Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Who wrote this,” Philip Ashwell, the Duke of Thorne, asked flatly, “and why?”
The scandal sheet lay open upon his desk, the thin paper already creased where his fingers had tightened and released again.
The fire in the grate burned low, sending out a dry, resinous scent that mingled with old leather and ink.
Outside the tall windows, winter pressed close to the glass, framed by a hard, colorless grey sky.
His longtime friend Andrew Hill, the Duke of Sinclair, was lounging opposite him with one shoulder propped against a bookcase as though he belonged there.
He was impeccably dressed, as always, with his coat cut to perfection and his cravat artfully careless.
Where Philip was dark and severe, black hair pulled back neatly and broad shoulders filling his chair with quiet authority, Andrew was all ease and charm, his hazel eyes alight with curiosity rather than concern.
Andrew tilted his head. “I brought it to you within the hour. That must count for something.”
Philip did not look up. “It counts for nothing if you cannot explain it.”
Andrew crossed the room and picked up the paper from Philip’s desk without asking. “Ah,” he said cheerfully. “This one. Yes, I can see why you are displeased.”
“Displeased,” Philip repeated in a dangerously calm tone of voice. “My name is printed beside that of an unmarried young lady I have never met. That is not displeasure, Sinclair. That is provocation.”
Andrew skimmed the column. “You must admit, it is rather dramatic.”
Philip’s jaw tightened. “I do not walk in Hyde Park. I do not escort young ladies. I do not,” he gestured sharply toward the paper “engage in whatever nonsense this implies.”
“And yet,” Andrew teased lightly, “here you are, a menace to maidenly virtue.”
Philip rose abruptly and turned away, pacing the length of the study. The room reflected him well with its dark wood paneling. Shelves were lined with orderly rows of ledgers and books, and everything was precisely where it ought to be. It was control, built into every surface.
And still, this had found him.
“I have taken great care to be absent,” he reminded his friend. “Deliberately so.”
Andrew leaned against the desk. “Which, I imagine, makes you irresistible.”
Philip shot him a glare. “This is not amusing.”
Andrew raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Forgive me. It is merely this,” he cleared his throat and adopted a mock-serious tone as he read, “The Duke of Thorne, long absent from society, appears to have developed an interest in innocent companionship, though whether the lady in question is as innocent as she appears remains to be seen.”
Philip stopped pacing.
Andrew grinned. “That is my favorite part.”
“You find this entertaining.”
“I find you entertaining,” Andrew corrected. “Particularly when society insists upon dragging you into its theatrics.”
Philip returned to the writing table and planted his hands upon it, leaning forward. “This young woman, this E. N., will suffer for this.”
Andrew’s smile faded slightly. “Yes. She will.”
“I will not be the cause of that,” Philip shook his head. “Not knowingly.”
Andrew folded the paper and set it aside. “Yes, someone has used your name very deliberately.”
Philip straightened. “For what purpose?”
Andrew shrugged. “Scandal for its own sake, perhaps to wound her… or you.”
Philip exhaled slowly through his nose. Anger simmered beneath the surface. It was controlled and precise but potent all the same. He had built his life around distance, around isolation that kept others safe and himself untouched.
“My privacy has been violated,” he said.
Andrew regarded him thoughtfully. “You are taking this rather personally.”
“I am implicated.”
“Yes,” Andrew agreed gently, “but most men would be concerned only with their own reputation.”
Philip’s mouth thinned. He turned back toward the fire.
“Whoever wrote it is responsible for the consequences,” he concluded. “Not I. I did not seek this, nor do I intend to involve myself further.”
Andrew sighed, pushing away from the writing table. “That is where you are wrong.”
Philip did not respond.
“The author does not matter,” Andrew went on. “Ink has already been spilled. What matters is that a young woman’s name has been printed beside yours, and society will not care whether the story is true.”
“That is unfortunate,” Philip said coolly.
“Unfortunate?” Andrew echoed. “Philip, she will be ruined unless something is done.”
