Chapter 31
The courtship of Lord Blackmeer and Lady Philomena had become a subject of mild interest in Mayfair drawing rooms. They were seen at the King’s Theater in the Duke’s box—her gown immaculate, his attention unwavering.
Their names began to appear in the society columns—just enough to be noted, never enough to be remarked upon.
With the Duchess still away from London, daytime visits were limited.
But Westford House remained a center of evening society, its formal dinners drawing the best of the ton.
Philomena, polished and poised, moved among them with unstudied grace.
She quickly became a favorite—admired by the dowagers, copied by the debutantes, and approved by the men who mattered.
It was after one such dinner, when the candles had burned low and the gentlemen lingered over their port, that she expressed an interest in seeing the Westford collection.
Though her tone had been light, almost teasing, the request had not been refused.
Most of the family treasures remained at Westford Castle, but the townhouse gallery had its share of spoils: the kind of pieces that spoke to power, wealth, and heritage.
Now, with the hour slipping gently past ten, William stood at her side in the solemn stillness of that upper gallery, the door clicking shut behind them.
Candelabras had been lit for the occasion, casting a soft golden glow across the paneled walls.
Paintings stared down in silence: sacred and profane, battles and visions, martyrs and lovers—all watching.
“This,” William said, pausing before a vast altarpiece, “came from Mantua. Some minor duke—half mad, they say, and entirely bankrupt—sold most of his collection to my grandfather. The man had squandered his inheritance, but his family’s taste was superb.”
Philomena’s gaze traveled across the canvas. “Mantegna. One of the first to twist space like that—illusion used to build depth.”
William glanced at her. “You’ve been to Mantua?”
“Only once,” she said. “My father was on diplomatic assignment in Milan. We were granted a private tour of the Palazzo Ducale. The Camera degli Sposi left a mark—Mantegna’s illusions were unlike anything I’d seen.”
William inclined his head. “It is not an easy thing to forget.”
“No,” she agreed silkily. “Nor, I imagine, to paint. I admire how Renaissance artists began to see the world clearly—and dared to paint it that way.”
He nodded, amused despite himself. “Then you’ll recognize a few of these. My grandfather had a taste for the Florentine masters—Vasari, Bronzino—but we also have a handful of Venetian works. A couple of Titians, of course.”
She turned as he gestured to a wide, shadowy painting. “Diana and Actaeon,” she whispered. “So this is the one.”
They stood before it in companionable quiet. The goddess caught in surprise, the hunter’s fate sealed in the arc of her gaze. It was a scene of arrested violence—both intimate and eternal.
“I saw several Bellinis in Vienna,” Philomena said thoughtfully.
“All devotion and stillness—Madonnas with downcast eyes, saints lost in contemplation. Exquisite, but tame. This”—her attention fixed on Diana and Actaeon—“this breathes. It startles. It pulses with pagan wildness the others never dared attempt.”
William looked at her then, noting the way her eyes reflected the candlelight, the angle of her neck as she tilted her head to better study the brushwork. She was exquisite in pale green satin, her gloves removed, her hands bare and elegant.
“Your taste continues to impress me, Lady Philomena,” he said.
She gave a small smile. “You’ve made it very easy, my lord. One does not often have the chance to view such a collection in private.”
They sat, then, on the carved bench before the painting. Her skirts spread in careful folds beside him. They were close—closer than might be strictly proper without her chaperone—but no one would dare question it now. Not with their engagement all but arranged.
William found himself reaching for something to say, something light, but the door opened. He looked up.
Jane stood framed in the entrance, wearing a traveling cloak over her black wool dress. The high waist and careful drape of the fabric hid the swell of her belly, but not the paleness of her face. She stared at them as though she had stepped into a dream—or a nightmare.
“Miss Ansley,” he said, rising at once. “What on the devil are you doing here?”
Philomena turned slightly toward him, one brow lifting. “Come now, my lord,” she said coolly, “why concern yourself with the governess? She is the governess, is she not? You should not keep your betrothed waiting.”
The word struck like a knife through her heart. Jane’s hand went to her stomach, her breath catching. She staggered.
Charlotte was there in an instant, her grip firm at Jane’s elbow. “Forgive the interruption,” she said smoothly. “We’ve only just arrived. We had no idea you were entertaining.”
William stared. “Entertaining—”
“Miss Ansley has been unwell,” Charlotte continued, unfazed. “We’ve come to see a specialist in town. It’s her first time in the townhouse. She got lost—poor thing.”
Jane still said nothing. Her face was white, her body drawn tight with pain. She clutched her belly.
Charlotte’s smile didn’t falter. “Margaret is here as well. Looking for you, in fact. I told you not to coddle the child. She speaks of nothing but you.”
“I—” William began.
But Charlotte was already moving. “Come along, Miss Ansley. Let’s get you upstairs. You need rest.”
Jane let herself be led, her steps faltering but obedient. She didn’t look back.
Philomena sat very still. William said nothing. He could not. His gaze lingered on the door, now closed again, and the echo of Jane’s silence burned hotter than any words.
* * *
Philomena didn’t speak right away. She cast a long look at the door Jane had disappeared through, then returned to the painting before them.
“Well,” she said lightly, “that was rather theatrical.”
William offered no response.
She dusted a speck of lint from her skirts, her voice pleasant. “I do hope the poor girl recovers her health. She seemed quite pale. And very distressed.”
