Owen?But yes, of course. Owen. He had come to London on a lightning visit from Oxford. He had even been granted official permission since he had given the reason that his brother, an officer with Wellington’s armies as they prepared to face Napoleon Bonaparte and his newly gathered forces, was in London for a few days and wished to see him. He had arrived last evening, when only Ben and Stephanie were at home, though Devlin, Gwyneth, and Nick had not been far behind him, home early from Almack’s. Mama had returned from the opera much later.
“Oh, Pippa.” Her mother stood and opened the curtains so that the sunlight streamed into the room. “My mind is still grappling with the reality of what is happening. You arereallygoing to marry the Marquess of Roath? Today? By special license? And not even in a church, but in the drawing room at Arden House?”
Philippa’s stomach growled, though whether with hunger or something else she did not know.
“It is the Duke of Wilby’s dying wish,” she said.
Her mother was frowning. “With all due respect to the Duke of Wilby, Pippa,” she said, “he has had altogether too much of his own way all his life, or so I have understood from knowing Kitty all these years. And how do you know it is hisdyingwish? He is still alive this morning. He may live for another year—or ten years. Is every wish of his from now on going to be hisdyingwish andtherefore to be granted without question? Not that it would make much difference. His family havealwaysjumped to his tune anyway. Ordancedto his tune, I believe is the correct idiom. We are not his family, Pippa. You were not even betrothed to the Marquess of Roath... But then he came into the house with you last night after bringing you home and announced that you had accepted the offer of his hand... and that the wedding would be today.”
“It must have been a great shock to you all,” Philippa said.
“Ashock?” Her mother laughed, though she did not sound the slightest bit amused. “When he came here to discuss a marriage contract with Devlin a while ago and to propose marriage to you, you said a quite firm no. Though, actually, that whole incident was somewhat more bizarre than that. Apparently no contractwaseven discussed, and no offer was made. No refusal was given. There wasno betrothal.And no real explanation by either you or Devlin. Sometimes I think I must be losing my mind. But, Pippa, this isnotsomething you ought to be doing in such a hurry. I can understand that all must have been grief and worry and heightened emotion at Arden House last evening. I can understand—just—why the proposal was made and even why you accepted. One does not think rationally in times of crisis. One tends to react emotionally. But it is not too late. The hurried plans can be canceled or at least postponed. Give yourself time to know your own mind and your own heart. Let me send Devlin to Arden House.”
Philippa raised her knees beneath the covers, wrapped her arms about them, and lowered her forehead to rest on them.
She thought about marrying for love. She was not at all sure she loved the Marquess of Roath. How could she? She was even less certain that he loved her. He had never said anything to suggest that he did. She thought about a wedding at St. George’s on Hanover Square, with members of thetoncrowding every pew, organmusic filling the church—perhaps played by Sir Ifor Rhys—bells pealing from the church tower outside. She thought of a flower-bedecked carriage and showers of petals as she made a dash for it from the church doors with her bridegroom. She thought of a lavish wedding breakfast at Stratton House and speeches and cake and champagne. She thought of all the shopping that would precede such a wedding, of choosing designs and fabrics for her own gown and Stephanie’s and perhaps Joy’s. She thought of walking along the nave of the church on Devlin’s arm while the Marquess of Roath watched her come, the light of—
Even in that scenario was the Marquess of Roath to be her bridegroom, then? Not the man of her dreams, the love of her heart, and all the other commonplaces she might think of if she gave herself a bit more time?
She raised her head and looked at her mother.
“This is the wedding I want, Mama,” she said. “The Marquess of Roath is the man I want.”
Her mother heaved a deep sigh. But she did smile, albeit somewhat ruefully. “Then it is time you got out of that bed,” she said. “There issomuch to do, Pippa, that my head is about to spin on my shoulders.”
Philippa threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, actually smiling at her mother.
Chapter Nineteen
The Duke of Wilby had been denied his morning coffee. He was inclined to be grumpy about it and bark at anyone who came within his line of vision. Until, that was, the duchess reminded him of two facts that should make him ashamed of himself. First, he was still alive this morning, when last evening at Almack’s it had looked as though it was all over for him. Second, Lady Philippa Ware was going to marry Luc today.
“A day is still better worth living when it begins with coffee,” he muttered peevishly.
“You are an ingrate, Percy,” she said. “You might have been just a memory to me this morning.”
He brooded upon her words.
“I did notharassthat young woman, did I, May?” he asked.
“You did your very best, Percy,” she said. “But I do not believe she allows herself to be bullied.”
“Hmph,” he said. “All is in readiness, I assume?”
“It will be by two o’clock,” she told him. “One great advantageto my being old, Percy, is that no one expects me to exert myself any longer. More than that, no onewantsme to exert myself.”
“I daresay you did not get more than a wink of sleep last night,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Either go to your bed right now, May, and lie down, or climb in here beside me. Am I right in the middle of the bed? Is there room?”
“There is room. You do not need to move,” she said, looking toward the corner of the bedchamber, where His Grace’s valet had been standing quietly through most of the night lest his services be needed. He was already letting himself quietly into the duke’s dressing room and closing the door softly behind him.
The duchess drew back the covers and lay down beside her husband, her head on his outstretched arm. She sighed and relaxed.
“Percy,” she said. “Try not to give me any more frights like the one you gave me last night.”
“Not until at least nine months from tonight,” he said. “It is a promise, May. I intend seeing my great-grandson before I set out on my final journey. And I always get my way—or so say some people who shall remain nameless.”
They were both sleeping before many more minutes had passed.
—
