Philippa turned her eyes now to the carriage seat across from her own, where her sister sat gazing out through the window. Stephanie was looking forward to being in London, even though she was too young to attend any but the most informal of entertainments. She claimed that she had no desirewhatsoever—she always emphasized the one word—to attend balls and parties. But shedidwant to see everything that was to be seen and believed she had convinced Miss Field that a visit to a gallery or museum or one of the famous churches was as important a part of her education as the conjugation of French verbs or learning to embroider in such a way that it was virtually impossible to distinguish the back of the stitches from the front. Uncle George Greenfield, their mama’s brother, who always stayed a part of the Season at his bachelor rooms in London—though he was a widower, not a bachelor—had promised to take her to the Tower of London one day and show her all the most gruesome exhibits there, like axes that had been used for beheadings. The sorts of things Miss Field would surely keep her well away from lest they induce nightmares in her young pupil. Stephanie was thrilled.
Uncle George was with them now, riding his horse close by the carriage. He had brought forward his own planned journey to London by a week or so since he did not like the idea of his sister and nieces traveling without male escort. He had assured them all, winking at them as he handed them into the carriage outside the doors of Ravenswood early this morning, that even the most fierce of highwaymen would surely turn tail and run after taking one look at him.
Stephanie turned her head from the window and smiled at Philippa. She did not speak, though, after glancing at their mother.She held a finger to her lips instead, and Philippa turned her head to see that Mama had dozed off, her head propped on the corner of the cushions behind and to one side of her. Philippa winked at her sister, who resumed her perusal of the countryside passing the window.
Poor Steph had a very low image of herself. She had been a plump child, who had been assured by everyone, perhaps unwisely, that she would soon grow out of her baby fat. She had given up askingwhenthat would happen by the time she was ten. Now she was a large young lady with a round face and smooth, shiny cheeks. She had very long golden blond hair, which she refused to have cut or even trimmed and wore in thick, heavy braids wound over the top of her head. To Philippa she had a beauty all her own—wholesome and bright-eyed and genial. But in her own eyes Steph was fat and ugly.
Ah, what we do to destroy ourselves,Philippa thought.Yet so many of us do it.
She turned her head to look at her mother again. She was still beautiful even though she was in her late forties by now. There was no gray in her dark hair. She was dignified and charming and respected, even loved, by all who knew her. Yet she must have spent years of her life feeling unattractive and inadequate, believing that she was notenough.When they were all young children, Mama had stayed home with them during the spring while Papa went to London alone to do his duty as a peer of the realm and a member of the House of Lords. For the rest of the year, when Papa was back home, she had glowed as she worked tirelessly to organize and host all the grand entertainments for the neighborhood he had loved. Yet, looking back, Philippa realized that he had done little or nothing to help Mama with all the work. And then he had dishonored her in the worst way possible. One summer he had brought a youngmistress to the village of Boscombe just outside the gates and across the river from Ravenswood, and he had invited her to attend the summer fete in the park. There had been a horribly public scandal when Devlin had discovered them in compromising circumstances together in the temple folly a short distance from the house during the evening ball and had refused to keep quiet about it until the next day, when he could have confronted their father alone. He had denounced Papa in front of all their neighbors.
It had turned out—though it was never actually acknowledged openly—that Mama had been fully aware of Papa’s infidelities through the years but had never spoken a word of them to anyone. Perhaps not even to Papa himself. What must all that have done to her confidence in herself? To her belief in her beauty and charm and ability to attract love and lasting devotion?
Philippa sighed but smiled and shook her head when Stephanie turned her face from the window and raised her eyebrows in inquiry.
Mamahadgone to London with Papa for the three Seasons following that scandal. Papa’s sudden death of a heart seizure had put a stop to any more. She knew enough people, though, she had assured Philippa a few days ago, and was known well enough, to introduce her daughter to thetonand ensure that she was invited to all the most prestigious entertainments.
“I am, after all, theDowager Countess of Stratton,” she had reminded Philippa. “I amsomebody.Just as you are—you areLadyPhilippa Ware. Devlin is theEarl of Stratton. Nowwill you relax, you silly goose?”
Yet Philippa had refused a Season when she was eighteen and again last year when she was twenty-one because she had feared that the family’s scandal of more than six years ago had spread to thetonin general and that as Papa’s daughter she would beostracized if she showed her face in London. It might seem to have been a foolish fear, but it had not been groundless.
