Page 17 of Her Unsuitable Match

He stared at her, trying to take her measure and failing. Miserably. “I am here most mornings. Though not many people could have told you that.”

“No. Not many.” She turned to look at him again, and the pink in her cheeks darkened. “As I said, I have something important to discuss with you. And I do not imagine you are going to enjoy parts of this conversation. I think I must get the unpleasantness out of the way before anything else.”

Myles narrowed his eye at her, utterly flummoxed. What could the woman mean, seeking him out? They were strangers to one another. Yet she knew where to find him and had some matter of business to discuss with him. It had to regard the evening of the ball. Did she perhaps wish him to refute the rumors in some way? Would that not only give them greater credence?

“If that is what you feel is best, my lady.” Myles glanced again at the maid in the corner, noting she had taken out a book to read rather than spend her time gawking at her mistress. That either meant the maid knew what was going on or that she didn’t care to know. Myles wagered on the former. “What unpleasant thing do you have to say to me?”

Lady Philippa’s chin tipped upward, and he saw her defenses go up the way one might raise a shield. The merriment in her eyes faded, and her lovely face grew pale. “I requested that my solicitor investigate you so I could learn more about the sort of man you are and what kind of family you have come from.”

Myles stared at her. “You did what?” He wasn’t certain whether to be amused or affronted.

The proprietor arrived and sat a tea tray on the table with one pot, two cups, and the necessary containers of cream and sugar. Then he vanished without a word, leaving Myles and Lady Philippa staring at one another in silence.

* * *

Philippa did not fidget. She had command enough of the moment to keep perfectly still. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk had insisted that she maintain a veneer of calm, even if she did not feel it, when she approached Mr. Cobbett. He hadn’t liked that she wanted to do it alone. In a place where Cobbett was comfortable. But it had seemed cruel to invite him to her home or have Mr. Tuttle-Kirk try to explain the situation to the former soldier.

If she was desperate enough to approach Mr. Cobbett with her ridiculous scheme, she ought to be brave enough to present it to him by herself.

She poured herself a cup of tea, using the time it took to add a splash of cream to prepare her next words. “I know it is not the thing, to admit one dove into your life without your knowledge. But I would much rather begin this conversation with honesty. I have no wish to cloud the issue with politeness.”

“The issue,” he repeated, staring at her with a dumbfounded expression upon his face. “Which issue would that be, if it is not your delving into my privacy?”

He had every right to be upset, she reminded herself. Philippa stirred her tea with the small, slightly bent spoon from the tray. “I find myself in the midst of a dilemma, Mr. Cobbett.”

Avoiding eye contact seemed wise for the moment. With such a fierce man glaring at her, she might never get her words out. Feigning bravery was easier when she needn’t see his frowns.

“The night we met, and wherein you subsequently rescued me from the attentions of a man I did not wish to entertain—”

The gentleman interrupted her with a dark chuckle, and then he said, “You mean the night Lord Walter accosted you, and I pulled you through a bush.”

She put the spoon down. “Yes. That is what I meant.”

“If you are going to speak honestly, Lady Philippa, you might also speak plainly. I would prefer to get to the heart of the matter rather than listen to your pretty use of the King’s English.”

She darted a look up at him then, her eyes wide with surprise. She expected him to appear vexed, and instead she saw the glimmer of humor in his eye. And a slight smile upon his half-ravaged face. He looked most pleasant, actually.

“Very well.” Philippa shifted her hands to her lap. She chewed her bottom lip a moment, reordering her explanation. How did she fully explain and use the fewest possible words? Her rehearsed speech had sounded impressive to her in the mirror that morning.

Perhaps brevity and bluntness would serve as her allies. “If I am to speak plainly, then here is the circumstance. My brother will force me into a marriage I do not want, to a man I cannot trust or abide. To save myself from this fate, I must find my own match, and quickly take a husband of my choosing.”

Mr. Cobbett arched an eyebrow at her, but he said nothing. Perhaps he waited for her to do the unthinkable. What woman offered marriage to a man? Let alone to a man she barely knew. Yet she had considered the few options available to her, discussed them with Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, and had found this course best. Being missish now would serve no purpose.

Philippa held herself perfectly erect, the very model of a British noblewoman. “To take control of my situation, I need a man who will understand these circumstances and be as much a partner in business as in life. I have decided to ask you, Mr. Cobbett, if you would consider marrying me.”

Seven

Desperation had driven many a man past the edge of reason. Now it had led the elegant, beautiful woman sitting before Myles to the brink of ruin. The earnest expression upon her face and her previous-to-that-moment calm kept him from immediately dismissing her words as a poorly timed jest.

She was serious.

And she waited for Myles to make an answer while her cheeks grew from pale to pink, then pink to red.

“My lady.” Myles leaned closer and lowered his voice, though the old cafe was nearly empty of patrons. “Your proposition is…interesting. But even if marriage is the only way you can escape the predicament in which you find yourself, you cannot consider me as your partner in it. You do not know me.”

She leaned closer, one elegant finger tapping the table between them. “I do know you. I know all about you. I know you have two older brothers and three younger sisters, and two of your sisters are not yet married.” She kept eye contact with him as she rushed through her words. “You are a gentleman’s son, and your family cannot support you. Yet you have maintained your dignity by living within the limited means of your pension. Sometimes you train other gentleman as a pugilist, but only in private clubs. You are not liberal in your drink. You have no debts. You give pennies away to the poor nearly every morning. You keep to yourself. But you always, always help others when the opportunity arises.”

He sat back, narrowing his eye as he took in the woman before him. Yes. She had said before that her solicitor had investigated him. It seemed the man had done a thorough job.