William offered a polite nod. “Then I shall make the arrangements for your preferred date.”
Philomena tilted her head, as if appraising him anew. “You surprise me, Lord Blackmeer. I had thought you a man too soldierly and rigid for Italian opera.”
“I have my contradictions.”
“I am beginning to see that.”
He rose not long after, bowed to both ladies, and made his departure with the usual courtesies. His footsteps echoed sharply in the corridor as he left the house, his coat flung over one shoulder.
She was flawless. Exactly the sort of woman he had always believed he should want. And yet, as he crossed back into the gray afternoon, it was Jane’s voice that followed him—not in anger this time, but soft with all the things she had never said. And now, never would.
Chapter 31
The courtship of Lord Blackmeer and Lady Philomena had become a subject of mild interest in Mayfair drawing rooms. They were seen at the King’s Theater in the Duke’s box—her gown immaculate, his attention unwavering. Their names began to appear in the society columns—just enough to be noted, never enough to be remarked upon.
With the Duchess still away from London, daytime visits were limited. But Westford House remained a center of evening society, its formal dinners drawing the best of the ton. Philomena, polished and poised, moved among them with unstudied grace. She quickly became a favorite—admired by the dowagers, copied by the debutantes, and approved by the men who mattered.
It was after one such dinner, when the candles had burned low and the gentlemen lingered over their port, that she expressed an interest in seeing the Westford collection. Though her tone had been light, almost teasing, the request had not been refused. Most of the family treasures remained at Westford Castle, but the townhouse gallery had its share of spoils: the kind of pieces that spoke to power, wealth, and heritage.
Now, with the hour slipping gently past ten, William stood at her side in the solemn stillness of that upper gallery, the door clicking shut behind them. Candelabras had been lit for the occasion, casting a soft golden glow across the paneled walls.Paintings stared down in silence: sacred and profane, battles and visions, martyrs and lovers—all watching.
“This,” William said, pausing before a vast altarpiece, “came from Mantua. Some minor duke—half mad, they say, and entirely bankrupt—sold most of his collection to my grandfather. The man had squandered his inheritance, but his family’s taste was superb.”
Philomena’s gaze traveled across the canvas. “Mantegna. One of the first to twist space like that—illusion used to build depth.”
William glanced at her. “You’ve been to Mantua?”
“Only once,” she said. “My father was on diplomatic assignment in Milan. We were granted a private tour of the Palazzo Ducale. The Camera degli Sposi left a mark—Mantegna’s illusions were unlike anything I’d seen.”
William inclined his head. “It is not an easy thing to forget.”
“No,” she agreed silkily. “Nor, I imagine, to paint. I admire how Renaissance artists began to see the world clearly—and dared to paint it that way.”
He nodded, amused despite himself. “Then you’ll recognize a few of these. My grandfather had a taste for the Florentine masters—Vasari, Bronzino—but we also have a handful of Venetian works. A couple of Titians, of course.”
She turned as he gestured to a wide, shadowy painting. “Diana and Actaeon,” she whispered. “So this is the one.”
They stood before it in companionable quiet. The goddess caught in surprise, the hunter’s fate sealed in the arc of her gaze. It was a scene of arrested violence—both intimate and eternal.
“I saw several Bellinis in Vienna,” Philomena said thoughtfully. “All devotion and stillness—Madonnas with downcast eyes, saints lost in contemplation. Exquisite, but tame. This”—her attention fixed on Diana and Actaeon—“this breathes. It startles. It pulses with pagan wildness the others never dared attempt.”
William looked at her then, noting the way her eyes reflected the candlelight, the angle of her neck as she tilted her head to better study the brushwork. She was exquisite in pale green satin, her gloves removed, her hands bare and elegant.
“Your taste continues to impress me, Lady Philomena,” he said.
She gave a small smile. “You’ve made it very easy, my lord. One does not often have the chance to view such a collection in private.”
They sat, then, on the carved bench before the painting. Her skirts spread in careful folds beside him. They were close—closer than might be strictly proper without her chaperone—but no one would dare question it now. Not with their engagement all but arranged.
William found himself reaching for something to say, something light, but the door opened. He looked up.
Jane stood framed in the entrance, wearing a traveling cloak over her black wool dress. The high waist and careful drape of the fabric hid the swell of her belly, but not the paleness of her face. She stared at them as though she had stepped into a dream—or a nightmare.
“Miss Ansley,” he said, rising at once. “What on the devil are you doing here?”
Philomena turned slightly toward him, one brow lifting. “Come now, my lord,” she said coolly, “why concern yourself with the governess? She is the governess, is she not? You should not keep your betrothed waiting.”
The word struck like a knife through her heart. Jane’s hand went to her stomach, her breath catching. She staggered.
