To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(24)

Footsteps sounded in the hall and she slowed her rapidly spinning thoughts. Why should her mind go to marriage? Why, after but a handful of chance meetings…and a kiss…and the lesson he’d given her on how to skip rocks…and…

“The Marquess of Guilford,” Joseph announced.

Miles filled the doorway; his tall, muscle-hewn frame the manner of masculine perfection memorialized in stone. Her heart fluttered. “Miles,” she greeted as Joseph took his leave.

He stepped deeper into the room, passing his gaze around the ivory parlor. “Philippa,” he murmured and clasped his hands at his back.

She wet her lips as he wandered over to the window that overlooked the London streets. A volatile energy filled the room. Why is he here? Disquieted by the silence, Philippa cleared her throat. “Would you care for—?”

“I regret that we were discovered,” he said, removing his gaze from the crystal windowpane. Regret that they’d been discovered; not that he’d kissed her. Such a slight, minor distinction and, yet, an important one.

Except… She bunched the fabric of her skirts in her hands. “This is why you’ve come?”

“In part,” he said quietly.

Of course, as a gentleman he’d come to make his apologies. Annoyance unfurled within her. Resentment that he should express regrets for that moment and that a gentlemanly sense of honor had driven him here. “There is nothing to apologize for,” she said, letting her hands fall to her side. “I…” Heat scorched her body. Who knew one’s entire body was capable of blushing? And yet, for years of modesty, she owned that fiery exchange they’d shared earlier. “I wanted your kiss,” she said with resolve and she had passionately returned it.

Desire glinted in his green eyes. Then faded. His thick, ginger lashes shielding his eyes, he took a step toward her. “If you were not a widow—”

“But I am.” Bells chimed at the back of her mind. Surely he saw that very important distinction?

“There would be expectations.”

They would be married. Or she would be ruined. “But there isn’t,” she reminded him as he continued forward, his long legged stride eating away the distance.

“I’ll not have your name sullied.”

Her heart dipped. This is why he should come. Not to make apologies, but to hint at doing right by her. Frustration and regret warred inside, muddling her thoughts. She didn’t wish to ruin whatever bond they’d forged these past days with propriety and properness. He was the first man who’d ever truly spoken to her. Asked her questions. Listened to her answers and frustration. Now, he’d come and sully those moments with talk of regrets and decorum; those same empty, emotionless sentiments that had defined her life. A sound of frustration escaped her. “I am—”

“A widow,” he said quietly. “I understand that. But you, matter. I’d not see you become prey to ill-intentioned rakes and scoundrels who desire nothing from you beyond the pleasure to be had in your arms.” Her heart tripped. In the whole of her life, she’d served a single purpose to so many—to marry a respectable gentleman. No one had stopped to say that she actually mattered. Her happiness. Her happiness, beyond any safety and security she might know. Philippa’s throat worked.

“Is that why you are here?” she asked tentatively. “To do right by me?” She held her breath.

He hesitated, caressing his gaze over her face. “And if I were to say yes?” There was a gruff quality to his question she could not identify.

She looked past his shoulder to the curtained window he’d abandoned moments ago. The day her husband had died, she’d resolved to never, ever enter into one of those cold, empty unions. Not when, ultimately, the need gentlemen had for an heir to carry on their names could mean her certain death. What she’d not ever considered, known possible even, was that she was capable of feeling this maelstrom of wonderful, stirring emotions; desire, joy, serenity.

Yet, how long could those sentiments survive when a man offered for a woman out of some misguided sense of honor? They couldn’t. A coldness stole through her.

Miles brushed his knuckle down her cheek, bringing her eyes to meet his. She gave him a sad smile.

“I was married six years.” He stilled his gentle caress; his hand frozen. “It was a good match by Society’s standards.” Her lips pulled in a sad smile. Title and rank, all that mattered to the ton. “We were a proper, respectable couple.” Philippa stepped away, mourning the loss of his touch as his hand fell to his side. She turned her palms up. “But I was not happy.” She bit her lower lip hard. “And I can never, won’t ever, marry again. So while your offer to do right by me is wonderfully noble, I must decline.”

“Why?” his gruff question rumbled from deep in his chest.

She opened her mouth.

“Why were you unhappy?” he clarified.

She drew in a shuddery breath and looked to the empty doorway. “I don’t…” Lords and ladies did not speak on these intimate matters. It wasn’t good manners to let people inside, to let one’s most closely guarded secrets come to light. But mayhap if she told him, then he’d understand why he needn’t stand before her even now speaking of propriety and every other useful Societal sentiment.

“I served one purpose for my husband, Miles,” she said at last. After years of bitterness and heartache, she was able to give those words life without breaking inside. She wandered behind the upholstered sofa, putting much needed distance between them. “As a noblemen, you require heirs.” His expression darkened and, unable to take the potent emotion threatening to burn her, she directed her attention to the top of the sofa. She skimmed her fingertips over the satin fabric. “That was my husband’s sole use for me.” Philippa ceased her distracted movement and curled her hands tight over the top of the sofa. “The day he died,” she drew in a shuddery breath, “I was free.” That shameful, sinful whisper floated between them. “And I certainly will never marry again out of some gentleman’s misbegotten sense of honor and propriety. Not when I know what those unions inevitably become.”