Chapter 29
The frost still lingered on the bare branches of Hyde Park, though the morning sun had begun to thaw the earth in patches.
William rode hard, his breath misting, his horse eager beneath him.
Weary of drawing rooms and simpering smiles, he hoped a gallop might clear his head.
But the faces of the women paraded before him would not be shaken off.
Lady Rosalind—pretty enough, though hopelessly clumsy—had managed to spill an entire cup of steaming tea into his lap at Lady Talbot’s gathering.
That, he could have forgiven. Accidents were nothing.
But when her babbling apologies dissolved into vapid giggles, he knew she had little to recommend her beyond her dowry.
Lady Catherine had fared no better in his esteem.
Pale, fair-haired, with a figure that would have turned heads in any ballroom—yet every word he spoke had been met with fluttering laughter, whether jest or no.
Perhaps she laughed from nerves, perhaps from calculation, but it had the same effect. He found himself longing for silence.
And then Lady Georgiana—hailed by his father as a ‘budding rose,’ with a portion to tempt a prince.
He had gone to Lord Langford’s dinner determined to consider her seriously.
But when the company had departed and he was himself ready to go, he strayed down a dim passage in search of a privy and opened the wrong door.
Inside, Lord Langford had his young ward bent over a sofa, her skirts rucked high, his hands gripped her waist as he drove into her with merciless rhythm.
William bowed, wished his lordship a pleasant evening, and quit the house without another word.
Such were the candidates for duchess. No wonder his chest felt tight, his temper close to snapping. When the sound of hooves closed in behind him, he welcomed the distraction—until he turned and saw who it was. Beaufort drew alongside, his expression as open and guileless as ever.
“Blackmeer!” he called with easy warmth. “I thought it was you. By God, you ride as though the French were at your heels.”
William offered only the barest inclination of his head. “Beaufort.”
The other man seemed not to notice the chill. “What are your plans this evening? I have half a mind to call on Lady Talbot again, though her company grows tiresome. Or is there some other salon that tempts you?”
“I am bound for Lord Clifford’s house,” William said curtly.
“His niece has returned to town, the Foreign Secretary’s daughter.
She is three-and-twenty, with a broken engagement already behind her.
” His mouth twisted. “At least she will have a few years’ sense about her.
God knows I have met little enough of it elsewhere. ”
Beaufort chuckled. “You judge them too harshly, I think. The ladies are all very agreeable, and if there is fault, it lies more in your expectations than in them.”
William turned a cutting glance upon him. “Why do you not marry one, then? Or do you prize your bachelor’s freedom too dearly?”
The smile faltered. Beaufort regarded him a moment, brow creasing. “What is this, Blackmeer? You have treated me as though I were your enemy ever since I visited you at Westford Castle. Tell me plainly—how have I given you offense?”
The words broke something in him. William wheeled his horse to face the other man, voice low and harsh. “By presuming liberties with women under my protection.”
Beaufort’s eyes widened. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Miss Ansley.”
A beat of stunned silence. Then Beaufort’s features hardened. “You cannot be serious.”
“You deny it, then?” William demanded. “That you enjoyed her company? That she kept you entertained even in my absence?”
“If by company you mean her conversation, yes,” Beaufort snapped. “I enjoyed it. She is intelligent, sharp, worth debating. But I do not ‘entertain’ respectable women as you do.”
William’s temper flared hotter. “And what, pray, is the sense of that?”
Beaufort’s voice rose to match his. “I mean only this: why does her name sting you so?” His gaze sharpened. “At Westford Castle, I thought it nothing more than devotion to your sister—you forever at their side, the child and her governess. But now—”
“Do not be absurd,” William retorted.
“Why, then, are you so consumed with jealousy,” Beaufort pressed, “unless—unless you are guilty of the very thing you accuse me of?”
William’s jaw locked. He gave no answer.
