To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(17)

Not unlike the way Philippa had turned her body over to a husband to use as a vehicle to beget heirs and boy babes. Her throat worked. “Some women come to believe the rules and expectations set forth by Society so strongly that they can’t escape from those ingrained truths.” Ever.

Jane scooted closer. “Ah,” she said. “But that isn’t altogether true.” She pointed to the book in Philippa’s tight grip. “One might have said as much about Mrs. Wollstonecraft and, yet, she went on to lay claim to her fate and her future. She found work.” She paused and gave Philippa a meaningful look. “But more, she found joy in her work and in the control she had of her future.”

Those words echoed around the room, penetrating Philippa’s mind. Jane spoke to her. Encouraged her to see that she could be something different than the silent, obedient creature who, no doubt, would crumple under her mother’s determination to see her wed. Why does it have to be that way? Why must I marry where my heart is not engaged? Her heart, mind, and body belonged to no one. Not anymore. Not in the ways Society saw it. “My mother wishes me to marry,” she said, unable to keep bitterness from tingeing her words.

“And you do not wish that.” Jane spoke as a statement of fact.

Philippa cast a look at the door and then absently fanned the pages. “They expect that I should find a proper,” her lip peeled back in an involuntary sneer, “husband who will be a father to my girls and who will properly manage my finances.”

“What do you expect for yourself, Philippa?”

She’d spent the whole of her five and twenty years working to be an obedient daughter, a proper debutante, a flawless wife. So much so that she’d never, not even once, thought about herself as anything beyond an extension of another—until now. Philippa stopped her distracted movements and her gaze collided with the center of the page.

…Taught from their infancy that beauty is woman’s scepter, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison…

“My mother’s friend and her widower son came to visit.” She smiled wryly.

“And do you wish to see this widower son?” Jane asked hesitantly.

“No, I do not.” Her loudly spoken words bounced off the walls. She blinked. I do not. Her smile widened and with it went the bitterness, leaving in its stead a freeing purity. “Nor do I want my mother or brother’s interference in my life.” Well-meaning though it may be. She’d been the recipient of those well-meaning intentions and what had that attained her other than a miserable marriage? She slashed the air with her hand warming to the freedom of her thoughts. “And I certainly don’t wish to guard my words and laughter. Or to be dull and bored by life.” No, she didn’t wish to ever be the lifeless creature she’d been. Lightness filled her chest.

Jane gave a pleased nod. “Then live for yourself and show your daughters how life can be, and should be, lived,” she said.

Were the two mutually exclusive? How could a woman exist for herself while also putting her children before all? Another wave of awe struck her at the woman’s fierce independence. She was a marchioness. An expecting mother. And she saw the running of a finishing school for ladies. And I am here, listening at keyholes, worrying about gentlemen my mother wishes to pair me off with.

Jane held her gaze squarely. “It is possible to be a mother and to still have control and power of your life. You do not lose yourself when you became a mother,” she said with a gentle look. “You find new parts of yourself that teach you about your own strength and capabilities. You are not just your children, Philippa.”

Yet for six years, she’d existed as nothing more than a woman whose sole purpose had been to birth babes. To her husband, she’d ceased to matter. She stared absently at the floor-length window. Mayhap, she never had. And now with Lord Winston gone, she was free to begin again. To speak and laugh and move without fear of recrimination. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Leaning forward, Jane rested her hand on Philippa’s. “There is no need to thank me. You are my sister,” she said simply. “If you’ll excuse me?” She climbed to her feet. “I’ve a meeting shortly regarding the hiring of a new headmistress.”

“Wait!” Philippa called out as her sister-in-law turned to go. She jumped to her feet and held out the book.

Jane held her palms up. “It is yours. Judicious books enlarge the mind and improve the heart.”

Philippa started. “That is beautiful.”

Gabriel’s wife waggled her blonde eyebrows. “That is Mrs. Wollstonecraft.”

As the lady turned and took her leave, Philippa returned her attention to the book in her hands. Her mother would, of course, expect her to be present while she received her guests and any other time in her life she would have remained an obedient daughter with her hands primly folded, speaking on the weather and every other dull topic expected of a lady.

Pulling the gift given her by Jane close to her chest, Philippa started for the door.

She was going out.





Chapter 8


A short while later, with her recently asserted literary independence, Philippa stood alongside the lake in Hyde Park, that same book lying on the blanket behind her.

There was not a soul present in Hyde Park. At least, not any nearby. She closed her eyes briefly and drew deep of the late spring air, filling her lungs with it. There was something so very thrilling in being away from the scrutiny of her family. And the questions of the gossips. And to just simply…be.