“Ah. You mean Pippa,”she had heard James say. “Lady Philippato you, Roath. The Earl of Stratton’s daughter.”
And then the Marquess of Roath had said the words that had seared themselves upon her mind and her memory and completely changed the course of her life. It was no exaggeration.
“Stratton?”he had said, sounding startled. “She isStratton’sdaughter? I do not dance with soiled goods, Rutledge.”
The words had been spoken a mere second before another burst of gleeful laughter from the women drowned out anything else he might have said—or anything the other men might have said in reply. By the time Philippa darted a look in their direction, both James and the marquess had disappeared. They had not returned.
But the damage had been done.
It had been painfully clear to Philippa that her father’s infidelities—for she had never been in any real doubt since the night of that fete that they were plural—and Devlin’s public exposure of them in the middle of a crowded ball had had a more far-reaching effect than she had realized. The whole of thetonhad heard of it and been scandalized and disgusted by it. Disgusted not just with her papa but with the whole family. They were allsoiled goods.
On the following morning she had informed her mama and papa that she would not be going to London after Easter. She had refused to give them any reason for the complete turnabout in her attitude but had remained adamant.Obstinacy,her father had called it as he had tried to wheedle her out of her doldrums.A nervous collapse,her mother had called it as she had tried to coax Philippa into believing that she would soon be cured if she would but go to London and start attending parties.
They had ended up going without her.
By the following year there had been no question of her making her come-out. Her father had died suddenly. And the year after that, just as they were leaving off their mourning for him, Grandmama Ware, his mother, had died. Last year she had simply said no when her mother has asked, halfheartedly it had seemed to Philippa, if she wished to go to London.
Then, early in the autumn, Devlin had come home at last. Devlin and Ben, and Ben’s one-year-old daughter, Joy. His wife, whom he had married the year before, had died while the British battalions were crossing the Pyrenees into France before the Battle of Toulouse.
By then Philippa had been twenty-one years old, still single, and with almost no social life to speak of. She had been deeply depressed, though she had hardly realized it.
Until, that was, Devlin had sat down with her one afternoon while she was hiding out in the turret room at the top of the west wing at Ravenswood. And somehow he had wheedled the whole sorry story out of her—Devlin, who had come home after six years with what had seemed like a granite heart. She had resented him because he had not written to any of them after he was banished and because he had waited two whole years and a little longer after Papa’s death before returning home. He had been her favorite brother before that even though she loved them all. He had come home not even realizing that he still loved them with a fierce passion deep within the frozen core of himself. At least, that was what Philippa had come to understand during those early weeks after his return and during that conversation he had had with her, when she had finally cracked and told him everything.
Everything.
The reason he had sought her out on that particular day was that there was to be a gathering that evening in Sidney Johnson’s barn, butnotto practice maypole dancing as usual. Sidney and Edwina Rutledge, who both occasionally spent time in London during the spring, were going to teach the steps of the waltz to anyone who was interested. It was the new dance that had come from Germany and was rapidly gaining in popularity in England. Devlin had agreed to go with Stephanie and Gwyneth Rhys, but Philippa had said no—more than once. She would not go. She had not even been sure she would go to the village assembly the following evening, though it was to be held in their own ballroom rather than the village inn for the first time in many years. But Devlin had challenged her after she had told her story. He had asked her if she was going to allow a man of such low, despicable character as the Marquess of Roath to blight the whole of the rest of her life.
And of course she was not going to allow any such thing.
Devlin had made her understand that she had been in hiding from her own life all that time, cowering at home, depressed and lethargic because she was afraid that if she took a step out into life she would be terribly hurt again. He had made her realize that the only person who was being hurt by her fears was herself.Notthe man who had spoken with such cruel disregard for her feelings and reputation—though he had not realized, of course, that she had overheard him.
She had gone to that waltz lesson. And she had gone to the assembly the following evening—and danced every set, including the waltzes.
Now she was going to London. To do all the things she ought to have done when she was eighteen. Surely it was not too late. She wasonlytwenty-two. She was not quite in her dotage. Perhaps the old dreams could be revived. Romance. Falling in love. Marriage. Happily ever after.
Well, perhaps not quite that last one, for it was something only children and very young persons could believe in. But happiness was surely possible. Just consider Devlin and Gwyneth, for example. They had fallen in love with each other at that infamous fete. Philippa was sure of it, though neither of them had said anything. Then they had been parted for six years and Gwyneth had almost married that Welsh musician. But she had wed Devlin instead just before Christmas in the presence of both their families. Philippa and Stephanie and Joy had been bridesmaids. And ever since there had been a quiet glow about the two of them. It seemed to Philippa that they were each other’s best friend and a great deal more besides.
Perhaps she would meet someone in London with whom she could find happiness like that.
Perhaps thetonwould have forgotten the old scandal by now.Or perhaps there never had been any great outrage after all. Mama had spent three Seasons there and had never been driven home by vicious gossip.
“Good gracious,” her mother said, sitting up and looking through the carriage window on her side. “We are almost there. I must have been sleeping for an hour or more. I amsosorry, girls. You have been very quiet. You must be terribly tired of communing with your own thoughts.” She laughed and regarded both her daughters with open affection. “This is going to be an exciting time—for both of you.”
“I know.” Philippa stretched out her hand for her mother’s and squeezed it, though she was not quite sure she spoke the truth. She felt suddenly anxious again. “Thank you for bringing me, Mama, even though I am sure you would a thousand times rather remain at home.”
“Not a bit of it,” her mother protested. “Not even nine hundred and ninety-nine times. This is one of the pleasurable duties of motherhood to which I have long looked forward, Pippa—introducing my daughters to London and thetonand watching them triumph and begin a happy life on their own account. You this year and Stephanie the year after next. But I shall do my best to see to it that you enjoy yourself even this year, Steph.”
“This year, yes, but forget about the year after next, Mama,” Stephanie said. “Oh, look. We really are here.”
They had indeed arrived within the confines of London. Philippa turned her wide-eyed gaze to what was passing beyond the windows. Her uncle was in sight again. He turned his head to look into the carriage, nodding when he saw that his sister was awake and smiling as his nieces gazed at the wonder of London out the window.
Chapter Three
Clarissa Ware, Dowager Countess of Stratton, had never particularly enjoyed London, except during the first two years of her marriage, when she had been young and in love and the whole world of thetonhad been new and wondrous to her. It had not taken her long to become disillusioned, however, and to choose to remain at Ravenswood with her children during the spring months while her husband was fulfilling his duties in the House of Lords. She had, however, gone to London with him and stayed for the whole of three Seasons following the ghastly scandal that had ruined one of their annual summer fetes and damaged the warm relationship between the Wares of Ravenswood and their neighbors. Her own family and his had urged her to go in order to keep up appearances and exercise some restraining influence upon her husband—by which was meant making it near impossible for him to employ a mistress or to visit brothels or whatever it was he did when he was there alone.
She had smiled her way through those London Seasons, hostingdinners and soirees with her husband, paying and receiving afternoon calls without him, attending garden parties and balls and theater parties and dinners, sometimes with him, sometimes not, hating almost every moment until it was time to return home.
This year everything was different. Now she was here on her own account, to present her elder daughter to society, to see that she was invited everywhere, to make sure she had every opportunity to make suitable lady friends and meet eligible suitors. There was her presentation at court to arrange, possibly a grand ball at Stratton House to organize later, after her son and his wife arrived in London, a coveted voucher to Almack’s assembly rooms to procure, a whole wardrobe of new clothes for all occasions to be ordered—among other things.