“That,” Philip replied, turning at last, “is the concern of her family. Or of the coward who chose to invent the lie. I have nothing to do with the ton, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Andrew studied him for a long moment. “You are very good at telling yourself that.”
Philip folded his arms. “Say what you came to say, Sinclair.”
Andrew’s lips curved slightly. “Very well. A marriage of convenience would resolve the matter neatly.”
Philip stared at him. “That is absurd.”
“Is it?” Andrew asked mildly. “Your name restores her reputation. She gains protection. You gain—”
“I gain nothing,” Philip cut in sharply. “I have no interest in marriage.”
Andrew lifted a brow. “You have a daughter.”
Philip stiffened.
“Lilian will grow,” Andrew continued undeterred. “She will need more than silence and structure. She will need a woman in her life, a constant one.”
“She has a governess,” Philip pointed out. “Miss Leeds is more than adequate.”
Andrew smiled faintly. “A governess is not a mother.”
“I am not seeking a mother for her,” Philip replied. “Nor a wife for myself.”
Andrew stepped closer. His tone was softer now. “You are seeking nothing, my friend. That is precisely the problem.”
Philip’s gaze hardened. “You mistake restraint for deficiency.”
“I mistake fear for practicality,” Andrew retorted.
“This woman is a stranger,” Philip clarified. “I will not bind myself to someone I do not know simply because society demands a spectacle.”
Andrew shrugged. “Society already has one. This would merely control the narrative.”
“I refuse,” Philip said. “I will not be paraded as a solution to a problem I did not create.”
Andrew sighed again though this time there was no humor in it. “You may find,” he added quietly, “that refusing to act is still a choice, one that comes with consequences.”
Philip said nothing. Andrew picked up the folded scandal sheet from the desk and tapped it once against his palm.
“Think on it… not for the ton nor for your reputation.”
Philip did not turn.
“For the child,” Andrew added.
The words lingered after Andrew took his leave, the door closing softly behind him. Philip remained where he was, staring into the fire.
The echo of Lilian’s small, steady breathing rose unbidden in his mind, leaving him unaware that an idea he had dismissed as absurd had already inexorably begun to take root.
That night, Philip woke to the sound of soft, uneven footsteps. For a moment, he lay still, listening. The house was dark and hushed, the sort of silence that usually pleased him.
But this sound did not belong to the settling of beams or the whisper of wind against stone. It was too hesitant and too small. A faint hitching breath followed. Then another.
Philip rose at once.
He pulled on his robe and stepped into the corridor, the chill of the stone floor seeping instantly through the soles of his feet. A single candle burned low in its sconce, casting long, trembling shadows along the walls.
At the far end of the hall stood Lilian.
She was barefoot, her small toes curled inward as if trying to hold warmth.
Her yellow nightgown with daisies hung crookedly from one shoulder, the hem clutched tightly in her fists.
Her dark hair was usually brushed smooth by Miss Leeds, but now, it fell loose about her face in soft tangles.
She was crying silently, great tears slipping down her cheeks as she struggled to breathe quietly, as though afraid even of her own sorrow.
Philip stopped several paces away.
“Lily,” he said quietly.
She flinched. Her head snapped up, and he could see her blue eyes wide and shining in the candlelight.
For a moment, she looked ready to run. Instead, she stood frozen while her lower lip trembled.
Philip moved slowly until he stood before her.
Then, mindful of his height and her fear, he lowered himself onto one knee and then the other until they were nearly level.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. It was not an embrace.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
She shook her head at once, and her curls bounced wildly. “I… I’m not,” she whispered though a sob slipped out immediately after.
Philip did not correct her.
“You are awake when you should be asleep,” he said instead. “Something is wrong.”
She stared at the floor between them, her bare toes rubbing anxiously against one another. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You did not,” he lied. “Tell me.”
Her shoulders rose and fell beneath his hands. She sniffed hard then wiped her nose with the back of her hand, smearing tears across her cheek.
