To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(21)

“There is,” he said matter-of-factly and her carefully selected stone thudded noisily in the water. A dull pressure weighted her chest. “Though there is no formal arrangement,” he said solemnly, “just an expectation among two mothers.” There was a guarded quality to his tone.

Were those words for her benefit? Her heart dipped. Why should it matter that he was informally pledged to another? Because he is here beside me now. She bit the inside of her cheek hard. Then, she’d called him over with a brashness better fitting her sister, Chloe. And because she had to say something, she managed to squeeze out a steady, “Oh.” Mimicking his earlier, effortless movements, Philippa attempted another stone. This one skipped once and then disappeared under the water.

“Here,” he encouraged. Rising, he took her by the hand and pulled her to a stand.

“What…?” Her question died on a broken whisper as he positioned her once more between his legs. Oh, God in heaven. The hard wall of his chest. The oaken strength of his thighs. Her pulse raced, pounding loudly in her ears.

“I fear I’m not much of an instructor if I provide you with but one lesson and leave you on your way to skip stones.”

His teasing words startled a laugh from her. “It’s not your fault. I’m a rubbish stu—” Then, he brought her closer still, killing all mirth. Her lashes fluttered wildly. “Student,” she finished weakly.

“Remember,” he breathed against her ear, stirring a loose curl. “Hold the stone between your thumb and forefinger with your thumb on top,” he guided her arm back. “Draw your arm like…”

Philippa angled herself in his arms and cast her gaze up.

A charged heat blazed between them and he swiftly covered her mouth with his.

When she’d been confined to bed during her many pregnancies, she’d stared out the window at the changing landscapes. The dull monotony of her never-changing days had been those volatile summer storms that had shaken the foundation of her husband’s sprawling manor house. As Miles pulled her into his arms, drew her close, and angled his mouth over hers again and again, as though he sought to brand the taste of her on his lips, this moment was remarkably like those powerful storms.

Her lashes fluttered wildly again and she snaked her arms about his neck, pressing herself close, wanting to lose herself in the feel of his embrace. Miles parted her lips and boldly tangled her tongue in an age-old dance. Parrying, she met that forbidden rhythm. Heat pooled in her belly and she tightened her hold on Miles, scrabbling her fingers down his back. Never in all her miserable years of marriage had she felt this passion coursing through her, scorching every corner of her being. And now that she knew, she wanted this rapturous bliss to go on forever. She pressed herself against him, reveling in the hard thrust of his arousal against her belly. “Miles,” she moaned, crying out, when he pulled away. Wanting more of him, she gripped his neck, drawing him back, but with firm, steady movements, he set her away. The distant thundering of hooves cut across the thick haze of desire blanketing her senses.

And horror unfurled in waves, blotting out the warmth of his embrace. Oh, God. Of course, there were freedoms permitted her as a widow, but she did not wish to be one of those wicked, wanton widows, attracting lascivious attentions and gossip.

In one quick movement, Miles positioned himself between her and the rider. Tall, dark, and in possession of irreverent eyes that matched his hardened grin, the man flicked a dismissive gaze over the marquess. If it weren’t for the cynical glint in his brown irises, he might be otherwise handsome. But his suggestive stare stripped away anything redeeming in the man. His sharp focus remained fixed on Philippa. “Guilford,” the man called out as he slowed his black mount to a walk.

Unbidden, she stepped closer to Miles, finding a solace in his strong, reassuring presence.

“Montfort,” the marquess said with a tightness that belied the affable, charming man he’d been in their previous exchanges.

The man tipped his hat. “A very good morning, I’d say, isn’t it?” A sardonic grin pulled at his lips.

Tension poured off Miles’ frame. “Indeed.”

The other man made no move to leave. Instead, he urged his mount closer. “The perfect time to…seek out time alone in the park.” He turned his attention to Philippa. “And it is Lady Winston, is it not?”

Miles’ muscles tightened and the black fabric of his coat bunched under his bicep.

Not allowing the rake with his jaded eyes to cow her, Philippa stepped out from behind Miles and tipped her chin up. “My lord,” she said with the icy regal tones that Lady Jersey would be hard-pressed to not admire.

He passed cold, appreciative eyes over her once more, before bowing his head. “I will allow you both your…pleasures.” With another icy smile, Lord Montfort nudged his horse onward.

“Philippa,” Miles said quietly, a thread of apology in that one-word utterance.

She shook her head. “Do not,” she said softly. His was the first kiss she’d ever known that had reached inside her and set her afire. She’d not have that ruined with regret. No doubt, all of London would be abuzz with the shameful widow. Philippa mustered a smile. “I am a widow.” Even having been married, Society would never separate her name from her familial connection. Nor would she wish them to. Not when those same individuals had seen her own husband as a man of worth and honor.