Beaufort pressed on, his tone sharp with incredulity. “You would slander me—your friend—yet what of you? You, who cannot keep your eyes from her? You, who burn with rage at the thought of any other man speaking her name? What are we to conclude, Blackmeer? That your silence is guilt.”
“Hold your tongue,” William bit out.
“No,” Beaufort snapped, his temper breaking at last. “Not until you answer me. Do you mean to shame me for something I have never done, while you look at her as though she were already yours? Do you deny it? Speak plain!”
William’s grip tightened on the reins until his knuckles whitened. His breath came hard through his nose, his whole body strung taut with fury.
Beaufort’s gaze did not waver. “Say it, then. Or are you so craven you cannot own the truth of your own heart?”
For a moment William fought—fought for composure, for denial, for the armor that had always carried him through. But nothing came. The words burst from him raw, ragged, torn from the depths of his chest:
“I love her. Damn you all—I love her.”
The confession hung stark between them. Beaufort’s face shifted—astonishment, then dismay, then something like pity.
He stared hard at William, as if searching for shame.
“For her sake,” he said at last, tone tight, “I hope you have not done anything dishonorable with those feelings. Because I understand. She is—God help me—she is a woman worth loving.”
William’s throat worked. He could not answer.
Beaufort’s jaw clenched, anger flashing through his composure. “And yet you scour London for a bride, as if she meant nothing.”
William’s voice broke harsh. “I have my duty to the dukedom. She is intelligent, beautiful—but she lacks the qualities a duchess must possess. My mother set the measure, and Jane—” He faltered, his mouth flattening to a hard line.
“Besides, you know very well what scandal it would bring to marry a governess under my father’s roof.
Every sacrifice I made to clear my name—everything—would be for naught. ”
“Then you should have thought of that before you laid your hands upon her.”
“I know,” William bit out, savage. “I bloody know.”
Beaufort reined his horse back, disappointment written stark across his features.
He looked at William a long moment, saw the torment written all over him, and gave a single, hard shake of his head.
Without a backward glance, he wheeled away at a canter, leaving William straining against the weight of his own confession in the frost.
* * *
William had thought a ride through Hyde Park would steady him. Instead, he had confessed what he’d never meant to utter—I love her. The words still burned on his tongue as he entered Lord Clifford’s dining room, gilt mirrors and chandeliers glittering with borrowed light.
He should have pleaded fatigue. But Lord Clifford clapped him on the shoulder with a booming welcome, and drew him into the center of the company. He was the guest of honor. Retreat was impossible.
Conversation swelled, polite laughter rippling over gleaming glass and silver.
A string quartet played softly in the adjoining room, the music drifting in like perfume—subtle, but meant to stir.
William stood with a soldier’s discipline, but his mind was still in Hyde Park—on Beaufort’s accusing eyes, on Jane’s face when last he saw her.
And then Lady Philomena entered.
She came without fanfare, but the shift in the room was immediate. She was tall, finely made, her dark hair elegantly arranged. Her gown was of palest blue silk, the hue flattering against her luminous complexion. Her curtsy was deep enough to show respect, light enough to suggest confidence.
“Lord Blackmeer.” Her voice carried easily, warm yet measured. “At last we meet. My uncle speaks of you with admiration, though he exaggerates, I think. I feared you a figure of legend, but you seem reassuringly human.”
William bowed over her hand, reluctant fascination rising despite himself. “Lord Clifford is overly generous, I assure you, Lady Philomena, and legends usually disappoint in the flesh.”
“Not always.” Her gaze lingered on him just long enough to suggest wit, not forwardness, before she turned to greet another guest.
They were seated opposite one another, with Lord Clifford beaming between them like a matchmaker. To William’s right was Lady Halstead, an elderly dowager given to querulous complaints; to his left, a baronet so eager to impress that he tripped over his words. William braced himself for tedium.
It never came.
When Lady Halstead lamented the dampness of London, Philomena leaned toward her with genuine sympathy.
