To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(22)

Miles scowled and opened his mouth but whatever words he intended were killed by the appearance of Philippa’s maid over by the clearing.

“My maid is here,” she said needlessly.

He hesitated; a muscle jumped at the corner of his eye, hinting at the barely suppressed volatility.

“Will I see you again?” she ventured with a still unfamiliar boldness that sent her toes curling. “That is…I come here in the morning and I was wondering if, by chance, you also happened to be…” You are rambling. Stop rambling, Philippa. “That is, if I do happen to see you, then…”

Miles reached a hand out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “Yes,” he confirmed with that husky warm promise that sent delicious shivers through her. Then, he dropped his arm and with long, purposeful strides, returned to his mount.

A short while later, he rode off and left.

With the marquess now gone, the perils of being seen so, slammed into her and Philippa’s shoulders drooped.

This was bad. This was very bad, indeed.





Chapter 10


Seated at his desk, a brandy clasped between his hands, Miles stared down into the contents of his glass…as he’d been sitting for the better part of an hour.

He’d never been a rogue. Nor had he aspired to the reputation. And yet, he’d kissed Philippa in the middle of Hyde Park without fear or worry of passersby. In doing so, he’d subjected the lady to possible whispers and attentions. He gripped the glass hard as Lord Montfort’s cynical eyes slid into his mind.

The man had observed him and Philippa and assumed what any lord or lady passing by would have—that they were lovers. The ton would assume their embrace was nothing more than an exchange between a widow and a bachelor, nearing his thirtieth year. As such, they would be free to carry on that relationship and though there would be whispers, there would also be a casual acceptance of an affair between them.

He took a swallow of his drink and leaned back in his chair. Yet, the truth of it was, he didn’t merely want an empty entanglement with the lady. He liked her. He enjoyed being with her and her willingness to speak about topics that moved beyond the weather and the enjoyment of a ball, as so many other women of his acquaintance were inclined to do.

He’d known her but two days and, somehow, from their first meeting, she’d clung to his thoughts and refused to shake free.

And now, having been discovered by Montfort, he, as a gentleman wished to do right by her. Philippa, with her unjaded eyes and honest words, was undeserving of Society’s condemnation. But in one rash moment, fueled by his hunger for her, he’d demonstrated to the Montforts of the world that the lady was amenable to a dishonorable suit.

Miles cursed and swiped a hand over his face. No, the rakes and scoundrels would not take the time to peel back the layers to see who Philippa truly was. They wouldn’t see a mother who actually took time to be with her children, when most ladies foisted their babes off on nursemaids and saw them but a handful of times. Instead, Montfort and all those black scoundrels would be content with nothing more than the image he and she had presented that morn.

Footsteps sounded outside his office door and he straightened.

His mother pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Miles,” she said without preamble and drew the door shut behind her.

He tamped down a curse. The last thing he cared for in this moment was a discussion or debate about Miss Sybil Cunning. She stalked over with the determined stride of a military general and sat in the leather chair at the foot of his desk. “You are drinking,” she observed, needlessly.

He lifted his glass in salute.

“It is early,” she snapped.

Miles rolled his shoulders. “Given my nearly thirty years, I expect I am well past lectures on expected behaviors.” Nor had he given her reason to question his judgment or actions.

She tightened her mouth. “This is about that widow, isn’t it?”

He stiffened, but said nothing. She was his mother, but he’d not answer to her or defend the company he kept. “I do not know what you are—”

“Sybil and her mother were here earlier. And where were you when they visited? Hmm?” Ire snapped in her eyes.

“I’m not discussing this with you.” He couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know what to make of this hold Philippa held over him.

“Do you still intend to marry Sybil?” his mother asked bluntly.

Miles attempted to drag forward the promise he’d made. Except, he’d not made a promise to the lady. He’d given his mother until his thirtieth birthday to fulfill his responsibilities as marquess and marry the lady if they were still, as of then, unwed. He raked a hand through his hair. “It is…complicated now,” he settled for.

Silence blanketed the room, punctuated by the ticking of the ormolu clock atop his mantel.

“Complicated,” his mother said in succinct tones that stretched out every one of the four syllables.

After taking another sip of his brandy, Miles set it down and leaned forward. “Mother,” he began, folding his hands on the desk before him. “I promised if I was not wed—”

“And you are not,” she bit out.

“—by my thirtieth birthday I would marry,” he continued over her interruption. “No, even though there has been no formal courtship made or offer of marriage, I cannot now in good conscience bind myself to Sybil.” His mother had been so driven to cement the connection between their families and her devotion to her goddaughter. But surely she’d see her son’s happiness came first. He didn’t know, given what she’d shared in her past, whether Philippa ever wished to marry but he knew three meetings with the lady were not enough.