Chapter Thirteen

The lush expanse of Anthony’s estate awed Phillipa. The dark green, rolling lushness of the lawns stole her breath. Rows of flowers sprawled in majestic beauty, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges. Dozens of elm trees lined the stately driveway. Several French gardens were scattered about in wild disarray, completing the charming effect. In the light of day, what had seemed like a large manor house was in fact an elegant mansion.

Upon rousing, she had slipped from the bed, grateful to see her clothes stitched, ironed, and laid out for her. Then heat had seared her entire body realizing that the maid must have seen her wrapped in Anthony’s arms.

After a long, warm bath, she had made her way down the massive hallway and winding staircase, to the sunroom where the butler directed her. It was aptly named, facing east where the sun rose, with an entire wall of windows. The yellow, green, and silver decor of the room was stunning in its elegance, and yet, the room invited comfort.

Footmen had paraded in with eggs, bacon, cheese, cakes, and tea, to fill the sideboard. But it was the fragrant aroma of coffee that had roused her from her worrying thoughts. She had queried the footman, and had been pleased to have recognized the heady roasted scent of Jamaican blue mountain coffee, a favorite of hers.

She’d eaten her fill and waited with a feeling akin to dread for Anthony to descend. The beauty of his property could not soothe the riotous emotions that jangled inside her. Joy that he had made love to her without disdain. She felt no shame at her own part in their bed play. Though she blushed recalling all the ways he had taken her. She had never expected that making love could be so tumultuous, so delicious.

Where was he? Doubt and worry gnawed at her.

She rose, and tentatively wandered through the mazelike main level of the house. In a small, bright room, she found an easel positioned in front of the windows facing the gardens. She picked up a bit of charcoal. She’d always had an artistic bent, so she sat down before the easel and started to sketch. Her hands slashed with bold movements, and before long, the raw beauty that was Anthony appeared on the paper. She drew him as how she saw him—vital, energetic, and a little rakish. On a whim, she added wings that arched with graceful power on his back. She brushed the charcoal, her brows frowning in intense concentration as she darkened his wings, turning them a deep shade of midnight.

“You are immensely talented.”

She gasped in surprise and spun on the stool to look at him. A blush heated her cheeks. She was not sure how to act after their night of excess. “Thank you. I love drawing and painting.”

“A lady of many talents.” His lips fleetingly brushed against hers, and pleasure unfurled inside of her. He cupped her cheeks, and his thumb caressed a light bruise at the corner of her lips.

“I will crush him,” he avowed. “He will not escape unscathed after such contemptible behavior.”

Her heart beat faster as he gently kissed the bruise. “Forget him. I don’t want him to spoil the day for us.”

“You’re right. He’s forgotten.”

She smiled up at him. “Your estate is beautiful.”

“Thank you. Come. I have not yet eaten.”

They returned to the breakfast room, and he strode to the sideboard, while she accepted another cup of coffee. He filled his plate and she tried not to gape at the quantity when he seated himself across from her and picked up his fork.

“My mother and sister have arrived,” he said. “My mother penned a letter to your father, informing your family of your visit, and the rain that forced your overnight stay. No one knows she and my sister only arrived this morning, and it must be kept that way. Many will still speculate, and rumors will abound, since I resided under the same roof. I will announce our engagement, and then we will wait an appropriate time and wed.”

Phillipa tilted her head up a notch, filling with rebellion. After telling him of her inheritance last night, she’d been hoping he would dispense with that line of thinking. “If your mother stands behind our tale, such a noble sacrifice on your part is unnecessary.”

“It is no sacrifice,” he said evenly. “I am happy for us to wed.”

She rose from the chair and started to pace. “But I am not.”

“Is marriage to me so undesirable?” he asked with a shade of irritation. Or perhaps hurt.

“It is not you, Anthony,” she said softly. “It just that…I do not wish to remain in London. I hate the whirl, the restrictions, and the quick condemnation. I am continuously told how a proper young lady must behave. Be biddable, do not prattle, and heaven forbid I display some modicum of intelligence. If our relationship becomes known, I will be ostracized. Better to leave now. I do not need the approval of a society I loathe, and have no intention of spending my life bowing and scraping to it.”

She stopped pacing, and sank back into her chair, trying to hold his gaze. His mien was carefully neutral, but she could see the coldness encasing his eyes.

“You know how I feel about marriage,” she pleaded. “I hate the condemnation I see blazing from you. Is it not enough that we are lovers?”

