To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(15)

She tightened her mouth. "This is about that widow, isn't it?"

He stiffened, but said nothing. She was his mother, but he'd not answer  to her or defend the company he kept. "I do not know what you are-"

"Sybil and her mother were here earlier. And where were you when they visited? Hmm?" Ire snapped in her eyes.

"I'm not discussing this with you." He couldn't. Not when he didn't know what to make of this hold Philippa held over him.

"Do you still intend to marry Sybil?" his mother asked bluntly.

Miles attempted to drag forward the promise he'd made. Except, he'd not  made a promise to the lady. He'd given his mother until his thirtieth  birthday to fulfill his responsibilities as marquess and marry the lady  if they were still, as of then, unwed. He raked a hand through his hair.  "It is … complicated now," he settled for.

Silence blanketed the room, punctuated by the ticking of the ormolu clock atop his mantel.

"Complicated," his mother said in succinct tones that stretched out every one of the four syllables.

After taking another sip of his brandy, Miles set it down and leaned  forward. "Mother," he began, folding his hands on the desk before him.  "I promised if I was not wed-"

"And you are not," she bit out.

"-by my thirtieth birthday I would marry," he continued over her  interruption. "No, even though there has been no formal courtship made  or offer of marriage, I cannot now in good conscience bind myself to  Sybil." His mother had been so driven to cement the connection between  their families and her devotion to her goddaughter. But surely she'd see  her son's happiness came first. He didn't know, given what she'd shared  in her past, whether Philippa ever wished to marry but he knew three  meetings with the lady were not enough.                       
       
           



       

His mother pressed her palms to her cheek. "You surely are not speaking of courting Lady Winston." Shock laced that statement.

"She is the daughter of a marquess," he said ignoring her question. The  young woman at the park had spoken with revelry for her newly attained  freedom. Such a woman wouldn't be eager to bind herself to another  husband. His stomach knotted. Oh, the irony. That he should desire more,  and the lady spoke of her previous marriage with the same tones of one  relishing the hereafter. "Furthermore," he went on, "the lady is a  countess by her own right." Surely his mother, who could see nothing  beyond titles, would, at the least, appreciate those pieces; the ones he  cared the least for. He cared about her smile and the way she'd tossed  that embroidery frame at him.

"She is an Edgerton," she snapped. "And she cannot bear children."

He snorted and in one swallow, drained his glass. "That is a stretch,  even for you, Mother," he said, climbing to his feet. He crossed over to  the sideboard. He poured himself another glass and returned to his  seat. "The lady has two children, proof of that lie." Even had there  been truth to her claims, Miles would never allow such a detail to keep  him from wedding a woman. He took another sip.

"The lady has two daughters and no fewer than eight pregnancies."

He choked on his swallow. Eight pregnancies? Surely not. She could not  be more than … five and twenty years. "Impossible," he gritted out,  disgust at the careless way in which his mother spoke of Philippa's  life.

"Hardly impossible," she continued relentlessly. "She lost her husband more babes than she birthed."

Her words slammed into him like a kick to the gut. He concentrated on  his breathing to keep from thinking of artless Philippa, enduring agony  after agony.

"Nor did she have the decency to give the late earl an heir before his death."

The glass cracked under the pressure of his hand and he set it down  carefully. Had his mother always been so singularly merciless in matters  of marriage? Miles shoved back his chair so quickly, the legs scraped  along the hardwood floor. He stalked over to the door.

"Miles?" his mother called out. "Wherever are you going?" she called after him.

"Out," he bit out. And with all her ruthless pronouncement and unfavorable words, she could go to hell.



Since she'd returned earlier from Hyde Park, Philippa had entered the  townhouse more than half-expecting a barrage of questions from Chloe and  furious admonishments over what had transpired between her and Miles.  Seated in the parlor with Chloe and Jane reading from their copies of  Mrs. Wollstonecraft's works, Philippa bounced Violet on her knee and it  became apparent … her secret was her own. For now.

She should be properly horrified. After all, she was proper. Yet, she  could not bring herself to muster even a modicum of shame. How could  she, when having failed to know even a glimmer of passion in the whole  of her life? She'd been awakened to the fiery hungering that proved she  was not incapable of that grand emotion. A small, secretive smile pulled  at her lips and she dropped a kiss atop her daughter's curls. Violet  squirmed and she shifted Violet's slight form in her arms.

Mindful of her sister and sister-in-law reading in the chairs opposite, she sang softly.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Wasn't that a dainty dish,

To set before the-?

"The Marquess of Guilford to see Lady Winston."

Her voice cracked mid-note as she jerked her stare to the butler who  stood framed in the room's entrance. Silence resounded, as the three  ladies looked with varying degrees of shock and surprise to the servant.  Through the charged silence, Violet babbled and clapped her hands  excitedly.

Joseph cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. "Should I inform His Lordship, Her Ladyship is not receiving-?"

"I'll see him," her frantic voice peeled around the room. Heat pricked  her skin at the attention now trained on her. Shifting Violet's body in  her arms, Philippa climbed to her feet. "You may show His Lordship in,"  she said with the remarkable composure she'd practiced through the  years.

As soon as the butler ducked out of the room, the ladies present sprang  to action. Chloe hurried to collect the leather tomes scattered about  the table. Jane rushed over to gather Violet. While the ladies set the  room to rights, Chloe trained a questioning stare on Philippa.

She warmed under that scrutiny. "It is hardly significant," she said  quickly. "I am sure he is simply here … " Her mind raced. Why was he here?                       
       
           



       

Chloe winged an eyebrow up and stared back with a mature knowingness that defied her younger years.

"Come along," Jane urged, carrying Violet in her arms.

With a smile, Chloe hurried out of the room after her sister-in-law.

The knowing eyes of her family now gone, she pressed her palms to her  cheeks. He was here. After their meeting in Hyde Park and their kiss, he  should come here … now? To what end? Mayhap he intended to make her an  indecent offer?

She slid her eyes closed as a wave of heat went through her at the  memory of his kiss. Why should that possibility both thrill her and fill  her with an inexplicable disappointment? She was not the manner of  woman who'd ever wished to marry again. She'd traveled along that  perilous path. A powerful marquess, Miles would certainly require the  requisite heir and a spare … things she could never give him, or any man.  Not when her life would surely be forfeit from the perils of childbirth.  As it was, she'd spent the bulk of her adult life pregnant. While  Society had few expectations for a woman beyond birthing babes and  advancing familial connections, Philippa longed to live for more.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and she slowed her rapidly spinning  thoughts. Why should her mind go to marriage? Why, after but a handful  of chance meetings … and a kiss … and the lesson he'd given her on how to  skip rocks … and …

"The Marquess of Guilford," Joseph announced.

Miles filled the doorway; his tall, muscle-hewn frame the manner of  masculine perfection memorialized in stone. Her heart fluttered.  "Miles," she greeted as Joseph took his leave.

He stepped deeper into the room, passing his gaze around the ivory  parlor. "Philippa," he murmured and clasped his hands at his back.

She wet her lips as he wandered over to the window that overlooked the  London streets. A volatile energy filled the room. Why is he here?  Disquieted by the silence, Philippa cleared her throat. "Would you care  for-?"

"I regret that we were discovered," he said, removing his gaze from the  crystal windowpane. Regret that they'd been discovered; not that he'd  kissed her. Such a slight, minor distinction and, yet, an important one.