To Woo a Widow (The Heart of a Duke #10)(9)

Miles quickly retrieved it, studying the gold lettering on the front of the tome.

Who was Lady Philippa? His own mother, devoted to her family though she was, had never done something as outrageous as gallivant through Hyde Park. And certainly she hadn’t read to her children. No, there had been nursemaids and tutors to properly attend her offspring. From two exchanges alone, Philippa had shown herself to possess more unrestrained love and emotion and there was something beautiful in that unwillingness to prevaricate.

Miles tucked the small book inside his jacket.

Abandoning his hope of a distracting ride, he mounted Whisper and made for his Mayfair townhouse. As he guided his horse from the park, through the awakening streets of London, the memory of Lady Philippa’s full, crimson lips tempted him. Taunted him. And he thought of all the wicked things he would do with—Miles swallowed a groan. Enough.

Reaching the front of his ivory stucco townhouse, Miles drew on the reins.

The dutiful servant, Gavin, came forward to collect Whisper.

“Gavin, a good day, isn’t it?” he asked as his feet settled on the pavement.

“Lord Guilford,” the older groom with his white, more than slightly receding hairline smiled. “You are late.” Such a statement came from a man who’d long, long ago learned Miles’ daily routine in London of riding early; a routine he’d not deviated from…not even during the winter months.

He grinned. “I was detained.” Thinking of another man’s wife. He made a sound of disgust. Doffing his hat, Miles took the handful of steps two at a time and sailed through the front entrance as the butler opened it. “Terry,” he greeted, tossing the article to the other man who easily caught it.

“My lord.”

With excited energy thrumming inside, Miles whistled and made his way through the townhouse to the breakfast room. He stepped inside and his whistling tune trailed off for a discordant, weak finish. His youngest, unmarried sister, Lettice, sat at the table, staring at him.

He caught her gaze. Go, she mouthed. “Er…” Miles briefly eyed the door and then wheeled around.

“Miles?”

Swallowing a sigh, he shifted his direction and made his way to the sideboard. “Yes, Mother?”

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, as he piled his plate with eggs, bacon, and sausage.

“My breakfast?” he drawled, not deigning to glance at his perturbed mother. “I am having—”

“Not your morning meal, Miles,” she said sharply as he turned around. She gave her daughter a pointed stare and Lettice promptly surged to her feet.

He silently cursed. So it was to be one of those mornings. Miles stared after his quickly retreating sibling with no small degree of envy. Usually, the only thing that set their mother off on such a temper was the unwedded state of her children. The remaining three of her children, that was. Alas, one of them did reserve the majority of that displeasure.

“I asked you, what is the meaning of this news?” his mother repeated, brandishing a note at her side.

With deliberate, methodical movements, he snapped open his white linen napkin and placed it on his lap. “I daresay I’ve no idea what you are talking about, Mother.” And he didn’t. Usually, he did. But he was never one of those, nor had he ever been one of those rogues whispered about in the papers so, usually, her displeasure just had to do with his still unwed state.

“Well, I expect this from your brother. He is a shameful rogue who cannot be bothered to leave his clubs and bachelor residence. But you?” In a very unladylike display, his mother tossed the ivory vellum at him. It landed with a thump beside his plate. “You are no rogue.” Yes, she was right on that score. But there had been something decidedly wonderful in holding Lady Philippa’s delicate foot in his hand.

Ignoring the page, he picked up his knife and the flaky, white bread off his plate. “I am not in the mood for your games, Mother,” he drawled, buttering the bread. He’d much rather think about the lovely Lady Winston with her guarded eyes. What made a woman so cautious? And why did he have this desire to know?

“Then mayhap you are in the mood for this?” she carped and brandished that same folded sheet. “It is a note from the Viscountess Lovell.” He paused, mid-bite. Viscountess Lovell, one of his mother’s many second cousins. The two women, both mothers to twins and also three unwed children had struck up quite the friendship over the years. Nor had either of them been discreet in their intention to see Miles wed the viscountess’ oldest daughter, still unmarried at eight and twenty. In fact, an understanding of sorts had been reached between those women. “I see I have your attention now,” she retorted. “What were you doing in the park with an Edgerton?”

He furrowed his brow, his mother’s unexpected question throwing him off course. An Edgerton? And here he’d been thinking her displeasure stemmed from the striking beauty in the park. “What in blazes is an Edgerton?”

His mother closed her eyes and her lips moved as though in prayer. When she opened them, impatience sparked in her gaze. “The Edgerton family. The men are rogues who marry scandalous creatures. The daughters are deplorable.”

He tightened his mouth. As devoted as she’d proven to her children through the years, his sole surviving parent had long put rank and respectability above all else. And given his still unwedded state at nearly thirty, he’d earned her greatest frustration. “I do not personally know the Edgerton family,” he said between tight lips and motioned a servant forward. “Nor if I did, would I be in the habit of defending my connection to those people, as though I were a child.” He held out his glass for the footman, who filled his glass with steaming coffee and backed away.