He rose and strode around to stand over her. “Is that all you desire of me? For me to be between your legs pleasuring you?” His face was bland, but she thought he sounded a little hurt.

She winced at his bluntness. “No. I enjoy your company. I love being with you—conversing with you, dancing with you. You are the most honorable man I have ever met, but I have no desire for marriage, Anthony. I would like for us to remain lovers and friends.”

His chuckle held no mirth as he folded his arms and walked over to lean against the mantel. “You do not understand the nature of the society you live in, Phillipa. This is about more than us being lovers. Orwell will undoubtedly drop hints about you, providing grist for the vicious rumor mill. He is a coward and will never act in an honorable manner. You can only benefit from our marriage.”

She clamped her jaw. Why did everyone insist they knew better than she what would benefit her? Still, the last thing she wanted was to fight with Anthony. Not after all the wondrous things they had shared together. She slowly took a few sips of coffee, composing her thoughts, trying to still the trembling of her heart.

“What benefit will being married provide to me? Pleasure? I can receive pleasure without tying myself to the whims of a man. A man who can dictate how I dress, what I do, a man who can beat me any time he so wishes. I want to travel. Africa, Egypt, Shanghai, the Caribbean. You propose to be my husband, Anthony. Will you be content with a wife who is not here, attending to you and your home? Will you be content with a wife who yearns for more than a conventional life, instead of one who gives you babies and hosts your dinner parties? A wife who will attend women’s rights conventions?” She hiked a brow. “I don’t think that is what you want in a wife.”

His face shuttered, and her heart squeezed. For some reason she desperately wanted him to say yes, he did. He wanted her with all her eccentric ways. Because of all her eccentric ways.

“You paint quite a picture,” he ground out.

“You seek to marry me out of some misguided notion of chivalry, Anthony. I’m telling you, it is not necessary.”

“I do not offer to marry out of honor or to obtain legal issue,” he growled.

“Why then? Love?” She scoffed, expecting it to be anything but. Her heart shook when she noticed his expression closed up even further.

Love?

“Much too high an aspiration for a licentious rake such as myself,” he bit out coldly. He stalked to the window and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.

Phillipa hesitated, then got to her feet and went to him. “You know very well I did not mean it like that, Anthony. You are not debauched in any way. You are both heroic and kind. I simply have no desire to wed, and I do not understand why we must do so if your mother will help us avoid a scandal.”

He shifted, and she held his gaze. Her chest squeezed as his eyes became even more distant. Concern curled inside her.

He lifted his hand, and his thumb brushed against her lips, slowly, seductively. The regret that coated his voice deepened her unease. “The bonds of matrimony are never something I would enter lightly, nor for something as cold as chivalry. But I understand now, that is all you would see them as, Phillipa. Bonds.” He dropped his hand and gave a curt bow, conceding to her wishes.

She did not feel the relief she had expected to feel. Instead, her stomach felt hollow. Confusion swirled through her, and she hated the blank, neutral look that evened out his features as he walked back to the table.

“Anthony.” She was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. “Are we still lovers?”

He sat back down, methodically finishing his food. “I am not interested in a cold, meaningless relationship, Phillipa. If I need sex, I can take a mistress. I want more. A wife…children, a family.”

“What we have is not cold and meaningless!” she said, affront tingeing her words. “You knew how I felt. Did you think I would change my mind after spending one night in your bed?”

His expression didn’t flicker. “My mother and Constance will travel with you back to London. She will tell your family, and anyone else who asks, that you dined with us and the inclement weather prevented your return. Hopefully, that will be enough to silence the gossips.”

Phillipa nodded mutely at his matter-of-fact recitation, dropping her gaze to her hands and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. She was suddenly hit by a painful realization. If he had murmured words of affection, or love, rather than cold logic, she might actually have considered marriage.

But it was too late now. Pride tied her tongue. If Anthony had felt affection for her, he would have said so when she mentioned love. She would not mistake the passion between them to mean anything deeper to him than lust.

His mother swept into the breakfast room, and Phillipa blinked at her dainty perfection. She forced herself not to react to the curious way the viscountess regarded her. She must know Phillipa spent the night with her son.

Anthony’s voice remained blandly polite as he introduced them.

She battled the urge to fidget. Or smack him for his damned insouciance. Instead, she curtsied nicely. “My lady.”

His mother’s nod of acknowledgement was regal, and her warm smile banished some of the tension from Phillipa’s body.

A sigh came from Anthony at a ruckus that sounded from the hallway. The door was flung open, and a young lady barreled into the room. She blazed in without decorum, running past Phillipa to fling herself at him for a hug. He grunted as if annoyed, but he returned her embrace, kissing her cheek.