Life at Ravenswood had changed after the scandal. She had been fifteen years old at the time, on the cusp of young womanhood, her head filled and bubbling over with dreams of an exciting future. They had been a close and happy family then, and they had been loved in the neighborhood. But the day after the scandal erupted Devlin left home, banished by Mama, and Ben went with him for reasons of his own. They went to the Peninsula, where war was raging against Napoleon Bonaparte, Devlin as an officer in a foot regiment, Ben as his supposed batman. Nicholas joined them there a month or so later though in a different regiment. Owen, twelve at the time, went off to school. Mama stopped entertaining, and the light seemed to go out of her. Papa continued as usual—cheerful, genial, gregarious. Yet there had seemed something hollow about his joviality, as though he were somehow playing a caricature of himself. Or so it had seemed to Philippa, who had suddenly found herself seeing him through newly opened eyes.
Stephanie, aged nine at the time, and Philippa had carried on as best they could. But nothing had been the same. They had no longer been the golden family, and Ravenswood had no longer been the center of the universe for all who lived within a five-mile radius of it.
“Did I fall asleep?” Mama asked now, her voice still sleepy. “I must have eaten too much luncheon. I am very poor company, girls, I am afraid.”
“Steph and I are happily communing with our own thoughts in order not to disturb you,” Philippa told her.
“I am busy watching the passing countryside,” Stephanie said. “I am disappointed to see that the grass and trees are still green this far from home instead of orange or purple or checkered orsomething more interesting. And the houses and churches look much like those at home.”
“Absurd,” their mother murmured, and closed her eyes to sleep again.
The sisters exchanged a smile, and Philippa moved the side of her face close to the window to peer ahead. Surely London would come into viewsoon.A couple of times she had been deceived by a distant church spire, only to discover that the church was situated in a country village. But this time... Oh, surely that faint halo of smoke on the horizon was it, though doubtless it would take them another hour or two to get there. She felt as though butterflies were dancing in her stomach as she attracted Stephanie’s attention and pointed. Her sister swiveled about in her seat to take a look behind her and then nodded and beamed happily. She clapped her hands silently, and they both laughed just as soundlessly.
Their uncle rode up beside the carriage as they were doing so and bent to peer through the window. He looked across at their mother, shook his head, and indicated to his nieces that they should look ahead.London,he mouthed at them. They nodded at him with smiling animation, though they did not attempt to lower the window and risk waking their mother. Uncle George nodded back and rode on ahead.
It was not the changes at Ravenswood, however, that had stopped Philippa from going to London at the age of eighteen with Mama and Papa for a come-out Season. It was something else entirely. She had been planning to go. Indeed, for several months she had waited with impatient excitement at the prospect of life turning bright and eventful again. She had dreamed of romance and love and happily ever after.
But then something had happened.
She had joined the local maypole dancing group just afterChristmas. They practiced one evening every second week in a large, rather elegant barn on Sidney Johnson’s property. Philippa had joined them even though she would not be in the neighborhood on May Day but in London instead.
On this particular occasion, James Rutledge, middle son of Baron Hardington, their neighbor, had come too, bringing with him a friend from his years at Oxford who was visiting him for Easter. There had been a buzz of interest over the visitor, for they rarely saw strangers in the neighborhood. And he was a titled gentleman, a marquess, though someone had said it was only a courtesy title. What that meant, though, was that he must be heir to arealtitle. Philippa had been as curious and interested as everyone else. But she had forgotten all about the splendor of his prospects when she saw him. For he was quite the most gorgeous man she had ever set eyes upon—tall, long-legged, perfectly formed, and handsome as well. But it was his hair that was his most striking feature. It was both dark and red at the same time and thick and shining and expertly styled.
Philippa, with all the questionable maturity of an eighteen-year-old, had fallen headlong in love with him.
James had introduced him as the Marquess of Roath but had not presented him to everyone individually.
He had bowed to all of them a bit stiffly. Philippa had thought that perhaps he was on the haughty side. Or perhaps he was merely shy and feeling daunted at having so many strangers stare at him, dumbfounded for the first few moments.
The men had gathered in a group at one end of the barn, as they always did at the start of the evening, while the women had huddled and chattered and giggled closer to the maypole. There had been more chattering and giggling than usual, of course, but Philippa had not participated in it. She had been straining her earsto overhear what the men were talking about. It would have been far better for her if she had not done so, for she had succeeded all too well. Four years later the memory was still as raw as if it had happened yesterday.
The men had been urging the marquess to dance even though he protested that he knew absolutelynothingabout maypole dancing and would be sure to make an utter ass of himself if he tried. And yes, he really had used the wordass, believing as he had that he was talking just to the men. He had said it moments before a burst of laughter from the women over an unrelated subject had drowned out the men’s voices.
“Give it a try,” Sidney Johnson had been urging the marquess when Philippa could hear them again. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to one of the women and she will guide you through the steps and the patterns with the ribbon.”
“If you could make it the blond beauty...” the marquess had said, and Philippa had looked away sharply so that she would not be caught staring. She was the only real blonde among the women. But...blond beauty?Really?
