To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(14)

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 fa?ade.

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?

“Every morning when I am in London,” he said at last.

Philippa filed that particular piece about the gentleman in her mind.