Still he remained silent.
Philomena turned her head slightly, enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. “There’s no need for awkwardness, my lord. I’m not blind. Nor particularly naive.”
William’s jaw worked. He stared ahead, expression unreadable.
“She is your mistress,” Philomena said, not accusing—just factual. Calm. “Or was. I don’t require the details.”
The lack of denial said it all.
She let out a soft huff. “If that’s meant to trouble me, it doesn’t. Such things are expected—understood, even. So long as everyone plays their part with dignity.”
He looked at her then—slowly.
Philomena smiled faintly. “Come now. You wouldn’t be the first man of your station with certain… entanglements. I only meant to reassure you. You needn’t give her up. Not on my account.”
His pulse kicked, too fast.
She reached for her gloves on the bench beside her, slipping them on with effortless elegance. “I’m not so naive as to expect a love match. Such things are rare between people of our rank. What matters is suitability.”
She rose then, slowly, and turned to face him.
“And we are perfectly suited, Lord Blackmeer. Your father has influence at Court and the Regent’s ear.
You, a future duke, are already assured a place of prominence—but your service in Spain has earned you distinction beyond birth.
Men admire you not only for your name, but for your deeds.
My father governs England’s foreign policy and commands influence in every court that matters.
And I—I am not without ambition of my own. ”
He exhaled, sharp and quiet. “Philomena—”
But she pressed on, her tone even. “With your family’s rank and reputation, and my father's name and my own efforts, there is no door at any court we could not open.” She paused, deliberately.
“I mean to become the hostess whose invitations command attention, whose drawing rooms set both fashion and policy—not merely in London, but in Paris, Vienna, even St. Petersburg, if the world permits it.”
William looked away.
“So you see—it matters little how you choose to spend your… affections,” she added, more softly now. “I would not begrudge you the governess. Or anyone else, provided it is done with discretion. I would expect the same courtesy in return.”
He turned his head to her at that. “Good God,” he muttered, recoiling.
Philomena met his eyes with practiced calm. “It would be the height of hypocrisy to expect faithfulness from me while you offer none in return. I assure you, I would be far more discreet than your stepmother. If ridicule is your concern.”
He stared at her, and felt something inside him fracture. She was everything he had once believed he needed. Beauty, pedigree, poise. A sharp mind, and ambition to match his own. Theirs would have been an alliance unlike anything England—perhaps even Europe—had seen.
And yet. What she offered was not a marriage. It was a treaty. Bloodless. Unfeeling. A future built on appearances and mutual indulgence. She spoke of titles and salons, of power and influence. But never once of loyalty. Of love. Of the quiet, essential faith between two souls bound for life.
His heart belonged to Jane. But some part of him, quiet and stubborn, had hoped that if he found a woman worthy enough—formidable, admirable—his heart might learn its place. That he might forget. That love might follow, if not lead. But this—
He would not live a life divided between his hearth and his bed. He would not bring children into a house shadowed by cynicism and betrayal. He had seen that already, under his father’s roof, and it had hollowed him. He would not reduce himself to that.
He turned to her, his voice storm-dark. “You mistake me, Lady Philomena. I do not seek a mere alliance. Or convenience. I seek a wife. And I would sooner remain unwed than bind myself to a stranger in my own home.”
Then he bowed, cold and final, and left her standing alone beneath the painted gods, never realizing he was lost to her forever.
* * *
The corridors of Westford House were quiet at this hour, the hush of late evening pressing against its paneled walls.
William climbed the staircase with measured steps, his boots muffled against the runner, but his breath tight with urgency.
He had not summoned a footman, nor asked the butler.
He did not wish to explain himself. Idle talk spread faster in town than in the country—and one whisper from a servant might turn into ten in a matter of hours.
Charlotte’s door was half closed. Light spilled into the hallway from within, warm and golden. He knocked once, then pushed it open without waiting.
She was at her dressing table, her light blond hair unpinned, half falling over her shoulder. She raised her eyes to the mirror and met his in the reflection, entirely unsurprised.
“Well,” she said, turning with a calm flick of her wrist. “I wondered how long it would take you to come.”
He stepped inside, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Where is she?”
Charlotte blinked once. “Do be more specific, William. I’ve met a number of women since our arrival. Do you mean Lady Philomena? Or is this about the one who nearly collapsed in the gallery?”
“You know who I mean.” His voice was low, strained. “Where is Miss Ansley’s room?”
Charlotte rose slowly, smoothing the sleeves of her robe. “Why?”
“She’s unwell,” he said at once. “I need to know how she is.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Your concern is touching.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” She crossed to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of water, unhurried. “But tell me, brother—haven’t you done enough?”
He flinched. “I only want to see that she is—”
“No,” Charlotte said crisply, turning to face him. “Let her rest. If you truly care for her, give her that much.”
He turned away, a hand rising to his forehead, fingers pressing hard against his temple.
After a pause, she added, more gently, “I put her in one of the east wing guest rooms. But I expect you to show more sense than to storm in there like a Byronic hero. Leave her be, at least tonight.”
He hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
He walked to the door. Paused. Then, without turning back, said, “I want you to understand, Charlotte. I care for Miss Ansley. She’s… a remarkable young woman. Kind to Margaret. Steady. She’s not just the governess.”
“I know,” Charlotte murmured. “She never was.”