One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
Page 101
He did, pouring a finger of amber liquid into a glass and coming to sit beside her. “Our mothers will be beside themselves when they hear.”
She nodded, realizing that this was the first time they’d conversed about anything serious. Anything other than dogs and weather and country estates. “Mine more than yours, I should think.”
“You’ll be ruined,” he said.
She nodded. “I had considered that.”
It had never mattered to her very much, reputation. For one who was often described as odd and strange, having little in common with others her age or gender, reputation never seemed worth much. It did not buy her friends, or invitations, or respect.
So now, it was not paramount.
“Lady Philippa,” he began after a long moment of silence, “if you’ve . . . er . . . that is . . . if you have need of . . . a-hem.”
She watched him carefully, noting his reddening face as he stumbled over the words. “My lord?” she asked after it seemed as though he might not say more.
He cleared his throat. Tried again. “If you are in a difficult spot,” he blurted out, waving one hand in the general direction of her stomach.
Oh, dear. “I am not.”
She supposed she might be, but that was a bridge she would cross at a later time if necessary. Without Castleton.
He looked immensely relieved. “I am happy to hear that.” Then, after a moment during which they both resumed calm, he added, “I would marry you, anyway, you know.”
She met his gaze, surprised. “You would?”
He nodded. “I would.”
She couldn’t stop herself. “Why?”
“Most people think I’m an idiot.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Most people are idiots themselves,” she said, feeling suddenly very protective of this man who should have tossed her out of the house with glee but instead, offered her a drink and a chat.
He tilted his head. “Most people think you’re odd.”
She smiled. “On that, most people are right.”
“You know, I used to think they were. You’re brilliant and have a passion for animals and strange flowers, and you were always more interested in the crops that rotated on my estate than in the trappings of my town house. I’d never met a woman like you. But, even as I knew you were smarter than I, even as I knew that you knew that you were smarter than I . . . you never showed it. You’ve never given me any reason to believe you thought me simple. You always went out of your way to remind me of the things we had in common. We both prefer the country. We both enjoy animals.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I was happy to think that you would one day be my wife.”
“I don’t think you simple,” she said, wanting him to know that. Wanting him to understand that this mess she was making had nothing to do with him. He was not lacking. “I think you will make someone a very happy match.”
“But not you,” he said, simply.
She shook her head. “Not me.”
There was a time when you might have. It was true. She’d been happy to live out her days in country idyll, talking of crop rotation and animal husbandry and consulting the men and women who lived on Castleton land.
There was a time when I would have been content with you.
“If you change your mind . . .” he said. “If you wake up on Sunday morning and wish for marriage . . . I shall be ready,” he finished, so generous. So deserving of love.
She nodded once, seriously. “Thank you, my lord.”
He cleared his throat. “What next?”
The question had rattled through her during every waking moment of every day since the morning Cross had left her, sleeping, in her bed after making it impossible for her to marry Castleton. After making it impossible to do anything but care for him . . . more than she’d ever cared for anyone. What next?
What happened now?
She’d approached the problem in the same way she’d forever approached every part of her life. She’d considered it from all angles, posited answers, hypothesized outcomes. And, eventually, come to a conclusion—the only one that had any chance of resulting in the outcome she desired. For which she ached.
So this morning, she’d risen early, dressed, and come to Berkeley Square. She’d knocked, met her fiancé—who seemed to be more intelligent than anyone in Britain gave him credit for—and broken her engagement.
And what came next would be the most important experiment of her life.
“I admit, I am happy that you asked.” She took a deep breath, met Castleton’s gaze, and answered his question. “You see, I require your assistance for what comes next.”
Two hours later, Pippa and Trotula were waiting at the rear entrance to The Fallen Angel, for someone to open the door.
When no one responded to her several knocks on the great steel slab, Pippa grew impatient and moved to the entrance to the club kitchens. Knocking there produced a result—a red-faced boy who was at once elated to see a dog at the door and perplexed by the presence of the hound’s mistress.
“Didier!” he called out, “ ’ere’s a lady at the door! A real one! And a dog!”
“I am tired of the jokes you play on me, Henri,” came a familiar booming voice from outside Pippa’s view. “Now come back here before the béchamel is destroyed by your laziness.”
“But Didier!” he called, not taking his gaze from Pippa. “’Tis a lady! The one who comes for Cross!”
Pippa’s jaw dropped at the identification. How did this boy know about her meetings with Jasper? Before she could ask, the French cook had pushed the boy from view and faced Pippa with a wide smile. “Back for another of my sandwiches?”