“I…” She hesitated, swallowing. “I’ll be in trouble.”
Philip frowned slightly. “For crying?”
She nodded miserably. “Miss Leeds says crying doesn’t fix things.”
“That depends,” he told her as if in confidence. “What needs fixing?”
Lilian shook her head again, more fiercely this time. Her curls slipped into her eyes, and she did not push them away. “I can’t say.”
Philip was quiet for a long moment. He adjusted his grip, with one hand lifting just enough to steady her when she swayed.
“You are not in trouble,” he tried to reassure her, but he could see himself that he wasn’t very good at it. “You may speak.”
She glanced up at him, eyes darting to his face and away again, as though unsure which version of him she might receive: the distant duke or something else entirely.
“It’s…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s silly.”
“I doubt that,” Philip said.
She sniffed again, then blurted. “I was bad.”
Philip stilled. “How?”
She worried at the hem of her nightgown. “I didn’t mean to. I tried really hard. I did.”
“Tried to do what?”
Her voice shook. “To be good.”
Philip closed his eyes briefly. “What happened, Lilian?”
She shook her head at once while her gaze was fixed stubbornly on the floor. Her fingers twisted the hem of her nightgown tighter and tighter, bunching the fabric in her fists as though she meant to wring it away entirely.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. It was very clearly not true.
Philip watched her in silence, his attention sharpening despite himself.
Children rarely hid things well. They only hid them earnestly.
As she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the candlelight caught a darker patch near the hem of her gown.
And then, faint but unmistakable, there was the smell.
Understanding settled heavily in his chest. Lilian must have seen it too, because she froze, and her face flushed a deep, mortified red. Her eyes filled again, and she shook her head harder, as if denial might undo it.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly, the words tumbling over one another. “I was asleep, and then I wasn’t, and I tried to be good, I really did—”
“That is enough,” Philip said, too sharply, then softened his tone at once. “Lilian. Look at me.”
She did not. Philip felt a strange, aching urgency then, an instinct he did not yet know how to name. He wanted to fix this, to make it stop hurting her, but the proper words escaped him entirely.
He cleared his throat. “You… you could not help it,” he explained as best as he could. “This happens.”
She sniffed. “Miss Leeds says big girls don’t.”
Philip frowned. “Miss Leeds is mistaken.”
Lilian peeked up at him through her lashes, hope and fear warring openly on her face. “She is?”
“Yes,” he said firmly though he was not entirely certain why. “You are not at fault.”
She hesitated then whispered, “You won’t send me away?”
The question struck him harder than anything else that night.
“No,” Philip said at once. “Never.”
Her lip trembled, and she nodded, as if committing the word to memory. She swayed slightly where she stood, and her exhaustion finally overtook shame.
He searched for something more to say, but his mind offered nothing adequate.
Instead, he said clumsily. “It is… very late. You should be warm.”
It was a poor attempt at comfort, and he knew it. He turned and rang for a maid. She arrived moments later, blinking sleepily but immediately alert at the sight of the child.
“See to her,” he said. “Gently.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid replied kindly, her attention already on the child.
Lilian hesitated as the woman reached for her hand. She looked back at Philip once more, and her blue eyes searched his face.
“You’re not angry?” she asked.
“No,” he nodded once. “Go on.”
She allowed herself to be led away, glancing back once more before disappearing down the corridor. Philip remained where he was long after their footsteps faded. The house returned to silence, but it no longer felt peaceful. It felt hollow.
He thought of Andrew’s voice earlier that day, how perceptive he was.
A governess is not a mother.
Philip exhaled slowly and pressed a hand to his brow.
Andrew was right. Lilian needed more than rules and restraint, more than kindness administered at a distance.
She needed warmth, patience, and someone who could find the right words when he could not, someone who, unlike him, was not afraid of tenderness.
The realization settled with quiet, irrevocable weight. He had avoided the world to protect himself, but in doing so, he had left his daughter alone.
And that, he knew with sudden clarity, was a failure he could no longer afford.