“Then you must go to Vienna, Lady Halstead. I was there with my father last spring. The air in May is soft, and the gardens at Schonbrunn rival anything in England. My father swears the music alone is worth the journey. I think even your rheumatism would be charmed out of you.” The old lady chuckled, mollified. Conversation rolled on.
The baronet attempted a jest about the bluntness of English cookery compared with the French, fumbling his punchline.
A silence threatened, but Philomena rescued him without effort.
“The French may excel at presentation, Sir Thomas, yet nothing equals the excellence of English produce, nor the clean, hearty flavors it affords. For my part, I prefer it.” Her smile was kind, her tone amused—the baronet flushed, grateful, hastened to agree with her, launching into a tale of the best beef à la mode he had ever tasted.
William found himself watching her. She made it look effortless, this command of company. Each word she spoke was polished, every gesture deliberate. She listened attentively, never flattered excessively, never stumbled. His mother would have approved every syllable, every inclination of her head.
When politics arose, she handled them with the same serene authority. Lord Clifford mentioned the Foreign Secretary’s letters from Vienna; Philomena recounted them with effortless poise.
“My father complains that Metternich loves to talk for hours and conclude precisely nothing. He writes that the diplomats spend more time at the card tables than at the conference table. He says it is a miracle Europe is not already at war again.”
Clifford chuckled nervously. “You must forgive her candor, Lord Blackmeer. She forgets herself.”
“I never forget myself,” Philomena said, still smiling. “I merely prefer the truth, Uncle.”
William’s brows rose despite himself. She had named Metternich without a flicker of hesitation, delivered her father’s opinion with assurance, and yet her tone remained light enough that none could take offense.
It was precisely the balance required of a great lady: knowledge without pedantry, wit without sharpness.
Later, over the fish course, she regarded William with calm interest. “Tell me, my lord—is it true you crossed the lines at Salamanca to rally your men? My father swears it, but I suspect him of embroidery.”
William felt the eyes of the table shift to him. “It was not so heroic as it sounds,” he said dryly. “I had a choice between advancing and retreating. Advancing seemed less likely to shame me.”
Her lips curved, composed but unmistakably amused. “Your humility is as rare as your courage, and twice as becoming, Lord Blackmeer.”
He ought to have dismissed the remark as an empty compliment, but the way her gaze held his made him wonder if she saw more than others did. He looked away first.
As the courses passed, William realized the company revolved around her. She was the axis of the room, each guest drawn to her warmth, her composure, her unerring sense of what to say. His mother had been like that—unassailable, polished, admired by all.
And unlike so many young women, Philomena never giggled, never babbled, never faltered. She was perfection itself.
When the ladies rose to withdraw, she passed him with a serene inclination of the head. “I hope, my lord, that you will allow me to ask you more of Spain when next we meet. My father insists soldiers never tell the true story, but I believe you might.”
William bowed. “I am at your service, my lady.”
Her smile lingered as she swept away with the others. Silence fell heavier after she had gone.
The gentlemen drew closer to the port, Lord Clifford thumping William on the shoulder. “Well, my lord? What do you think of my niece?”
William gave a noncommittal sound, though inwardly he admitted the truth.
He was impressed—more than impressed. Philomena was everything he had been bred to prize in a woman of rank: intelligent, elegant, composed, possessed of powerful connections.
His father would call her a prize. His mother would call her a triumph.
He admired her. He could even, with time, imagine himself loving her. If not for Jane.
For as Philomena’s image gleamed perfect in his mind, another face intruded: Jane’s, alive with quick laughter, unguarded as she gathered Margaret into her arms, tender with a mother’s warmth, fierce in her defense of ideas and beliefs, passionate when she argued with him. Philomena dazzled, but Jane haunted.
William lifted his glass of port, the warmth of it burning down his throat. For all Lady Philomena’s perfection, he felt no fire in his chest—only the echo of a governess’s voice, and the suspicion he may never be free of her.