The house was too quiet and Philippa was too lonely. She had not realized how much she relied on Silvanus for company. In the past six months, she had only been away from the dog for a couple of nights at most, and on those occasions, she had Aunt Imogene close at hand.
A heavy weight sank down into her stomach. Philippa’s world was spiraling out of control, and every time she thought she was moving forward, she took another step back. It had been quite some time since she indulged in an early morning walk. When Alfred was alive, it was the only time of day that she could have time to herself.
Being outdoors in the early morning was her favorite time of day. The world around was still quiet and peaceful, full of hope and possibility. She had existed these past couple of years on the hope that one day, life would be better.
Sneaking out of her room, Philippa meandered through the dark depths of the house. When she reached the garden, she let out a breath that held some of the angst that had been festering inside. Her breath puffed against the cool morning air.
On a sigh she contemplated her foolishness. When would she be able to let go? She was tired of thinking of Alfred and her mistakes. No matter what she did, thoughts would enter her mind just to torment her, to remind her of how foolish and reckless she had been. .
Without conscious thought, Philippa found herself strolling toward the stables. The scents and sounds drew her in. Two figures in the distance caught her attention. She jumped off the path to duck behind a large topiary.
Squinting at the pair, she was able to recognize one of the figures.
Weston.
She would know him from any distance, and not just because of his height. Was he leaving without so much as a by-your-leave? She scurried from one topiary to another, edging her way closer to the two men. Philippa presumed the other man to be Bacheler.
“We will meet back here in two to three days’ time.” Other words were exchanged, but she could not hear them.
Oh, he is coming this way. Philippa rounded the backside of the fanciful shrubbery and waited for Bacheler to pass. Several more minutes ticked by before he entered the servants’ quarters. Once clear, she scurried toward the stables to confront Weston.
By the time she reached Socrates’s stall, Weston was almost done tacking his horse.
“Where are you going?” Her tone was full of accusations, but she did not care.
“I am doing as you requested and investigating Mrs. Keates.” His tone was cold, distant. Worse still, Weston did not turn to look at Philippa, but continued on with his task as if she were not present.
A tense silence passed between them before Philippa unleashed her simmering anger. “Why have you kept your distance?” The words exited her mouth before she could stop them.
“I have hardly kept my distance. Was that not you with whom I was dancing last night?” Weston still did not turn to acknowledge her presence. He took the reins in hand and began to guide Socrates from his stall down the aisle toward the yard.
“You mean the dance where you walked out on me, causing a scene?” Philippa must have struck a chord. He and Socrates stopped, but neither glanced her way. “Anyway, that is not what I meant and you know it.” She wanted answers and edged beside him as he started walking again. “You have been avoiding me for years and even more so since I eloped. Are you concerned that my scandal will tarnish your name or Isabel’s chances of a proposal?”
“It has nothing to do with that. Neither I nor Isabel care about the gossips.” Weston ran a frustrated hand through his hair then glanced over at her. The moment their eyes met, something happened. Something that Philippa did not understand. His voice deepened. “I have not avoided anything.”
Her blood was now at the boiling point. “You most certainly have. Ever since my debut, you have avoided me. You used to be a friend.” She did not know what she was saying, words just continued to spew from her mouth. “But now you can’t wait to conclude this investigation and be rid of me. Am I such a bother to you?”
They had breached the archway when Weston turned and moved closer, mere inches away. “Do you want to know why I have avoided you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I have avoided you because it is the only way I can keep from doing something that I shouldn’t do.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
Before she knew what he was about, Weston took her mouth in a harsh, demanding kiss. Philippa could taste the frustration as he plundered her mouth. His tongue probed, demanding a response. She did not know what came over her, perhaps some primal instinct, but she wanted to give all that he asked.
She shifted her body, wanting to be closer to him, to feel him. Her hands roamed up his broad chest and circled around his neck. Weston’s hand cupped her bottom and raised her into him. Heat coursed through her body, pooling in areas that desperately wanted his touch.
A horse’s whinny echoed feet away. As the world around them came into focus, Philippa realized they were standing—no, not just standing—they were kissing in the stable yard where anyone might see them.
She pulled away, her chest heaving with labored breath. While she had dreamed about Weston kissing her for so long, she did not know what came over her. Years of suppressed emotions wrangled with her common sense. Without thought, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face. “You bastard,” she cried. Hot tears streamed down her face.
Weston stood motionless for a second then in two strides, mounted Socrates and kicked his horse into a gallop and disappeared into the hazy morning mist.
“What have I done?” Philippa cried into her hands.
