "There are expectations for all members of the peerage, then, isn't there?" he asked. A light breeze tugged at her chignon and a midnight strand tumbled over her brow. He captured that strand between his fingers luxuriating in the satiny softness of that tress. "Noblemen marry ladies handpicked by their families."
She closed her eyes a moment. "Those proper, emotionless marriages meant to secure greater wealth and even greater prestige."
Miles froze, her lock still between his thumb and forefinger. Is that what her marriage had been?
Color rushed the lady's cheeks and she hastily pulled back. He let his hand fall to his side and cast a glance about. Alas, with the benefit of the small copse, they remained sheltered from possible observers. She cleared her throat and attended the book in her lap, drawing his gaze downward.
"Mrs. Wollstonecraft," he said with some surprise.
Suspicion darkened the lady's gaze. "Do you know of her?"
He offered a half-grin. "I am not unfamiliar with the Enlightened thinkers, my lady." Questions raged all the more about the young widow who, in their handful of exchanges and her readings of the controversial philosopher, had revealed so much. From her disdain of embroidering to her precise read on noble marriages.
The lady followed his stare, and then drew that volume almost protectively to her chest. "I only just … discovered her."
Miles stretched out his legs before him and that slight shift brought their thighs touching. The heat of Philippa's skin penetrated the fabric of her skirts and his breeches and scorched him. He swallowed a groan of desire. "And what are your thoughts, madam?"
She startled, her lips parting on a small moue. Did her surprise come in his knowing of the distinguished, yet controversial, philosopher? Or the question he put to her?