To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(10)

His mother opened and closed her mouth. “You do not know the Edgertons, then?” Suspicion laced her question.

Miles blew on the contents of his glass. “I do not.”

Furrowing her brow, she reached for the paper and folded it closed. “My apologies,” she said in an unexpected display of remorse. Some of the tautness left her shoulders as she sat back in her seat. “I should trust Alaina’s sources are not always correct.” Ever correct. “I will tell her.” She let loose a relieved laugh. “Of course you’ll not deviate from the pledge to marry Sybil.”

The pledge. That long ago promise to his mother, he’d made years earlier that if he was unwed at thirty, he’d marry the viscountess’ eldest, now spinster daughter, Miss Sybil Cunning. He shifted in his seat. Odd, with that inevitable date rapidly approaching, that long-ago pledge sent unease tripping in his belly.

“Why are you doing that?” With a renewed wariness, she leaned forward in her seat.

He stilled. “Doing what?”

She slashed her hand in his direction. “Shifting about in that manner?”

Miles dragged one hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you—”

“Regardless,” his mother went on. “I knew you’d not be so insensitive to take on with the Edgertons.” She let out a small, relieved laugh. “Why would you ever be carrying a woman through Hyde Park?” He froze. “It is preposterous. It is…” She immediately ceased her prattling. “What?” She slapped her hand over her mouth. Horror rounded her eyes. “You did carry a woman through the park? An Edgerton?”

He frowned. “The young lady fell. It hardly seems fair to question her respectability simply because she had the misfortune of miscalculating a rabbit hole,” he amended. After all, carrying a married woman who’d been injured was vastly safer than a young, unmarried debutante. At least in his mother’s eyes. Even if the lady did have a lean figure he could span with his hands. At his mother’s absolute silence, Miles blew once more on his drink and then took a sip.

Then, she buried her face in her hands and groaned.

His frown deepened. “Surely, you’d not have had me leave her and her young daughters there without aid?”

She let her hands fall to the table; the frustrated, resigned glimmer in her eyes, a woman of propriety who knew that he couldn’t have very well not come to the aid of a fallen stranger.

“Furthermore,” he went on. “The gossips,” Viscountess Lovell, that bloody shrew would be better used serving the Home Office, “were incorrect in their reporting. It was not an Edgerton, but rather Lady Winston.” The lady’s haunting visage flitted before his eyes. What caused the glitter of sadness in that endless blue stare? Or had he merely imagined that glimmer?

His mother stitched her eyebrows into a single line. “Lady Winston?” she parroted back.

He gave a tight nod and, setting his glass down, picked up his fork and knife.

“With her family’s notorious reputation, I expect the lady, a widow,” she spoke that word with the same vitriol as she might a harlot or courtesan, “has arrived in London with wholly dishonorable intentions.”

Miles snapped his head up. “A widow?” The young woman, with her sad eyes and two daughters, was, in fact—

“Indeed.” Mother pursed her lips. “And you were seen carrying her about Hyde Park.” She tossed her hands up. “Is it a wonder the viscountess is outraged?”

“Yes, it is,” he said dryly. “I would expect her to be a good deal more outraged if I’d simply left an injured lady on the ground without the benefit of help.”

His mother continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Regardless, you need but demonstrate your devoted interest in Sybil by dancing two sets with her at Lady Essex’ upcoming ball.”

Two consecutive sets constituted an offer of marriage. Short of public ruin, it was an act that would send the loudest signal of his intentions for the lady. So why, given his promise to his mother to marry the lady by the time he reached thirty, did he hesitate? “I’m not yet thirty, Mother,” he said, with deliberate humor infused into his reminder.

She swatted the air with a hand. “Oh, do not tease. You’ll be thirty the day the Season ends.” Three weeks. Three weeks until he made a formal offer to a lady he’d known as a child, who really would make him a fine enough wife. They’d played as children and grew somewhat distant as adults. But to their mothers, the expectation had always been there just the same—they would marry.

Surely, Sybil desired more than that. He did. Or he had. Through the years, he’d been quite content in his bachelor state, with the eventual hope that there would be…more. That there would be a lady who desired more than the title of marchioness and the wealth and prestige that came with the noble position. A woman who was content with a noble gentleman, rather than a practiced charmer. Alas, there hadn’t. And a promise to his mother, given when he was a man of three and twenty, had been made. How to account for the regret that now rolled through him?

His mother rose in a flurry of skirts, bringing his attention to the moment. “If you’ll excuse me, I am paying a visit to Lady Lovell.” She pursed her lips. “I will take it upon myself to reassure her that nothing untoward occurred. After all, the lady was injured, correct?”