• • •
Weston spurred Socrates on faster. He wanted to escape, to put as much distance between him and Philippa as he could. She was correct. He would finish this investigation and then have nothing more to do with her. He had been right to keep his distance. She would never see him as anything but a bastard.
Harsh memories took him back to one of the most painful days of his life. It was the first time he realized what it meant to be a bastard. Loud, angry voices had ricocheted through the halls. Weston didn’t know what to think of it, being in a strange place. He had always lived with his mother in the cottage, but once she was gone, his father had insisted Weston reside at Knights Hall. He missed his mother and the pleasant calm of their household. But his father had told him that with time, Weston would come to love Knights Hall just as much as his father did. He had told Weston that one day the manor would be his, and to take pride in his new home.
The shouting had penetrated through the walls, filling every crevice in the house. Weston had never heard his father’s voice sound so angry before. It frightened him. He wanted to run and hide under the bedcovers, but his curiosity had been stronger than his fear.
Weston had edged closer toward the library door. He saw his father. His face was red, distorted with anger. There was another man in the room, an older man; Weston hadn’t recognized him, but he looked strangely familiar.
“Young Benjamin will reside here.”
“Hear me out,” the older man threatened, “your bastard is not welcome here.”
“This is my house, not yours, Father. I will do as I please. I should have never listened to you or your demands. My Diana might still be alive if only I had not listened to you.”
That angry old man was his grandfather? Weston had questioned his mother only once about why they could not live with Father, and her only reply was, “Because of your grandfather.” He remembered that her words held no bitterness, just an underlying sadness of what never was to be.
“I will ask you only one more time. Choose, dammit. Choose your inheritance or that bastard of yours.”
Weston could not see his father’s face, but his words were loud and clear. “My son.”
Pride and guilt had wormed its way through his little body that day. Without any hesitation or second thought, his father had chosen him. After his grandfather had departed, Weston and his father had found solace in each other’s company. Father had reassured him that he had no regrets, but Weston had his doubts, especially after the words that were exchanged between him and his grandfather.
Only a couple of hours after the shouting match, they had been informed that his grandfather suffered a heart attack and died. Guilt took root that day. Father never had the chance to make amends with his sire and it had been all Weston’s fault. His father had not lost his inheritance that day, but in Weston’s mind, he lost something greater.
Years passed and Weston continued to blame himself for what happened between his father and grandfather. One stormy winter’s eve, Weston had finally worked up the courage to tell his father what he had said to his grandfather and what had been bothering him for so long. Instead of expressing his regret, his father was proud. Proud that he’d had the courage to stand up to the old tyrant, proud to have an honest and hardworking son like Weston.
From that day forth, Weston had wanted to prove to his father that he was worthy of those affections. He toiled away at his studies, never got into any real trouble, and when he wanted to earn his own way, the look in his father’s eyes spoke volumes. Even after his father’s death nine years ago he received his inheritance, Weston had continued to work hard, save his money, and care for his sister. He might not have inherited his father’s title, but he wanted the family legacy to continue on through Knights Hall. Despite all that he had achieved, he could not escape the shame and guilt his grandfather’s words imbued. Those angry, hateful words had continued to haunt him, influencing his every decision.
The pounding of Socrates’s hooves on the wet earth urged his thoughts deeper. Didn’t he deserve happiness? His sister had said as much, so had Artemisia, and Nigel, and even Philippa’s Aunt Lou. Why had he never believed it?
Denying himself what he wanted, who he loved, would not prove his grandfather wrong. The man was dead, and in the end, Weston was only hurting himself. Over the years the dislike he had felt for his grandfather had developed into a simmering hatred that often dictated his actions, which proved to be counterproductive to everything he worked so hard to achieve. He did not want to be bitter and hateful like his grandfather. Weston wanted to be like his father—loving, caring, and honest. His father was proud of his son and would not have wanted to see Weston become a lonely shell of a man.
Damn, he had made a mess of things. Just as soon as this business with Mrs. Keates was concluded, Weston would try to fix some of those mistakes.
He only hoped that it wasn’t too late.
• • •
Philippa’s heart pounded in cadence with her rapid footsteps. With each painful breath, her heart broke a little more. Not caring if the servants talked, she didn’t slow her pace as she rushed through the house, heading toward the only destination that was sure to be devoid of any people at this early hour. She wanted to be alone, wanted to cry until there were no more tears, until the pain was gone.
The sight of her hand striking across Weston’s cheek, the look of hurt in his eyes, and the sound of the slap reverberated endlessly in her mind. What have I done?
