To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(39)

“Oh, surprisingly, Gabriel is being exceedingly patient.”

At Chloe’s dry words, Philippa wheeled around. “Chloe,” she said.

Her sister stepped aside for Philippa’s maid. After the young woman had gone, Chloe pushed the door closed and came over. She stared at Philippa a long moment. “You were not happy. I thought you must have loved your husband…but you did not.”

Philippa bit her inner lip hard and let her silence serve as her answer. Eyes usually filled with mischief and spirit, were now filled with agony. “Was he cruel to you?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Was he like F-Father?”

That crack in a woman of such remarkable composure ripped at Philippa. “No,” she said shaking her head and she, who’d long been the protected, became protector. “It was not a miserable marriage,” she lied. She gave a small, sad smile. “But neither was it a happy one.”

Chloe sucked in an audible breath. “I do not know what woman would willingly subject herself to such a state. If one’s heart is not breaking from the cruelty of marriage, then it risks being broken at the loss of that person.”

How very jaded her sister was. What a dark, sad view of love. Then, wasn’t I the very same before Miles? “Not all men are Father,” she said quietly, not letting her sister’s gaze go. “There are some men who are admirable and worthy and loving.” Tears misted her eyes and she blinked them back.

Chloe’s lips parted. “You love him.” Shock filled her tone.

Philippa managed a nod.

“Then why don’t you—”

“It is done, Chloe.”

“But—”

“I said, it is done,” she said with a firmness and, for the first time, unwavering and so bold that Chloe fell silent. She would not debate all the reasons she could never be a wife to Miles. There was no greater personal hell than being so failed by one’s body. And unless a person had lived with the agony of that in the loss of a child and in the death of a pregnancy, then they could never, ever know that pain.

Except, this was Chloe. “If you do love him, however, then nothing else should matter, Philippa.”

Her lips twisted with bitterness. Yes, in the world of fairytales and make-believes, that was very much true. But this was her reality, and this was life, and there could be no rewriting it for that very reason. She gave thanks when another knock sounded at the door. She stepped to the door, opening the panel to admit two footmen, who gathered her trunks.

Not wanting any more questions or urgings from her sister, or anyone, she started out the door. Her sister hurried after her; adjusting her stride to match Philippa’s quicker pace. “I am going to gather Faith and Violet,” she said. “You go along without me.”

“They are already belowstairs.” She paused. “In the Ivory Parlor.”

Philippa adjusted direction and started for the parlor. As she turned down the hall, the peel of her daughters’ laughter spilled into the corridor and she managed her first real smile since last evening. With all the pain and despair that came with life, her daughters’ joy had long proven a balm. She reached the edge of the doorway and then jerked to a stop as a familiar baritone sounded from inside the room. Her heart slowed and then sped up. Philippa rushed forward and then stopped. Miles knelt beside Faith and Violet, saying something that roused giggles from the sisters. They looked up at Philippa. The potent emotion pouring from Miles’ gaze froze the air in her lungs.

“Mama,” Faith exclaimed, shattering the moment. “Look.” She held up a small bouquet of yellow buttercups. “Look what Miles brought me and Violet.”

“Flow-ra” Violet shook her gift wildly and then hurled it at Miles. It hit his chest. With a grin, he ruffled the top of Violet’s head.

Oh, God. How effortless he was with her daughters. How good and gentle and all things wonderful. Her lower lip quivered.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Faith chimed in happily.

“Most beautiful,” she said past a tight throat. Miles climbed to his feet and her eyes went to the small bouquet of buttercups in his hand.

“Those ones are for you, Mama,” Faith exclaimed, pointing at the flowers. “He even picked them himself, he said.” She swung her gaze up to the silent gentleman beside her. “Isn’t that right, Miles?”

He stretched his hand out. “Indeed. I had a most excellent tutor,” he said and her heart twisted under the beautiful sweetness of that acknowledgement.

“Faith, take Violet and find Miss Cynthia.”

Chest puffed with girlish pride, Faith collected her sister’s hand. “Come along, Violet.” The girls waved and then with a final goodbye to Miles, left.

Philippa smoothed her palms over her skirts.

“You were going to leave.” His was a gruff accusation more than anything and still she nodded.

A flash of hurt glinted in his eyes and twisted the guilt deep inside her. “It is for the best.” Surely he saw that?

“Why?” he shot back, striding over.

She looked blankly at him. Surely, given the scandal gracing the pages he had to see she had no place in London. Miles held his buttercup offering out and she accepted them with tremulous fingers. Philippa raised them to her nose and inhaled their sweet, fragrant scent.

Miles fished around the front of his jacket and brandished a thick, ivory vellum sheet. “It is a special license from the archbishop.” The flowers slipped from her fingers and sailed into a soft, noiseless heap beside them. “Marry me.”