To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(33)

Philippa bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip. She’d been so determined to marry a man who was nothing like her father, she’d been deceived by a man’s pretty words and the reputation he’d established amongst Polite Society. And through that folly, she’d invariably become her mother, albeit in a slightly different way.

Then she’d met Miles and everything she’d ever believed had been flipped on its ear.

“There you are.”

A gasp exploded from her lips and she spun so quickly she lost her balance. Chloe shot her hands out and quickly steadied her. “Chloe,” she chided, faintly breathless. “You startled me.”

“Mother is looking for you.”

She swallowed another very un-Philippa like curse. Of course she was.

Following her unspoken thoughts, her sister discreetly motioned across the room. “She is alongside Lady Audley.”

Her stomach dipped. Of course, even with her bold rejection of those intentions yesterday at breakfast, her mother was relentless in her matchmaking pursuits. Why should she not bother with Chloe who’d, as of yet, been spared that miserable state? Not that she wished it upon Chloe. Anything but. She did, however, know Chloe would never be so weak as to make the same follies she herself had.

“Are you hiding from Mother? Or the crowd in general?”

Her sister’s question startled her back to the moment. Philippa smiled. It was hard to not have a smile for Chloe who, with her frankness and strength, represented everything Philippa had never been but had always hoped to be. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps, both?”

Her sister rounded her eyes and then a sharp bark of honest laughter spilled past her lips. “I’ve never known you to jest,” she said as her mirth subsided.

Philippa grimaced. Yes, just as she’d never challenged her parents or husband, so too had she never done something as scandalous as make jests. Alas… The recent opinion of the ton was that she must be wanton. The whole widow business and all. Unbidden, she searched the floor and her gaze collided with Lord Improper-Eyes.

Chloe followed her stare and frowned. “Ah, so that is who you are avoiding. Lord Montfort,” her sister supplied. “A notorious rake and highly improper.” She spoke the way a seasoned matchmaker who knew the most suitable matches a lady should hope to make. She softly cursed. “He is coming this way now.” Philippa’s stomach dipped. In all her greatest horror of reentering London Society, she’d not given thought that she would be sought after by men with dishonorable intentions. “Go,” Chloe said from the corner of her mouth.

Philippa looked at her. Go?

Her sister waved a hand. “You are free to slink about your host’s home, while we unmarried ladies face ruin for something as scandalous as escaping the ballroom.” She looked out across the ballroom once more. “Or stay. Mother is on her way now with Lord Matthew, which I expect is far less safe than the Earl of Mont—”

Philippa spun on her heel and, keeping to the perimeter of the ballroom, marched along the crowded room. She took care to avoid the less than honorable eyes being cast her way. With every step, pressure built in her chest. Who would have expected that this misery would be far more oppressive than the dance to secure a husband all those years ago? She reached the back of the ballroom and without hesitating, rushed from the room and continued walking until the cacophony of the festivities was a muted in her ears.

She’d never done something so outrageous as slipping about her host’s home. As a debutante, she’d stood demurely and obediently at her mother’s side. As a wife, she’d spent more time in the country, confined to a bed, attempting to give her late husband his precious heir.

With each step, a lightness filled her. A giddy sensation that threatened to carry her away from the misery of all these stilted affairs and her family’s oppressive attentions. Footsteps sounded from somewhere in the townhouse and her heart skipped a beat.

Philippa made a grab for the nearest door handle, pressed it open, and slid inside. Heart hammering, she drew the door closed and leaned against the solid wood panel. She blinked, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkened space; the broad, mahogany desk, the heavy, well-stocked sideboard. It may as well have been any other nobleman’s study.

Some of the tension left her at the silence ringing in her ears and she strolled over to the crystal decanters lining the piece of furniture. Absently, Philippa picked up a bottle.

…He does not drink and he does not wager… He’ll make you a proper husband…

Her fingers shook with the remembrance of Gabriel’s assurances all those years ago and she quickly set the crystal down. How very erroneous he’d been. How utterly and absolutely flawed. To believe that Lord Winston, with all the right words and the proper image crafted by Society, was somehow honorable for that image. Hadn’t the Edgertons learned long ago that any nobleman could expertly present a fa?ade to the world? Her lips twisted with bitter cynicism and she thrust aside the unwelcome memories of her childhood.

There was no place for them. Just as there was no place for regrets. And with the dream she’d long carried, of having the love and kindness of a devoted husband, long since dead…the love of her children would forever be enough.

For her.

Philippa tightened her mouth. To Mother and those lecherous gentlemen eying her, they’d seen a woman alone and deduced that she desired something more.