Chapter 16
“Ican give you the name of an excellent physician,” said Noah Morton, the Marquess of Ramsbury, as he sipped Philip’s good port and stood beside him as if they were good friends.
Philip raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For Lady Selina, of course.” The Marquess gulped down another mouthful. “Or, I know of an apothecary who makes all manner of tonics and tinctures for every affliction you can think of. They might be able to make something for her nerves.”
“She just needs rest,” Philip said, parroting his sister.
The entire dinner had passed with no sign of Selina whatsoever. A maid had confirmed what Lizzy had said, but Philip remained unconvinced. There was a reason Selina was hiding in her room, and it had nothing to do with stress.
Either she is hiding from me, or she is hiding from the Marquess.
“Well, naturally. Planning a wedding and a house party must be exhausting,” the Marquess said. “I suppose it will be good practice for when she is the Duchess, though.”
Philip tried his best not to pull a face. He would not turn his manor into a gathering place for the rich and soulless elite. A playground for the vapid.
It would forever be a strange conundrum to be a duke, rubbing shoulders with the same people who had sent so many young men to war. People whom the men of his battalion had despised and he, in turn, had grown to hate. Now, he was one of those elites.
“I just wanted to say that there are no hard feelings,” the Marquess continued in a nervy voice that annoyed him.
“About Lady Selina, I mean. I spoke to her this morning to reassure her. In truth, I am grateful for the invitation, for it gives me the chance to tell you both how happy I am for both of you.”
Philip sipped his drink. “That is generous of you.”
“Not really. It is simply the truth.”
“Yes, well, I apologize for any gossip that has been directed at you,” he said, attempting to be generous himself. “The ton are vultures.”
“It has not been so bad,” the Marquess replied with a shrug. “I daresay you are more interesting than I am, and people are enjoying the fresh excitement.”
“I’m sure they are.”
Philip couldn’t do this anymore. If he had to force out another polite sentence, he would squeeze the port glass in his hand until it shattered. Inane conversation was the worst part of society, right there alongside the scandal sheets and their thirst for ruining reputations.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, nodding to the French doors that led out into the garden. “I think I just saw a fox. Can’t have it getting into the hen house.”
He did not wait for the Marquess’s reply and strode off with the port glass still in his hand, straight out onto the terrace. He didn’t stop there, descending into the dark, grateful for the cool air that swept over his face and ruffled his hair.
I never thought I would wish to be back on a battlefield.
The nights spent around campfires with men who understood, brothers-in-arms without affectation or self-importance, were far preferable to enduring one single evening with vacuous gentlemen who had never struggled in their lives.
“Give me strength,” he muttered, letting himself through the iron gate into the walled gardens.
He planned to find a comfortable bench and stay there until every last guest had gone to bed. Maybe tomorrow, he would be the one to claim a vague malady that would permit him to keep to his rooms.
Peace and stillness blanketed him, the sky a carpet of stars. The night world was his favorite, where he could be alone and awake while everyone else slept, a realm all his own to anchor himself.
An old ache shifted him off the bench, and he rose reluctantly to shake out the stiffness. The port glass lay empty on the gravel. That, if nothing else, was a reason to return to the house instead of sleeping out there beneath the stars.
Back to society. Back to rules. Back to normalcy that feels foreign.
He sighed and picked up the glass. At least the manor would be quiet now, given the late hour. He wasn’t exactly sure how long he had been outside, but it must have been past midnight.
A yawn stretched his mouth as he made his way toward the entrance of the walled gardens, but as he passed the glittering spray of a fountain, he paused. His ears pricked at a soft sound that didn’t belong in the serene garden—the scuff of footsteps.
He turned in the direction of the noise.
There, coming to the gate of another section of the walled gardens, was a goddess. Her hair loose, falling in waves past her shoulders, the white hem of her nightdress trailing the ground, a cloak over the top to keep out the cold.
Selina looked up as her hand settled on the gate, and a sharp gasp cut through the still air.
“Your Grace.” Her eyes widened. “I… I didn’t know anyone would be out here. Apologies. I will… um… I will go.”
He was curious to know where she planned to go when she would have to come through the gate to get to the main entrance of the gardens.
As she turned, he quickly closed the distance between them, his hand reaching across the gate to catch her wrist. Not a forceful grab as he had done before, but a gentle touch to urge her to turn back around.
She did, frowning down at his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
She glanced up. “Is that an order?”
A great sigh heaved out of him. “No, it’s not an order.” He released his hold on her and ran that hand through his hair. “I have done everything wrong, haven’t I?”
Selina hesitated. Then, her head dipped in a hesitant nod.
“Sit with me,” he said, gesturing to a nearby bench. “Please.”
He walked there without her, letting her decide. The hard bench refreshed the old ache that had been troubling him, but at least it gave him something else to focus on while he waited for her to come to him.
The gate opened, and she walked through. Her gaze traveled to the garden entrance, then back to him.
Slowly, holding her cloak around her to hide her nightdress, she approached the bench and sat down. A polite distance gaped between them.
“I am sorry about yesterday,” he said. “That business with Mary. I am aware of what you must think, and I apologize for it.”
Selina shook her head. “No one is a saint in this society, Your Grace. No man, certainly.” She chewed her lip in consternation. “It wasn’t the surprise you think it is.”
“No, perhaps not.” Philip paused. “Is that why you were not at dinner? Because of my actions yesterday?”
Every time he kissed her, or almost did, she seemed to pull further away from him. In his experience, that was not how it was supposed to go, but Selina was not like anyone he had met before.
“It’s not just that,” she replied, staring out across the starlit gardens. “It is everything and nothing that I can put my finger on. I just… I thought that the days leading up to my wedding would be different, somehow. When I dreamed of it as a girl, it didn’t look like this.”
“What did you think it would look like?”
She flicked a leaf from her cloak. “I don’t know.
” She shook her head. “I thought I would know my husband better, I suppose—that I would feel wooed. I thought it would be romantic. In truth, I imagined my future husband might read poetry to me or confess to me as they do in the books I adore. Something to stir the heart. Something to let me know that my husband wants me.”
“You think I don’t want you?” Philip stared at her, incredulous.
He had assumed that his desiring her too much, too intensely, had upset her. Yet now she was saying she thought he did not want her? It was absurd, but then he had never really understood the minds of women.
She shrugged. “I, like you, don’t know if I am wanted the way I want to be wanted.”
He was beginning to wish he had not said that to her. If it was making his head swirl, it must have been the same for her.
“Then let me show you,” he purred, twisting toward her.
His hand cradled her cheek, his thumb brushing the rosy apple, while his other arm wrapped around her and pulled her to him.
His lips sought hers in a fierce kiss that he hoped would explain better than any words that if it was not being wanted that she feared, then she had nothing to worry about at all.