To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(30)

“Were you?” she asked pausing, her fork midway to her mouth. “Forgive me. I must have failed to hear the request.”

Jane raised her napkin to her mouth and dabbed at her lips, but not before Philippa detected the smile there. Chloe, however, made little attempt to hide her wide grin.

Their mother stitched her eyebrows into a single line. “Philippa?” Confusion wreathed that single word utterance.

“I am afraid I cannot join you,” she said, looking to her still-grinning sister. “Chloe and I are to go shopping shortly.” It was, after all, time to abandon her widow’s weeds.

Joseph appeared in the doorway, with a silver tray and calling card. Philippa’s heart gave a funny leap. “The Marchioness of Guilford to see Lady Winston.”

A pin fall could be heard in the silent room. She furrowed her brow. Miles’ mother?

“The Marchioness of Guilford?” her mother said, cutting into the confused silence.

…Though there is no formal arrangement, just an expectation among two mothers…

Philippa cleared her throat. “If you’ll show her to the Ivory Parlor?”

The butler nodded and hurried from the room.

“What business does the marchioness have with you?” Her mother furrowed her brow.

Philippa managed a wan smile. “I expect it is merely a social call,” she said evenly. Who would have believed Philippa Gage capable of such ease in lying? “If you’ll excuse me?” she asked and climbed to her feet. With smooth, effortless steps, she started for the front of the room. “Oh, Mother?” she began, turning around.

The marchioness inclined her head.

“Just so you are aware. I have no intention of marrying Lady Audley’s son.” She looked to Gabriel. “Or anyone else my family wishes to pair me off with.” With that, she ignored her brother’s frown and took her leave of the breakfast room. Chloe’s muffled laughter trailed behind her, that brief moment of levity only momentarily distracting.

When she was away from their silent scrutiny, she increased her stride, a vicious twisting in her belly confirmed what her mind already knew—the Marchioness of Guilford’s was no social call. Certainly not at this time of day. Had the woman discovered Miles’ honorable almost-offer?

Philippa turned at the end of the corridor and slowed her pace. Running her palms over the front of her skirts, she came to a stop outside the parlor and plastered a smile on her face. “My lady,” she said with false cheer as she entered. “How—?”

The marchioness climbed to her feet. “Lady Winston,” she said quickly, wringing her hands. Worry wreathed her wrinkled cheeks.

Philippa motioned her to sit. “Please—”

“Lady Winston, I will not beat around the bush,” the older woman said as she settled onto the edge of the ivory sofa. She continued to wring her hands. Philippa’s stomach dipped. “I am here regarding my son,” the marchioness said, at last confirming her suspicions.

Philippa slid into the seat across from Miles’ mother and, with the hard glint in the woman’s eyes, Philippa was once again the tongue-tied, speechless lady without any bold rejoinders. All the old frustrations with herself came rushing back.

The woman ceased her distracted movements and held Philippa’s gaze. “I have read the scandal pages linking your names.” Her breath froze in her chest. Oh, God, had she been discovered in that public embrace? She curled her toes in the soles of her slippers. “My son is an honorable gentleman.” Philippa stiffened. “He pledged to wed my goddaughter, his distant cousin, if he was not wed by thirty.”

“I do not see how this is any of my affair, my lady,” she said in succinct tones, proud of that smooth deliverance.

The marchioness edged forward turning her hands up. “Don’t you see, this is very much about you, Lady Winston? My son is a marquess.”

Philippa set her teeth. “I know very well his title, my lady.”

Miles’ mother pounced. “Then you should also realize my son requires an heir and I wish to see him happy.”

Were those two mutually exclusive? Or could Miles be a man who would equate that all-important heir with his ultimate happiness? Her stomach flipped over itself. At her silence, the marchioness seized full control of the discussion that was really no discussion at all.

“There have been…whispers of your circumstances,” the marchioness went on when Philippa remained silent.

“My circumstances,” she repeated dumbly.

The woman cleared her throat. “Your inability to produce heirs.”

Bitterness lanced her heart, melded with a burning resentment that anyone should feel so bold as to ask questions where they had no right. “Ahh,” Philippa managed. Is that what the ton should call the countless times she’d lain bleeding and weak, nearly dead for her efforts to bring forth that precious heir? She favored the woman with a stony silence.

“If the rumors are, in fact, just that…rumors,” she searched her gaze over Philippa’s face. “Then I would, at the very least, entertain the possibility of a match between you and my son.”

Entertain a match? This stranger would enter Philippa’s home and put bold demands and inquiries to her. Yet again, another person who the only worth they saw in Philippa was in her ability or inability to birth a boy babe.