Touching her fingertips to her lips, she could have sworn that her lips still held the effects of Weston’s kiss. Weston had kissed her. He kissed her where anyone might see them. What was he thinking? She had wanted his kiss, but she was supposed to be in mourning.
Dammit, she wasn’t even out of her widow’s weeds and she was already lusting after a man. Truth be told, she had always had a tendre for Weston, and being near to him again brought all those feelings back. She had gone to him because she wanted help discovering the truth about Alfred. She had believed that if she knew the truth about her late husband then she could bury her mistakes and live a quiet life alone.
Deep down she knew that to be a lie. In the most secret part of her soul, Philippa had tucked away a hope, a wish. She wanted a second chance at love.
And when it came, she ruined everything by slapping Weston as if she were upset about the kiss, but what she was really upset about was her behavior. That one kiss had discomposed her more than two years of a bad marriage. It had not happened as she had always imagined it would—reality was not fantasy, and life was more complicated than a teenage girl’s musings.
Philippa entered the library and curled up in her favorite spot, a small alcove with a window bench. It was the same one in which she sat the other night when Weston arrived with his sketches. How she loved talking to him about horses and his plans to enlarge the stable at Knights Hall. The realization of how desperately she wanted to be part of his life struck her like a bolt of lightning.
Resting her aching head against the cool glass, she gazed across the early morning landscape. The lawn and trees were saturated in a fine mist, creating a vibrant watercolor in various shades of greens. But even the beauty outside could not ease the turmoil churning within. Philippa wanted nothing more than to hide in some dark corner away from the painful memories, away from the nightmares, away from her mistakes. Her room at Kettleworth had become a tomb for such memories, suffocating her, bringing her down into the murky depths of despair. What was it about being at Kettleworth that brought forth those emotions and insecurities that she had tried, and seemingly failed, to tamp down?
It seemed as though not ten minutes had passed before she heard soft footsteps approaching. She suspected that her sister had put the servants on alert to her activity; so much for peace and escape.
Philippa closed her eyes, sucked in her breath to calm her nerves, and then turned to greet her sister. When she opened her eyes, much to her surprise, it was Lady Hawthorne.
Speaking in a softened tone, Lady Hawthorne began, “I did not mean to alarm you, Mrs. Keates.” Philippa was beginning to detest that name. It was synonymous with gambling and lies.
Trying to hide the unpleasantness of the morning, she pasted on a smile and said, “Please call me Philippa.”
Returning the smile, Lady Hawthorne said, “And I would be most pleased if you would call me Faith.” She then settled into the seat beside Philippa. There was a long, awkward silence that was only disrupted by the wind rustling through the trees outside the window.
After countless seconds, Faith spoke up. “I couldn’t sleep either. I am not used to sleeping without Marcus.” Her porcelain features reddened as if she had just revealed some secret about her marriage. She cleared her voice and changed the subject. “I know that we have only just met, but…” There was an urgent hesitation in her voice.
Her sudden unease did not sit well with Philippa. What could be so important that Faith felt the need to search her out at this time of morning? She waited in silence for Faith to continue, but the beautiful woman beside her, who looked more like a mystical fairy than a woman of the ton, appeared nervous and continued to sit still and silent.
“Please do not hesitate. You are free to speak.”
Taking in a deep breath, Faith rambled her story as she worried the light blue ribbon on the edge of her dress. “You may not have known that my marriage to your cousin did not begin in the most auspicious manner.” She stopped and huffed out the remaining breath. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning. My father was not the kindest person. He was only concerned with title and wealth. When he did not get his way, he would often turn violent.”
Philippa listened to Faith and wondered what she was trying to convey. Alfred may have had a short temper, often saying hurtful things he later apologized for, but he never was physically abusive toward her. No, his rants were not abusive. Uncomfortable to be subjected to, but not abusive.
It was almost as if Faith could read her thoughts. “Cruel words are just as poisonous.” Faith reached out and touched Philippa’s hand. “I see the sadness in your eyes. I know that sadness. I have felt it too.”
Those words offered Philippa more comfort than she could have ever imagined. She loved her sister, but was too embarrassed to discuss such delicate matters with her. For the first time in over two years, Philippa felt she had found someone to confide in, someone who understood.
“I was not happy with him and I don’t think I ever loved him.” That felt wonderful to say. Admitting her angst was the next step.
Philippa had never been one to think things out and now she regretted that she hadn’t. Looking back, she wasn’t certain she had ever truly loved Alfred or if it was just a silly infatuation. He was the most handsome and charming man she had ever met. In those early days of courtship, his debonair smile and glistening blue eyes could turn her knees weak before she could even blink. He had showered her with attention and told her all the things she had wanted to hear.
