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“Are you going to marry Miss Peppiwell?” his mother asked quietly.
He struggled through the feelings the question roused in him. “I, uh… I was going to. It appears… Things may have changed.”
His sister’s brow furrowed. “I suppose everything will be different now that we have been ostracized from society.”
Their mother let out a sob and buried her face again. The viscount’s expression had not wavered from anxious concern the whole time. His eyes met Anthony’s again as he gathered his wife in his arms. “There, there,” he murmured soothingly. “It will be all right, you’ll see.”
Anthony suddenly knew the man would do anything in the world to ease her pain and distress. His heart squeezed and his respect soared. How powerless Radcliffe must have felt all these years, loving a woman he could not have, and two children he could not raise, or even acknowledge.
Anthony resolved in his heart to try and be a true son to his father, if he’d let him. Somehow, he knew he would.
Constance slipped her hands into his, threading their fingers together. “What are we to do, brother?”
He sighed deeply. “You will go about as if everything is normal, and let me, Sebastian, and the viscount deal with it. When the season starts in the spring, you will attend all balls you are invited to, go on picnics, and take carriage rides. Then you will marry your prince charming.”
Their mother looked up with a watery smile.
Constance frowned at him. “What do you know about my prince charming?”
“It’s not as if you’ve kept it a secret that’s what you desire.”
He laughed at her indignant expression and tugged her back into his side. “You will be fine. True, things may be a bit different. But we do not care a fig about the eyes of Society, do we? What we care about is our family. And the friends who stand behind us. That is the most important thing we should all do, stick together, and remember we are a family, even if we are a complicated family.”
The viscount smiled at him, then, and murmured, “Amen, son.”
They were silent for the longest time, all of them staring into the crackling flame in the hearth, deep in their own thoughts.
“Anthony…” Constance ventured at length. “Why are you no longer considering Miss Peppiwell?”
His heart stalled. He continued to gaze into the fire, unable to see the pity in their eyes when he said, “It is the other way around, I’m afraid. I have heard Lord Hoyt has declared for her.”
Constance gasped softly. “Are you certain?”
“Of his intentions? Yes. Of hers? I have not heard otherwise.”
“Oh, darling. What are you going to do?” his mother asked.
He finally looked up. “What do you think I should do?”
She seemed to search his soul in the brief moment she considered him, but it was the viscount who quietly answered, “If you love her and cannot live without her, fight for her.” A lifetime of regret lived in those words.
Constance gripped his hand. “He is right, Anthony. You must not let another man steal her away from you.”
Hell. His sister was very naive when it came to love. But Sebastian’s advice resonated in his mind, along with the viscount’s life lesson.
“Will you go to her? Ask who she’s chosen?” his mother asked.
He nodded. He’d already made the decision to confront her. “Yes. I’d planned to speak to her father this afternoon, anyway. May as well keep that appointment.” He needed to hear her rejection from her own lips.
That way, he could cut her from his heart completely, instead of spending a lifetime wondering.
…
Astonishment froze the crowd of callers who’d gathered in the Peppiwell’s parlor when the butler announced Anthony, and he strolled in.
Phillipa’s heart leaped, but her feet stayed anchored to the carpet.
She had been appalled by the number of callers who had shown up at their door today—“friends” who’d wanted to be sure she’d heard the scandalous news about her “admirer.” Lord Hoyt, of course, had parked himself next to her and refused to budge. Phillipa had desperately wanted to flee the house, but her mother and aunt, and even her father, had all but imprisoned her and forced her to listen to the gossips speak ill of Anthony and his sweet sister. She held herself cold and detached, impervious to the malice surrounding her.
A high-pitched laugh from her mother cut off instantly upon seeing Anthony enter.
The crowd rippled away as he crossed the room toward Phillipa. They parted for him, both aghast and titillated by the dangerous glitter in his emerald eyes. Speculative stares darted between her and Anthony, and she hardened herself against the condemnation in their faces.
The look in Anthony’s eyes shredded her, nearly shattering the icy composure she was determined to hide behind. Dressed in a dark gray coat and trousers with a peach waistcoat, he had never been more handsome.
