Beaufort pressed on, his tone sharp with incredulity. “You would slander me—your friend—yet what of you? You, who cannot keep your eyes from her? You, who burn with rage at the thought of any other man speaking her name? What are we to conclude, Blackmeer? That your silence is guilt.”
“Hold your tongue,” William bit out.
“No,” Beaufort snapped, his temper breaking at last. “Not until you answer me. Do you mean to shame me for somethingI have never done, while you look at her as though she were already yours? Do you deny it? Speak plain!”
William’s grip tightened on the reins until his knuckles whitened. His breath came hard through his nose, his whole body strung taut with fury.
Beaufort’s gaze did not waver. “Say it, then. Or are you so craven you cannot own the truth of your own heart?”
For a moment William fought—fought for composure, for denial, for the armor that had always carried him through. But nothing came. The words burst from him raw, ragged, torn from the depths of his chest:
“I love her. Damn you all—I love her.”
The confession hung stark between them. Beaufort’s face shifted—astonishment, then dismay, then something like pity. He stared hard at William, as if searching for shame. “For her sake,” he said at last, tone tight, “I hope you have not done anything dishonorable with those feelings. Because I understand. She is—God help me—she is a woman worth loving.”
William’s throat worked. He could not answer.
Beaufort’s jaw clenched, anger flashing through his composure. “And yet you scour London for a bride, as if she meant nothing.”
William’s voice broke harsh. “I have my duty to the dukedom. She is intelligent, beautiful—but she lacks the qualities a duchess must possess. My mother set the measure, and Jane—” He faltered, his mouth flattening to a hard line. “Besides, you know very well what scandal it would bring to marry a governess under my father’s roof. Every sacrifice I made to clear my name—everything—would be for naught.”
“Then you should have thought of that before you laid your hands upon her.”
“I know,” William bit out, savage. “I bloody know.”
Beaufort reined his horse back, disappointment written stark across his features. He looked at William a long moment, saw the torment written all over him, and gave a single, hard shake of his head. Without a backward glance, he wheeled away at a canter, leaving William straining against the weight of his own confession in the frost.
* * *
William had thought a ride through Hyde Park would steady him. Instead, he had confessed what he’d never meant to utter—I love her. The words still burned on his tongue as he entered Lord Clifford’s dining room, gilt mirrors and chandeliers glittering with borrowed light.
He should have pleaded fatigue. But Lord Clifford clapped him on the shoulder with a booming welcome, and drew him into the center of the company. He was the guest of honor. Retreat was impossible.
Conversation swelled, polite laughter rippling over gleaming glass and silver. A string quartet played softly in the adjoining room, the music drifting in like perfume—subtle, but meant to stir. William stood with a soldier’s discipline, but his mind was still in Hyde Park—on Beaufort’s accusing eyes, on Jane’s face when last he saw her.
And then Lady Philomena entered.
She came without fanfare, but the shift in the room was immediate. She was tall, finely made, her dark hair elegantly arranged. Her gown was of palest blue silk, the hue flattering against her luminous complexion. Her curtsy was deep enough to show respect, light enough to suggest confidence.
“Lord Blackmeer.” Her voice carried easily, warm yet measured. “At last we meet. My uncle speaks of you with admiration, though he exaggerates, I think. I feared you a figure of legend, but you seem reassuringly human.”
William bowed over her hand, reluctant fascination rising despite himself. “Lord Clifford is overly generous, I assure you, Lady Philomena, and legends usually disappoint in the flesh.”
“Not always.” Her gaze lingered on him just long enough to suggest wit, not forwardness, before she turned to greet another guest.
They were seated opposite one another, with Lord Clifford beaming between them like a matchmaker. To William’s right was Lady Halstead, an elderly dowager given to querulous complaints; to his left, a baronet so eager to impress that he tripped over his words. William braced himself for tedium.
It never came.
When Lady Halstead lamented the dampness of London, Philomena leaned toward her with genuine sympathy. “Then you must go to Vienna, Lady Halstead. I was there with my father last spring. The air in May is soft, and the gardens at Schönbrunn rival anything in England. My father swears the music alone is worth the journey. I think even your rheumatism would be charmed out of you.” The old lady chuckled, mollified. Conversation rolled on.
The baronet attempted a jest about the bluntness of English cookery compared with the French, fumbling his punchline. A silence threatened, but Philomena rescued him without effort. “The French may excel at presentation, Sir Thomas, yet nothing equals the excellence of English produce, nor the clean, hearty flavors it affords. For my part, I prefer it.” Her smile was kind, her tone amused—the baronet flushed, grateful, hastened to agree with her, launching into a tale of the best beef à la mode he had ever tasted.
William found himself watching her. She made it look effortless, this command of company. Each word she spoke was polished, every gesture deliberate. She listened attentively,never flattered excessively, never stumbled. His mother would have approved every syllable, every inclination of her head.
When politics arose, she handled them with the same serene authority. Lord Clifford mentioned the Foreign Secretary’s letters from Vienna; Philomena recounted them with effortless poise.
“My father complains that Metternich loves to talk for hours and conclude precisely nothing. He writes that the diplomats spend more time at the card tables than at the conference table. He says it is a miracle Europe is not already at war again.”
