A small figure, a familiar figure, came racing down the corridor. "Miles!"
He smiled as Faith skidded to a halt before him. "My lady," he greeted, sketching a deep bow.
She giggled. "I'm not a grown lady, I'm just a girl." Nonetheless, she sank into a flawless, very mature curtsy. Had life taught the girl that maturity?
"Have you come to see my mama?" she asked with the guile only a child was capable of.
"I have," he answered, snapped out of his musings. "Though I expect you've seen she is well-cared for."
Faith gave a solemn nod. "Oh, yes." She wrinkled her nose. "She wouldn't let the doctor come and check her foot. She says she is fine." Yet again, images of Philippa's delicate slip of flesh in his hands, the satiny softness of her skin, burned in his memory. I am going to hell. There is nothing else for it. "She sent me abovestairs," the girl was saying.
He furrowed his brow.
"To the schoolroom," she said by way of explanation.
"Ah, of course." As a child, he'd chafed at being shut away in those miserable nurseries, preferring the invigorating Sussex air to the closed-in rooms every previous Marquess of Guilford had lost countless days to.
"Lessons on reading," she said with the same dejected tones of one who'd been deprived of a year's worth of dessert.
His lips twitched. With her flair for the dramatics she called forth memories of his now married sister, Rosalind. "And what does your governess have you reading that has you avoiding your lessons?"
"Lessons on propriety and decorum," she said in a high-pitched, nasal tone which, he'd wager these last three weeks of his bachelorhood, was a rendition of the nursery governess responsible for her tutoring. Then, the girl flared her eyes. "But I heard you had come for a visit and I sneaked away," she whispered and then stole a glance about.
Miles dropped to a knee and leaned close to her right ear. He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "I was known to avoid my own lessons," he said with a wink.
She blinked and shook her head. "What did you say?"
Miles creased his brow. "Uh … "
Color rushed to Faith's cheeks and she glanced down at the tips of her toes. "You said it against my right ear. I cannot hear out of my right ear."
A vise squeezed at his chest. She was partially deaf. Of course. This was why she'd failed to hear his approach at Hyde Park and the questions he'd posed. Missing just a beat, Miles angled his head and repeated his admission in her opposite ear.
The little girl widened her eyes all the more, so they formed round moons in her face. "My father said only terrible children skip their lessons. He said proper, good children attended their studies."
Her father sounded like a miserable, stodgy bore. As soon as the thought slid forward, guilt settled in. It was hardly fair to judge a man in death. "I suspect there is much to be learned in visiting the park and being outdoors, too, no?" he asked, instead.
She flashed him a gap-toothed grin. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper once again. "And also from reading enjoyable books about far off places." He fished her forgotten book from the front of his jacket and held it out.
A small cry escaped the girl. "My book." She hurled herself into his arms and he staggered back. "I forgot that I forgot it. And it is one of my favorites. It is about a princess and prince."
Warmth filled his chest at that absolute lack of artifice. Aware of the ancient butler staring, Miles set the girl away. "Off you go with your fairytale then," he said with a wink.
Faith waved and, turning on her heel, skipped off. He stared after her a moment and then fell into step behind the aged servant. At last, the man brought them to a stop outside an open door and Miles did a quick search of the room; his gaze landed on the delicate, slender lady stretched out on the sofa. Even with the distance between them, her eyes sparkled with some emotion-emotion he could not singularly identify, but desperately wanted to. "The Marquess of Guilford," the old servant announced.
"Joseph, would you see refreshments brought?" she asked.
The servant nodded and backed out of the room-leaving Miles and Philippa-alone.
"My lord," she welcomed in a soft, husky contralto that sent a bolt of lust through him. "Would you care to sit?"
Miles smiled and strode over, claiming the seat nearest her. "I thought we had agreed to move past the formalities of titles?"
"Very well," she conceded. "Miles." Her cheeks pinked, stirring intrigue with a widow who blushed like a debutante. She stole a furtive glance about. Did she fear recrimination over the use of his given name? His interest redoubled. "I did not expect you to … " She turned crimson. "That is … "
"I found a forgotten volume of The Little Glass Slipper and sought to return it."
"Oh." Did he imagine the lady's crestfallen expression? "That is, I meant, thank you. For returning it and for coming to my aid this morn."
The young widow dropped her gaze to the embroidery frame in her lap.
"I also wished to ask after you, Philippa," he said quietly.
"I am well," she said automatically.
She fiddled with the wood frame, drawing his attention to the skillfully crafted floral artwork on that white fabric. The delicate flowers, so expertly captured, demonstrated proficiency with a needle. Only … Miles took advantage of the lady's distracted movements to study her. To truly study her. The white lines pulling the corners of her mouth; the frown on her lips as she glared at that scrap. Such details shouldn't really signify. Not when he'd only come to return that child's book, which he'd since done. Liar. You wished to see this woman before you now. "You do not enjoy it, then?"
She jerked her head up. "Beg pardon?"
Miles hooked his ankle across his opposite knee and motioned to the scrap of fabric on her frame. "You look as though you'd singe it with your eyes if you could," he said with a smile.
Philippa followed his stare and then her perfect, bow-shaped lips formed a small moue. She blinked and drew that frame close to her chest with the same protectiveness of a mother bear defending her cub. "How … why … ?"
He leaned forward and dusted the backs of his knuckles alongside the corner of her eye. "Here." The lady's breath caught. "You were frowning with your eyes when you were staring at it," he said quietly. Drop your hand. Drop your hand because coming here and putting your hands upon her, in any way, is forbidden …
Her lashes fluttered and Miles quickly dropped his hand to his side. By God, what madness had overtaken him?
In the scheme of all that had transpired in the past handful of minutes, Philippa should very well be fixed on the marquess' brazen, if fleeting, caress.
And yet, instead, she was transfixed not by his gentle touch, but rather-his statement. You look as though you'd singe it with your eyes if you could …
Philippa ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. "I do not," she said softly.
Miles furrowed his brow.
"Enjoy it," she clarified. And with that admission, which went against every ladylike lesson ingrained into her from the cradle, there was no bolt of lightning or thundering from the heavens … and there was something … freeing in it. A wistful smile pulled at her lips. "Do you know you're the first to ever ask me that question?" Before he could reply, she rushed on. "Of course, you couldn't possibly know that as we've only just met. But you are. Correct, that is," she said, setting aside the frame. And for that, she thanked him. For seeing past her ladylike skill with that scrap and the well-built façade.
They shared a smile, as with his observation and her admission, a kindred bond was forged. A connection born in actually speaking with a person … something she'd never shared with her own husband. A thrill went through her. This was the intoxicating stuff recorded on the pages of those fanciful fairytales.
Miles glanced about the room and, for a moment, she believed he'd take his leave and restlessness stirred in her breast. Then, she'd be left here with the pitying stares and the sad glances and people who didn't know she despised needlepoint and proper curtsies and false smiles. She searched her mind, never more wishing that she'd been one of those ladies skilled in conversing with all the right words. "Do you ride often?" she asked tentatively. As he trained his eyes on her face, she cringed. Do you ride often? That is the best that I could come up with?