“How did he get in?” Lady Merryweather said to her father in a loud whisper that everyone could hear. “Tell him to leave at once.”
Anthony stopped in front of Phillipa, and her heart thundered.
“Introduce me to your fiancé.” His voice was so smooth and toneless, completely at odds with the storm that swirled in his gaze.
She hardly knew how to respond. He was wrong. She had never accepted Hoyt. She was twenty-one now, and had already made plans to leave London. If she couldn’t have Anthony, she wanted no other man. “I’m—”
“Come, my love, I do not wish to be introduced to an imposter,” Lord Hoyt murmured caustically and took her arm.
Pain screamed inside her as Anthony went deathly still.
“He has some nerve coming here.” The harsh whisper of Lady Jeffreys stabbed at her like a thousand knives. Anthony did not acknowledge any of the nasty comments as he waited for Phillipa’s reaction.
Her mother threw her a horrified look. Her aunt’s expression condemned from the far corner. Phillipa struggled for breath as she found herself standing all alone in the middle of the biggest crush her parlor had ever held. It seemed like all London society was watching her in keen anticipation. For her downfall, no doubt.
“Phillipa?” Anthony’s low murmur raked over something deep inside her.
Expectation pressed in on her from her whole family. She could see the pleading in Payton’s gaze.
Phillipa’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. She gazed blindly at the hand Anthony held out to her. Why would he come here? Why would he do this to me? He must know she had no choice but to cut him. To save her family. Her eyes filled with tears as she forced herself to turn away without acknowledging him. She prayed he would give her a chance to explain later.
The relief in her sister’s and mother’s gazes condemned her, even as it freed them. The proud tilt of Hoyt’s lips was unbearable. He squeezed her arm in reassurance, and she yanked it away from him.
Suddenly, Lady Henrietta gave a loud squeal of indignation. In her hand she held open the evening Gazette, which must have just been delivered. “How can this be?” she cried. “There is an announcement here, of Miss Peppiwell’s imminent marriage to Lord Anthony!”
Every person in the room gasped. Every eye turned to Phillipa.
Phillipa could not help it…she glanced back at Anthony. His eyes went narrow and cold. His cynical look of utter disgust froze her to the spot. Hoyt took her arm again and tugged none too gently.
“Obviously, it is not true,” Hoyt said loudly. “A vicious lie by the rogue to entrap an innocent lady.”
She swallowed, unable to speak. She’d forgotten about the announcement Anthony had said he would send out.
A coldness chilled her to the bone when Anthony’s lips curled up and icy contempt poured over her. “Obviously,” he drawled.
Her heart cracked.
And then he dismissed her. She saw the moment he removed her from his thoughts and his heart…and her whole being shattered. She pulled herself from Hoyt’s gr
asp and turned around fully to watch Anthony’s retreat. The entire room watched her in morbid fascination, but she could not summon an ounce of energy to care. She gazed at his retreating back with a sickening sensation that blanched the blood from her face.
“Get hold of yourself, Phillipa,” her mother softly hissed in her ear.
The crowd tittered drunkenly, smelling blood in the air. The murmuring began, and rose in an excited swell, that Phillipa Peppiwell had cut the bastard who’d dared to lie about their betrothal. She strained to see him stride through the crowd, ignoring the frantic pull of her mother and the harsh curses of Lord Hoyt.
“You are disgracing us, Phillipa,” her aunt snapped, fanning herself with vigor.
The pain of loss that hazed Phillipa’s mind pressed in on her, choking her, and suddenly she knew with every nerve of her body that she could not let him leave. She met her father’s eyes then, and he smiled at her. A single tender smile of loving acceptance in a churning sea of disapproval. Oh, Papa.
She ripped away from everyone, ignoring the cries of the rest of her family to stop. She tried to press through to Anthony, but the crush of visitors slowed her down. Desperation clawed at her as she watched him reach the front entry and accept his coat from the butler, not looking back. Not knowing that she was trying to get to him.