“Oh, Anthony, he is bloody fabulous. I cannot believe he is all mine!”

“Constance!” Lady Radcliffe’s admonishment had her spinning around laughing.

Phillipa was stunned by Lady Constance’s beauty. She was a replica of Anthony’s blond looks, with his same sparkling green eyes. She possessed the petite body of her mother, except her curves were richly pronounced.

“Oh, Mother! Anthony has planned to gift me with a horse sired from Odin for my birthday, and I have just ridden him, though he won’t officially be mine for six more weeks. He is so divine, and I am so thrilled!”

“I see I will have to relieve the stable master of his duties,” Anthony drawled.

“Oh, rubbish. He could not very well refuse to answer when I demanded to know whose horse it is.”

“Lady Constance, may I present Miss Phillipa Peppiwell. Miss Peppiwell, my sister.”

Lady Constance’s energy whirled toward Phillipa, and she clapped enthusiastically. “Oh! A second gift! I am most pleased to meet you, Miss Peppiwell.”

Phillipa gazed at her with a slight frown. “As am I—”

“I do so hope you will teach me how to ride astride. Tongues have been wagging in the drawing rooms at your boldness, Miss Peppiwell. I think it’s grand, and you are very brave, indeed.”

“Well, I—” Phillipa winced at the appalled look Lady Radcliffe gave her daughter. Anthony looked on with a sort of brotherly indulgence, but she got the distinct feeling he would lock his sister up for a year if she actually dared to ride astride.

“Please ignore my daughter’s rudeness, Miss Peppiwell. She has yet to understand that a young lady does not behave in such a manner.”

Phillipa nodded blandly, refusing to rise to the implication that she was, therefore, clearly not a lady. She was quite used to such thoughtless statements, and far from being offended, was secretly pleased by the characterization.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of friendly chatter and preparation for travel. When Phillipa departed, Anthony placed a perfunctory kiss on her cheek that had his mother smiling. Whether from the kiss itself, or from his cool politeness, Phillipa wasn’t certain.

In any case, she steadfastly refused to beg a private audience with him, and bundled herself into the viscountess’s carriage without any further discussion of their relationship.

The trip to London was uneventful. Phillipa felt the palpable curiosity of Lady Constance and Lady Radcliffe, but instead of prying, they filled the journey with mild pleasantries and inane chatter about balls, mutual acquaintances, and the weather. Phillipa found herself liking them both very much. She answered their polite inquires about her family graciously, happy they confined their questions mainly to her sisters.

On the inside, her feelings were riotous. Anthony had not seemed angry, but he’d been distant with her, to the point of coldness. She clenched her hands on her lap, despising the uncertainty in her mind…and her heart. Had she made the right decision, refusing his offer?

What a tangle her life had suddenly become.

Phillipa was more than grateful for Lady Radcliffe’s aid in her current situation, and quietly told her so before facing her father. But as it turned out, her return home was without fanfare or the upset she had feared. Her aunt had received a note last night from the viscountess informing of Phillipa’s stay, so no one had worried. Rather than being distressed, Lady Merryweather was visibly pleased to know she’d spent the night at Lord Anthony’s home. After an hour of afternoon tea and lively conversation with her mother and aunt, the viscountess and Lady Constance departed.

Phillipa’s aunt wasted no time in pouncing on her. “This is wonderful news, Phillipa! Lord Anthony’s mother has taken quite a shine to you. You can expect his courtship to begin at once.”

“It will be in vain. I still do not wish to marry,” she assured her, wondering briefly at the lack of conviction in her voice.

“Nonsense,” her mother declared. “I have complete confidence that you will see the immense benefit to your father of connecting with such an esteemed family. Payton has also made a wonderful match, and I am very proud both my girls will be wed by next season. Payton will be the Lady Jenson St. John, and you Lady Anthony Thornton, and perhaps a duchess one day.”

Phillipa hated the tiny thrill that went through her at the idea of being Anthony’s lady. She prayed he had not really ended their association. She was not sure if that was what he’d done. But the pain that clawed through her heart at the mere possibility was almost unbearable.

She retired early, drained from the entire ordeal. She sank into slumber, resolved to determine if Anthony felt affection for her.

For she had finally cast aside her doubt, and admitted to herself that if he felt even a sliver of affection that could grow to love, she would marry him.

Her grandmother always said that any man who loved her, while he held her heart in the palm of his hands, she held his soul in the heart of hers, and he would give her all she desired.