She nodded, realizing that this was the first time they’d conversed about anything serious. Anything other than dogs and weather and country estates. “Mine more than yours, I should think.”
“You’ll be ruined,” he said.
She nodded. “I had considered that.”
It had never mattered to her very much, reputation. For one who was often described as odd and strange, having little in common with others her age or gender, reputation never seemed worth much. It did not buy her friends, or invitations, or respect.
So now, it was not paramount.
“Lady Philippa,” he began after a long moment of silence, “if you’ve . . . er . . . that is . . . if you have need of . . . a-hem.”
She watched him carefully, noting his reddening face as he stumbled over the words. “My lord?” she asked after it seemed as though he might not say more.
He cleared his throat. Tried again. “If you are in a difficult spot,” he blurted out, waving one hand in the general direction of her stomach.
Oh, dear. “I am not.”
She supposed she might be, but that was a bridge she would cross at a later time if necessary. Without Castleton.
He looked immensely relieved. “I am happy to hear that.” Then, after a moment during which they both resumed calm, he added, “I would marry you, anyway, you know.”
She met his gaze, surprised. “You would?”
He nodded. “I would.”
She couldn’t stop herself. “Why?”
“Most people think I’m an idiot.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Most people are idiots themselves,” she said, feeling suddenly very protective of this man who should have tossed her out of the house with glee but instead, offered her a drink and a chat.
He tilted his head. “Most people think you’re odd.”
She smiled. “On that, most people are right.”
“You know, I used to think they were. You’re brilliant and have a passion for animals and strange flowers, and you were always more interested in the crops that rotated on my estate than in the trappings of my town house. I’d never met a woman like you. But, even as I knew you were smarter than I, even as I knew that you knew that you were smarter than I . . . you never showed it. You’ve never given me any reason to believe you thought me simple. You always went out of your way to remind me of the things we had in common. We both prefer the country. We both enjoy animals.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I was happy to think that you would one day be my wife.”
“I don’t think you simple,” she said, wanting him to know that. Wanting him to understand that this mess she was making had nothing to do with him. He was not lacking. “I think you will make someone a very happy match.”
“But not you,” he said, simply.
She shook her head. “Not me.”
There was a time when you might have. It was true. She’d been happy to live out her days in country idyll, talking of crop rotation and animal husbandry and consulting the men and women who lived on Castleton land.
There was a time when I would have been content with you.
“If you change your mind . . .” he said. “If you wake up on Sunday morning and wish for marriage . . . I shall be ready,” he finished, so generous. So deserving of love.
She nodded once, seriously. “Thank you, my lord.”
He cleared his throat. “What next?”
The question had rattled through her during every waking moment of every day since the morning Cross had left her, sleeping, in her bed after making it impossible for her to marry Castleton. After making it impossible to do anything but care for him . . . more than she’d ever cared for anyone. What next?
What happened now?
She’d approached the problem in the same way she’d forever approached every part of her life. She’d considered it from all angles, posited answers, hypothesized outcomes. And, eventually, come to a conclusion—the only one that had any chance of resulting in the outcome she desired. For which she ached.
So this morning, she’d risen early, dressed, and come to Berkeley Square. She’d knocked, met her fiancé—who seemed to be more intelligent than anyone in Britain gave him credit for—and broken her engagement.
And what came next would be the most important experiment of her life.
“I admit, I am happy that you asked.” She took a deep breath, met Castleton’s gaze, and answered his question. “You see, I require your assistance for what comes next.”
Two hours later, Pippa and Trotula were waiting at the rear entrance to The Fallen Angel, for someone to open the door.
When no one responded to her several knocks on the great steel slab, Pippa grew impatient and moved to the entrance to the club kitchens. Knocking there produced a result—a red-faced boy who was at once elated to see a dog at the door and perplexed by the presence of the hound’s mistress.
“Didier!” he called out, “ ’ere’s a lady at the door! A real one! And a dog!”
“I am tired of the jokes you play on me, Henri,” came a familiar booming voice from outside Pippa’s view. “Now come back here before the béchamel is destroyed by your laziness.”
“But Didier!” he called, not taking his gaze from Pippa. “’Tis a lady! The one who comes for Cross!”
Pippa’s jaw dropped at the identification. How did this boy know about her meetings with Jasper? Before she could ask, the French cook had pushed the boy from view and faced Pippa with a wide smile. “Back for another of my sandwiches?”
