To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(27)

At his silence, Miles continued on. “As such,” he said with a wave of his hand, “she’s no desire to marry.”

“Does she have no desire to marry? Or to suffer the hell of childbirth?” his friend asked, not missing a proverbial beat.

Miles frowned, momentarily stunned by the questions tossed at him. In all Philippa had shared, with all her revelations, how had he failed to piece together those very questions Bainbridge put to him, even now? “I…didn’t think,” he said, at last, shamed by his own admission.

Bainbridge shrugged his broad shoulders. “Those are entirely two different matters.”

Surely Philippa saw the value of her life far greater than any risk for a potential heir? Then, why would she? a voice whispered. She’s known you but a handful of days and the husband who’d treated her as more broodmare than wife for more than six years.

His friend put another question to him. “Would you be content in never having children if you married her?”

Only, they would have children. They would have Faith and Violet. Violet, a babe he’d still not met beyond a chance meeting in the park; a child with cherubic cheeks whom he wished to know with the same tender regard he’d come to appreciate Faith. Yes, there would be children. There would just be no male issue of his own. “I am not worried over the Guilford line,” he said, truthful. Where most gentlemen, like the bastard of a husband Philippa had spoken of, desired nothing more than their male offspring, he’d no sense of urgency or even a need to carry on the line. There was his brother and there would be other Brookfield issue. Then there remained the whole bringing the lady around to knowing she could trust in him. Why should she after just a few days of knowing one another? “She does not wish to marry again,” he said curtly.

Bainbridge lifted another black eyebrow. “You coaxed me into the living. You helped me find a new life with a wonderful woman. I expect you can muster sufficient charm to woo the young widow.”

Woo her? His frown deepened as he recalled every word he’d uttered to Philippa. He’d spoken of respectability and preserving her honor. Miles swallowed a groan. A woman whose previous marriage had proven so disastrous, so cold, and empty… Whyever would she have responded favorably to his own poorly launched suit? Miles dragged a hand through his hair. Never before had he wished for being one of those charming lords with all the right words. Until this great blunder.

Bainbridge shoved back his chair and Miles looked up as the other man stood. “You are leaving, so quickly?” He pushed the bottle toward his friend.

“I merely came to ascertain your circumstances.” Despite himself, Miles’ lips pulled at that blunt honesty. Bainbridge pierced him with his hard stare. “And to tell you not to be a bloody fool.”

Miles chuckled and lifted his hand. “Send my best to the duchess.”

The young duke inclined his head once more and, laconic as always, quickly took his leave, ignoring the terrified stares shot his way.

Bainbridge gone, Miles returned to thoughts of Philippa. Bainbridge’s words rattled around his mind. Following his earlier meeting with his mother, he’d departed for Philippa’s residence. He’d convinced himself that his intentions were borne of nothing more than Montfort’s poorly timed appearance. Now, with his own thoughts and now Bainbridge’s company, he was forced to face the truth he’d denied until now. He wanted her. Now, how to prove to the lady that she wanted him in return?





Chapter 12


Since yesterday, Philippa had been lulled into a false sense of calm…that her actions wouldn’t be discovered and bandied around Society. Now, today, standing at her vanity facing a new day, she accepted the inevitability of the whispers.

For the cold-eyed gentleman in the park was the manner of dastard who’d bandy about such a juicy morsel of gossip regarding the recently widowed Lady Winston. And then all of Polite Society would have their assumptions confirmed—Lady Philippa was a wicked widow. There would be veiled innuendos and unveiled ones. There would be improper offers and scandalous, stolen caresses.

For a sliver of a moment, she considered feigning a megrim. Or an injured ankle. Or a horrible cold. Anything. Because surely, when she made her way downstairs, she’d be met with an outraged mother and Gabriel brandishing a copy of The Times with all her sins from Hyde Park inked out for the whole of the world to see.

She stared into her vanity mirror searching for the same frightened eyes that had stared back at her every day of her five and twenty years. Mayhap she was a wanton. For even with the inevitable demise of her name and reputation or the stern lectures from her brother and mother, she could not bring herself to regret Miles’ kiss. It had been the single most romantic, passionate moment of her five and twenty years that she’d not trade.

Her gaze went to the book resting on her vanity and she picked it up. With Jane’s recent encouragements rattling around her mind, she flipped through the leather volume and stopped on a page that had been marked by her sister-in-law.

…Women do not want power over men. They want power over themselves…

A knock sounded and she spun about. The inevitable. “E-enter,” she called out.

Jane stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

Some of the tension went out of her. If anyone would be without recrimination, it would be her bold-spirited, unapologetic sister-in-law. “Hello, Philippa,” she said softly, coming over. “Your mother is asking for you.”