Faith tilted her head toward Philippa. “Would you mind telling me what happened?” As if not wanting to insult her, Faith quickly added, “Only if it is not too painful.”
“I think… I think it would help me.” She knew it would help her. Philippa did not know where to start. Taking in a deep breath, she thought back to evening when all her woes had begun. “There was a gentleman of whom I was quite fond, but he had never even given me a second glance. I thought that if I didn’t pay him any attention, and just enjoyed my first season, he might see me.”
“Do you think the gentleman ever realized your tendre for him?”
“No, and he’s still oblivious to me.” Perhaps not quite so oblivious since he had just kissed her, but it had not ended the way she had always dreamed about, and that was her fault.
“Is still oblivious? Of whom might we be speaking of?”
With Faith’s question, Philippa realized she gave away too much. It was one thing to reveal what landed her in this current predicament and quite another to reveal her heart.
Ignoring the question, Philippa continued, “My first season came and went, and by the end of my second season, the gossipmongers were starting to talk.”
Faith nodded her head in understanding, but continued to listen patiently as Philippa told her tale.
“I was never in any want of admirers, but none interested me. Most just saw me for my large dowry and their potential place in society. I wanted love and was prepared to do whatever it took to get it.” Thinking back to the day she had made that decision, Philippa should have known better than to charge head first into marriage with someone who offered her the world with flowery words. Experience had taught her that the world simply did not work that way.
“I thought he loved me. He said all sorts of wonderful things. He made all sorts of promises.” Philippa turned her gaze back to the scenery. If only she had listened to her heart as Nigel once advised her, then none of this would have happened.
“You cannot blame yourself for how things turned out. Mr. Keates is the one to blame in all this. He was selfish and inconsiderate.”
Philippa shook her head. “You don’t understand. I was the one being selfish. I was jealous of my sisters. Arte was getting married, and Harry was pregnant with her second child. It was all I ever wanted. I thought that if I was married, with children of my own, living in the country, surrounded by horses, that my life would be complete. Instead I found myself married to an ill-tempered man who was rarely home.”
Faith grabbed Philippa’s hand, demanding her full attention. “Never, not for one moment, believe that you deserved any of his ill treatment.”
Philippa was startled to hear such a strong tone from such a sweet, delicate-looking woman, but the fire in her eyes gave Philippa hope that she could find happiness.
“What do you intend to do about the oblivious gentleman who I gather just departed from Kettleworth in a flurry?”
Had Faith seen what occurred in the stable yard? Had anyone else seen Weston and Philippa kissing? Another disaster. She could not worry about that right now. She had bigger problems to solve and was unsure how to proceed. “I don’t…” She stopped the negative thought from forming on her lips. Philippa was done wallowing in sorrow and grief. She began to say as much when an idea struck her. “Bacheler.”
The spot between Faith’s brows crinkled in confusion. “Bacheler?”
“Yes, the person in question’s assistant just arrived. He would know where he went.” If she did not say his name aloud, then it would not hurt as much if he did not return her affection. Philippa knew this to be a ridiculous theory, but she needed some buffer, albeit a flimsy mental guard, in order to take that chance, that next step.
Minutes ago, Philippa had felt that her world was at an end, and now her mind was racing with excitement. “Faith, you have to help me.” She did not wait for Faith to agree, but stood and headed toward the servants’ quarters as she rambled on with her plan. “I need to discover where he went. I am going to speak with Bacheler, but I know he won’t betray his trust. Perhaps you can… I don’t know…”
Faith finished her sentence. “Search his bag.”
Philippa halted and turned to face Faith. People are not always what they seem, are they? Philippa was overwhelmed by the support her cousin’s wife was offering. “Thank you.”
Placing her hand on Philippa’s forearm, Faith smiled. “You deserve to be happy.”
By the time they had reached the servants’ quarters, they had plotted their course of action. Tacy was instructed to prepare for the journey to the unknown destination. As soon as Philippa had her answers, she and Tacy would depart. Philippa would question Bacheler, while Faith would go through his saddlebag looking for any clue. She might be setting out on a wild goose chase, and it was risky, but perhaps there was more to gain than to lose.
Philippa had put aside her feelings for far too long, and now it was time to set her life to right. Nothing could be as bad as losing someone you truly loved. She had no choice. She had to go after him. It wasn’t ladylike and was probably most scandalous, but she didn’t care. Weston was just going to have to answer her questions. A man did not kiss like that and not mean it.
It wasn’t lost on her that once again she was charging head first into a situation without thinking of the outcome.
Only this time, she was listening to her heart.