“You wished to speak to me?”
“I did,” he said, adjusting his coat with habitual precision. “What do you think of her?”
“Lady Cassandra?”
“Yes.”
Philippa’s smile returned, softer this time.
“I like her very much, as you know. She has been good for you.”
“You are quick to decide.”
“I am,” she agreed. “But I am rarely wrong.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“She is kind,” Philippa continued. “And she does not speak down to me like most people do. She is wonderful company too, though I suppose you already know that.”
George exhaled slowly.
“This arrangement was never meant to be personal. We are not supposed to think of her that way, Philippa.”
“It never is personal,” Philippa said gently. “Until it is.”
“Do you honestly think this is a wise match?”
“I think it is good,” she replied. “For you, and for her.”
“For me,” he repeated, skeptical.
“You say that as though it is a given that it is good for her, but not so much yourself.”
“I provide her the protection of a husband.”
“Yes,” Philippa said. “And she makes you a different man.”
“In what way?”
“You listen more,” she said. “You laugh. You are present.”
“A lack thereof is hardly a flaw.”
“No?” she asked. “Well, even if it is not, it is new, and a welcome change at that.”
He looked out over the grounds, where Cassandra now walked with Anthea, her posture relaxed in a way he had not seen when she first arrived.
“I have doubts,” he admitted.
“About her? Because you need not, Brother. I know you think me young and naive, but I do have a decent judge of character, and–”
“About myself,” he said. “Since Father died, there has been no room for error. No margin for indulgence. Every decision carries consequences, and I have always had to act accordingly. Now, I do not know that I am doing what is right, and it puts you at risk.”
“And you carry such burdens alone,” Philippa said quietly. “You know that you do not need to do that.”
“But I should. It is my responsibility.”
She frowned at that.
