“Forgive me if I question the source of the warning.” Her hazel gaze flicked over him.
Damn her, he wished he did not find those eyes as entrancing as he always had. They were large in her small, oval face, fringed with an excess of thick chestnut lashes that rendered them all the more vibrant. If one bothered to look close enough, one could see the striations of gold, gray, and bronze that blended together to make the color of her irises so arresting.
And of course Roland bothered to look close enough.
He always had when it came to her.
“Disbelieve me as you will,” he said, as if her continued belief that he was a liar was not a ceaseless dagger to the heart. “I do hope you might trust your friend, Mrs. Hastings. I will vouch for the character of her husband, Mr. Hastings, though I am certain you shall find it suspect.”
Her countenance remained as impassive and devoid of expression as ever. “My friendship with Tilly is none of your concern. Nor is anything to do with my husband, myself, or our daughter. Your interference is unwanted and misplaced, Northwich.”
A fresh burst of rain pelted the roof of the carriage, reminding him the day was dreary and gray. Much like his life. If he had not had his friends, his intellectual pursuits, and sport, it would have been bloody well interminable.
“I understand your hesitation. However, I do hope you will at least consider the ramifications of your husband’s actions and how they could fall upon you and the child.” Grimly, he rose, hunched over in the interior of the carriage as he reached for the door. “I will not opportune you any longer.”
She stayed his exit with a sudden hand on his elbow. One quick touch before she released him as if she had accidentally touched offal instead of a living, breathing man. He glanced back at her.
Those lush lips were thinner than ever, likely with disgust for him. Fair enough. He expected her rancor, crushing though it was.
“It is raining. You may have the use of my carriage to return you to your home.”
“Concern for me, Mrs. Shaw? I am touched.” The bitterness returned.
He did not like embracing the darkness. She brought him to it. Moored him in the muck as surely as a boat’s anchor. Only, her intention was not to keep him safely in the harbor. No, she wished to drown him.
“My concern is selfish. Should you expire from a lung infection after walking back to your townhome in the rain, I would not have your death on my conscience.”
“Ah. A little rain is good for the soul.”
“Yours will require a deluge.”
“How appropriate it will be, then,” he told her. “Good day, Lady Philippa.”
He would have tipped his hat, but he hadn’t worn one.
With his farewell, he opened the door and leapt from the carriage, eschewing the step to land on the soaked pavements. Rain lashed his face as he turned in the direction of his townhome. She did not follow, and nor did she call after him.
But then, neither had he expected she would.
Chapter 2
“Mama, bird!”
In the parterre behind the townhome she had once shared with George, Pippa followed the direction of her daughter’s pointing finger. There was indeed a small gray bird perched on a carefully sculpted boxwood hedge. Watching them with nervous, dark eyes, its head tilted.
For some reason, dark eyes made her think ofhim.
The Duke of Northwich.
Roland.
Once, she had called him by his given name. She had believed herself in love with him. She had kissed that forbidding ducal mouth, had known the strength of his arms wrapped around her. But everything she had known of him had been a lie…
“Bird, Mama!” Charlotte squealed again, toddling forward down the gravel path, as if she expected to be able to catch the tiny, winged creature before it flew away. “See bird!”
“I do see a bird,” she said calmly. “What color is he, darling?”
“Bwack!” Charlotte announced, her girlish voice echoing off the walls of the adjoining townhomes.
