Except … She bunched the fabric of her skirts in her hands. "This is why you've come?"
"In part," he said quietly.
Of course, as a gentleman he'd come to make his apologies. Annoyance unfurled within her. Resentment that he should express regrets for that moment and that a gentlemanly sense of honor had driven him here. "There is nothing to apologize for," she said, letting her hands fall to her side. "I … " Heat scorched her body. Who knew one's entire body was capable of blushing? And yet, for years of modesty, she owned that fiery exchange they'd shared earlier. "I wanted your kiss," she said with resolve and she had passionately returned it.
Desire glinted in his green eyes. Then faded. His thick, ginger lashes shielding his eyes, he took a step toward her. "If you were not a widow-"
"But I am." Bells chimed at the back of her mind. Surely he saw that very important distinction?
"There would be expectations."
They would be married. Or she would be ruined. "But there isn't," she reminded him as he continued forward, his long legged stride eating away the distance.
"I'll not have your name sullied."
Her heart dipped. This is why he should come. Not to make apologies, but to hint at doing right by her. Frustration and regret warred inside, muddling her thoughts. She didn't wish to ruin whatever bond they'd forged these past days with propriety and properness. He was the first man who'd ever truly spoken to her. Asked her questions. Listened to her answers and frustration. Now, he'd come and sully those moments with talk of regrets and decorum; those same empty, emotionless sentiments that had defined her life. A sound of frustration escaped her. "I am-"
"A widow," he said quietly. "I understand that. But you, matter. I'd not see you become prey to ill-intentioned rakes and scoundrels who desire nothing from you beyond the pleasure to be had in your arms." Her heart tripped. In the whole of her life, she'd served a single purpose to so many-to marry a respectable gentleman. No one had stopped to say that she actually mattered. Her happiness. Her happiness, beyond any safety and security she might know. Philippa's throat worked.
"Is that why you are here?" she asked tentatively. "To do right by me?" She held her breath.
He hesitated, caressing his gaze over her face. "And if I were to say yes?" There was a gruff quality to his question she could not identify.
She looked past his shoulder to the curtained window he'd abandoned moments ago. The day her husband had died, she'd resolved to never, ever enter into one of those cold, empty union s. Not when, ultimately, the need gentlemen had for an heir to carry on their names could mean her certain death. What she'd not ever considered, known possible even, was that she was capable of feeling this maelstrom of wonderful, stirring emotions; desire, joy, serenity.
Yet, how long could those sentiments survive when a man offered for a woman out of some misguided sense of honor? They couldn't. A coldness stole through her.
Miles brushed his knuckle down her cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his. She gave him a sad smile.
"I was married six years." He stilled his gentle caress; his hand frozen. "It was a good match by Society's standards." Her lips pulled in a sad smile. Title and rank, all that mattered to the ton. "We were a proper, respectable couple." Philippa stepped away, mourning the loss of his touch as his hand fell to his side. She turned her palms up. "But I was not happy." She bit her lower lip hard. "And I can never, won't ever, marry again. So while your offer to do right by me is wonderfully noble, I must decline."
"Why?" his gruff question rumbled from deep in his chest.
She opened her mouth.
"Why were you unhappy?" he clarified.
She drew in a shuddery breath and looked to the empty doorway. "I don't … " Lords and ladies did not speak on these intimate matters. It wasn't good manners to let people inside, to let one's most closely guarded secrets come to light. But mayhap if she told him, then he'd understand why he needn't stand before her even now speaking of propriety and every other useful Societal sentiment.
"I served one purpose for my husband, Miles," she said at last. After years of bitterness and heartache, she was able to give those words life without breaking inside. She wandered behind the upholstered sofa, putting much needed distance between them. "As a noblemen, you require heirs." His expression darkened and, unable to take the potent emotion threatening to burn her, she directed her attention to the top of the sofa. She skimmed her fingertips over the satin fabric. "That was my husband's sole use for me." Philippa ceased her distracted movement and curled her hands tight over the top of the sofa. "The day he died," she drew in a shuddery breath, "I was free." That shameful, sinful whisper floated between them. "And I certainly will never marry again out of some gentleman's misbegotten sense of honor and propriety. Not when I know what those union s inevitably become."
Miles strode around the sofa and stopped at her shoulder. "Not every marriage need be that way."
How very peculiar to witness a gentleman so very optimistic on the forever joining of two people. "Perhaps for some," she whispered, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug. "Two of my siblings are happily married," she acknowledged. A chill stole through her and she folded her arms and rubbed. For though her brothers had found love, her mother had found hell … as had Philippa. "I learned not only as a wife, but also as a daughter, the danger in any man having dominion over me." She breathed slowly. "This is a hell I'd not ever dare suffer through again."
Something dark lit his eyes and he opened his mouth, when a loud squeal cut across whatever words he'd utter.
"Miles!" Faith charged through the doorway and flew across the room. The boisterous girl skidded to a halt before him.
There should be suitable horror at the outwardly display. And a year ago, even months ago, there would have been. The year since Calvin's passing, her daughter had unfurled like a tight summer bloom, full of life and color, and she reveled in that beauty of her spirit.
"Lady Faith," Miles greeted with a grand bow that raised a giggle.
"Did you bring my mama flowers?"
Heat slapped her cheeks. "Faith," she chided.
"Did you?"
Miles dropped to a knee. "I am afraid I failed to do so. It is a matter I must promise to rectify in the future."
Her daughter gave a pleased nod. "And remember, pick from the bottom of the stem, otherwise Mama cannot put them in a vase and they do need water."
"Of course." He grinned. "Though I expect I might benefit from an additional lesson."
Oh, God. How wholly gentle and patient and kind he was with her daughter, when Faith's own father hadn't even wished to be bothered with talk of the girl. A sliver of her heart slipped free and fell forever into his unknowing hands.
Faith prattled on. "It will have to be in the morning because I have my lessons with Miss Cynthia."
"Ah, but the best flowers are to be picked at night."
She giggled. "You are silly," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Everyone knows flowers sleep at night."
"Ah," he said on a mysterious whisper, holding a finger up. "But not all flowers." The husky quality of his words held Philippa enthralled and she was sucked into the words the way he surely intended. "There are moonflowers. Have you ever heard of them?"
Her mouth rounded, Faith shook her head.
"They are flowers," Miles went on in hushed tones that effectively held her always-chatting daughter in silence. "That only bloom at night. They close during the day."
She flared her eyes. "You do know about flowers." There was awe coating her high sing-song tone.
He winked. "My sister enjoys gardening and sharing her knowledge with me." Of course, Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, would be one of those devoted brothers to attend his sisters' interests. Her own brothers hadn't wished to be bothered with her or Chloe and certainly not enough to listen if she spoke of flowers or anything else …
Faith captured Miles' face between her hands in a gesture so reserved for a loving daughter and devoted father that Philippa's heart wrenched. "Then mayhap we will have to gather flowers at night, Miles. I would like to see them."