To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke Book 10)(20)

Philippa motioned her to sit. "Please-"

"Lady Winston, I will not beat around the bush," the older woman said as  she settled onto the edge of the ivory sofa. She continued to wring her  hands. Philippa's stomach dipped. "I am here regarding my son," the  marchioness said, at last confirming her suspicions.                       
       
           



       

Philippa slid into the seat across from Miles' mother and, with the hard  glint in the woman's eyes, Philippa was once again the tongue-tied,  speechless lady without any bold rejoinders. All the old frustrations  with herself came rushing back.

The woman ceased her distracted movements and held Philippa's gaze. "I  have read the scandal pages linking your names." Her breath froze in her  chest. Oh, God, had she been discovered in that public embrace? She  curled her toes in the soles of her slippers. "My son is an honorable  gentleman." Philippa stiffened. "He pledged to wed my goddaughter, his  distant cousin, if he was not wed by thirty."

"I do not see how this is any of my affair, my lady," she said in succinct tones, proud of that smooth deliverance.

The marchioness edged forward turning her hands up. "Don't you see, this  is very much about you, Lady Winston? My son is a marquess."

Philippa set her teeth. "I know very well his title, my lady."

Miles' mother pounced. "Then you should also realize my son requires an heir and I wish to see him happy."

Were those two mutually exclusive? Or could Miles be a man who would  equate that all-important heir with his ultimate happiness? Her stomach  flipped over itself. At her silence, the marchioness seized full control  of the discussion that was really no discussion at all.

"There have been … whispers of your circumstances," the marchioness went on when Philippa remained silent.

"My circumstances," she repeated dumbly.

The woman cleared her throat. "Your inability to produce heirs."

Bitterness lanced her heart, melded with a burning resentment that  anyone should feel so bold as to ask questions where they had no right.  "Ahh," Philippa managed. Is that what the ton should call the countless  times she'd lain bleeding and weak, nearly dead for her efforts to bring  forth that precious heir? She favored the woman with a stony silence.

"If the rumors are, in fact, just that … rumors," she searched her gaze  over Philippa's face. "Then I would, at the very least, entertain the  possibility of a match between you and my son."

Entertain a match? This stranger would enter Philippa's home and put  bold demands and inquiries to her. Yet again, another person who the  only worth they saw in Philippa was in her ability or inability to birth  a boy babe.

All of Miles' beautiful lessons he'd unknowingly handed Philippa on her  own strength and worth brought her shoulders back with pride. Mayhap it  was years of abuse at her father's hands. Or the rigid expectations  placed on her by her mother, husband, and brother, but Philippa's  patience cracked. "How dare you?" she demanded.

The marchioness creased her brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"As you should," Philippa bit out, deliberately misinterpreting the  other woman's words. "You come into my home and ask me to explain my  connection to your son." Color flooded the marchioness' cheeks. "You  expect me to speak about personal matters you have no right to ask on,  with the only concern being your son's need for an heir." She surged to  her feet with such alacrity her skirts snapped noisily at her feet. "I  will tell you this, madam, I do not intend to marry your son." Nor had  he asked. A slight exhalation of relief burst from the other woman's  lips. "But even if I did, I would not answer to you about it. I owe no  explanations, nor do I seek your approval. Now," she said, gesturing to  the door, "if you'll excuse me? We are through here."

The older woman opened and closed her mouth like a trout yanked from the  lake and tossed to shore. Then with stiff, regal elegance befitting a  queen, she came to her feet. "Well, then," she said tightly. "With your  deplorable manners you have proven you are very much an Edgerton."  Yanking at her skirts, Miles' mother started for the door.

Philippa steeled her jaw. An Edgerton. The marchioness spoke it as  though it was a sin upon her character, when in actuality, the Edgertons  were something far more; something she'd failed to realize of  herself-until this moment.

They were survivors.

And they would not be trampled by life … and this woman would most  certainly not cow her. "Madam," she called out and the woman halted in  her tracks. "My family demonstrates far greater dignity and grace than  most." The marchioness brought her shoulders back. "And Society may  whisper of us, but neither are we the manner of people who would dare  enter someone else's home and call into question their character and  worth." For as good, kind, and worthy as Miles had proven himself to be  these past four days, his mother had demonstrated herself to be as cold  as the rest of the ton. "Good day, madam," she bit out, not allowing the  hated woman to raise all her oldest insecurities about bearing babes.                       
       
           



       

"How dare you?" the marchioness seethed, taking a step toward Philippa.

"No, how dare you?"

As one, they looked to the sharp exclamation that came from the front of  the room. Philippa's mouth fell open. Fury radiating in her eyes, her  mother rushed forward in a whish of skirts like a warrior storming a  keep. "My daughter, the Countess of Winston, has asked you to leave and I  insist that you do so this instant."

If the Marchioness of Guilford's cheeks turned any redder, she'd be set ablaze. "In all my years, I have never-"

"I will not ask you again." The Dowager Marchioness of Waverly's voice  shook with emotion; more passion and life than she'd ever shown in the  years she'd spent married to her miserable husband.

Through the years of her husband's abuse, never had her mother found the  courage to intervene on behalf of her children-until now. So much love  filled Philippa's throat, it choked off words.

"Well." With another flick of her skirts, Miles' mother stalked from the room.

The moment she left, the fight went out of Philippa and she buried her  face in her hands. And in this instance, she couldn't sort out whom she  hated more-herself for having a body that had so failed her, Miles'  mother for being so very correct in him deserving a wife who could and  would give him those boy babes he required, or Miles himself for showing  her everything she'd never believed possible; dangling the sliver of a  promise before her. All the while, knowing he could never be hers for  every blasted reason his mother had spit out.

Her mother touched a delicate hand to her shoulder and she let her hands  fall to her side. Tears glazed her mother's eyes. "I am so very proud  of you. You have always been stronger than I ever could have hoped to  be."

 … your eyes speak a tale of a woman of strength …  Even if you do not see  it in yourself …  With Miles' words whispering around her memory, Philippa  offered a tremulous smile.

"I am so sorry I failed you," her mother whispered. "You deserved my protection from your father. Each of you did."

"You did not fail us. You did the best you were able. Just as I did with Calvin."

Shock registered in the older woman's eyes. Then, the dowager marchioness placed her fingers to tremulous lips. "Thank you."

And there was an absolution in that; freeing her mother of guilt and finding freedom in it herself.

"Oh, Philippa!" She jerked her gaze to the doorway where her sister and  sister-in-law stood. Chloe's wide smile reached her eyes as she rushed  forward. "You were brilliant." She took her hands in her own and gave a  squeeze. "We were listening at keyholes," she explained. "And, Mother,  you were utterly magnificent."

Their mother claimed Philippa's hands in hers and squeezed. "Your sister  was magnificent." She looked over to Chloe. "As all of my children  are."

All these years, Philippa had lamented that she was not more like her  sister; strong, unwavering, fearless. Only to find out that Miles had,  in fact, been correct.

She was far stronger than she'd ever credited.

Philippa smiled.

And before she left for the country and Miles was forever gone from her  life, she would steal one more moment between them. That would be memory  enough to live with her forever.

It would have to be.





Chapter 13