“A book. I know it well. It seems I cannot turn around without a courier delivering more unwelcome news about you. FirstThe Times, then the book, then the missive from my sister-in-law of your elopement.”
Philip watched Miranda pale, undoubtedly at the notion of her father reading the literary telltale, even if the magistrate didn’t know all of the thinly disguised characters.
Miranda glanced at Philip. He nodded, hoping that gave her some reassurance. She looked at her father again.
“Given the book, his lordship and I thought a speedy marriage to be the best course of action,” she finished. “Did you come to stop us?”
“I came to make sure you weren’t being forced into something. Just because I want you married, that doesn’t mean I wish you to marry any old swell.”
“Lord Mercer is not any old swell,” she said.
Philip appreciated her standing up for him. However, when she opened her mouth again, he wished she would stop at what she’d already said.
“It’s true he’s been in too many gossip columns with too many young ladies.”
Philip winced.
“But I have also seen him perform acts of kindness, even recently toward cousin Peter. I think I shall, at least, not be beaten.”
“Beaten?” Philip spluttered. “Of course you won’t! I do not hold with those who strike a woman. I am an officer and a gentleman, and in my upbringing, neither of those afforded room for tormenting the weaker sex.”
“What about her allowance?” Sir William asked. “I intend to provide a dowry, but I vow it should belong to her to spend on whatever she needs, particularly if you turn out to be a miser.”
Philip wisely knew it was best not to mention how they might need her allowance to live on until he could recoup his losses.
“Miss Bright may spend her money how she sees fit,” he promised.
Although if she wanted to eat, she might see fit to spend it on the butcher, the baker, and the green grocer,Philip thought. Again, he knew better than to say it.
Her father dropped his hands from her arms.
“Then I shall not stand in the way, and there’s only one thing left to do.”
Philip nodded and looked to the blacksmith who’d downed the rest of his ale while listening to the small drama play out before him.
“Yes,” the magistrate said, and he swept his daughter to the side and took a step toward Philip. “I must give you a sound thrashing for ruining my daughter. We’ll start with a blow to your lying mouth,” he said, “and then a good plump in your breadbasket.”
“Papa!” Miranda said. “Please do not resort to violence.”
“This is about your honor,” Sir William said. “I told him to keep your reputation pure, but he has already milked the cow if I’m not mistaken.”
Miranda’s cheeks went red as an apple.
“No, sir,” Philip protested. “We have not done what you fear.”
“You haven’t shared a bed?”
“Papa,” she moaned out an embarrassed protest.
The blacksmith turned heel and went inside. Even the dog disappeared, perhaps not wanting to be party to this mortifying discussion.
Philip stood his ground. “We have not.”
“Last night?” Sir William asked.
“Oh.” Philip had not forgotten the inn, yet he hardly thought that was what the magistrate meant. “We did share a bed since the inn was otherwise full, but your daughter stayed fully dressed and lay atop the counterpane.”
The man’s eyes grew larger. Then he looked around at his daughter.
