The drawing room at Lord Clifford’s townhouse was smaller than Westford’s own, but no less grand. Winter light glanced off a crystal chandelier, scattering pale reflections across walls draped in soft blue damask. A porcelain clock chimed delicately on the mantel. A fire glowed with quiet industry. William had arrived punctually, but not early, and was shown in by a liveried footman.
Lady Philomena rose as he entered, setting aside her cup with a smile that struck him as both gracious and calculated.
Her gown was of ivory lace, laid over blush-toned silk the color of champagne. The cut was more daring than before, her figure shaped by a bodice that revealed the full curve of herbreasts, veiled only by a trace of embroidered netting. It was not vulgar. It was precise. Meant to entice.
He noticed, but felt nothing. Not even the faintest stir of desire. It had been that way for months. Only one woman could move him now. The rest were shapes, words, motion. Nothing else.
He told himself it was temporary. That in time, with a proper wife and proper distance, the restlessness would settle. His body would remember its duty. It had to.
Lady Clifford, her aunt, rose with elegance and dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Blackmeer. A pleasure.”
He bowed. “Lady Clifford. Lady Philomena. You honor me.”
“We are so pleased you could join us,” Philomena said, her voice warm, composed. She gestured to the chair beside her. “We were just discussing the opening at the Italian Opera. They’re reviving Giulio Cesare in Egitto this season. I know it’s out of fashion—everyone clamors for Rossini these days—but I’ve always preferred the gravity of the baroque.”
Lady Clifford’s eyes softened as she picked up her embroidery frame. “I confess my tastes have always run to the Handel oratorios—Messiah, in particular. Still—pay me no mind. You’ve far more engaging matters to discuss than an old lady’s fondness for Handel.” With that, she withdrew from the conversation without leaving the room.
“Oh, yes. Having a general in our midst would be a terrible waste if we didn’t learn all the particulars of the war,” Philomena said, smiling as she poured his tea.
William sat, accepted the cup, and said dryly, “If you’d prefer talk of bloodshed and troop shortages, I can certainly oblige.”
Philomena’s lips quirked. “I would. If you will forgive the taste.”
He inclined his head. “Very well. Salamanca, then.”
For the next quarter of an hour, they spoke easily—too easily, perhaps. Philomena had read widely. She knew the geography of the campaigns, the names of generals, the structure of supply lines. She asked about the mood of the men, the reality of the field—how officers kept discipline, how quickly the wounded could be moved, whether any real command existed once the guns opened fire.
William found himself answering with more honesty than he had intended. She listened with keen intelligence, never gasping, never sentimental, never turning her head at the mention of blood or chaos. Only when he described the heat—the stench of the dead on the plains of Badajoz—did she draw in a breath.
“A friend of mine,” she said, “was widowed after that siege. She said the letters stopped coming, and then the officials came instead. She never forgave the silence.”
“There is always silence,” William said. “Even when one survives. You cannot explain it. And if you try, the truth sounds like madness.”
Philomena’s gaze held his. “But you remember it.”
“I remember all of it,” he said.
Her expression was unreadable. “That is why I would rather hear the truth from a man who saw it, than the pretty lies they print in the broadsheets.”
He set down his cup. “Your candor does your father credit.”
She gave a slight shrug. “He prefers daughters who do not speak so plainly. But Uncle indulges me, though he makes a show of protest.”
William allowed a flicker of amusement to rise. Her charm was precise—never careless, never coy. She was a woman who measured every move. And for the first time, she had chosen to impress him not just with polish, but with flesh.
A deliberate shift, then. He recognized it for what it was. And admired her for it.
“The Westford box will be ours for whichever evening you choose,” William said at last. “For the Giulio Cesare revival you mentioned.”
Philomena’s smile was immediate, though perfectly controlled. “Then I shall be forced to admire your taste as well as your timing.”
“You flatter me, Lady Philomena. But I hope you’ll agree to join me.”
“Gladly,” she said. “Though I warn you, I shall be humming arias for days afterward.” Her tone turned lightly teasing. “And of course, my aunt will accompany us. She would never forgive me if I went to Handel without her.”
“Of course.”
Lady Clifford looked up from her needlework. “I feel so blessed. I haven’t heard a proper baritone since the war began.”
