CHAPTER 16
“Ican give you the name of an excellent physician,” said Noah Morton, the Marquess of Ramsbury, as he sipped Philip’s good port and stood beside him as if they were good friends.
Philip raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For Lady Selina, of course.” The Marquess gulped down another mouthful. “Or, I know of an apothecary who makes all manner of tonics and tinctures for every affliction you can think of. They might be able to make something for her nerves.”
“She just needs rest,” Philip said, parroting his sister.
The entire dinner had passed with no sign of Selina whatsoever. A maid had confirmed what Lizzy had said, but Philip remained unconvinced. There was a reason Selina was hiding in her room, and it had nothing to do with stress.
Either she is hiding from me, or she is hiding from the Marquess.
“Well, naturally. Planning a wedding and a house party must be exhausting,” the Marquess said. “I suppose it will be good practice for when she is the Duchess, though.”
Philip tried his best not to pull a face. He would not turn his manor into a gathering place for the rich and soulless elite. A playground for the vapid.
It would forever be a strange conundrum to be a duke, rubbing shoulders with the same people who had sent so many young men to war. People whom the men of his battalion had despised and he, in turn, had grown to hate. Now, he wasone of those elites.
“I just wanted to say that there are no hard feelings,” the Marquess continued in a nervy voice that annoyed him. “About Lady Selina, I mean. I spoke to her this morning to reassure her. In truth, I am grateful for the invitation, for it gives me the chance to tell you both how happy I am for both of you.”
Philip sipped his drink. “That is generous of you.”
“Not really. It is simply the truth.”
“Yes, well, I apologize for any gossip that has been directed at you,” he said, attempting to be generous himself. “The ton are vultures.”
“It has not been so bad,” the Marquess replied with a shrug. “I daresay you are more interesting than I am, and people are enjoying the fresh excitement.”
“I’m sure they are.”
Philip couldn’t do this anymore. If he had to force out another polite sentence, he would squeeze the port glass in his hand until it shattered. Inane conversation was the worst part of society, right there alongside the scandal sheets and their thirst for ruining reputations.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, nodding to the French doors that led out into the garden. “I think I just saw a fox. Can’t have it getting into the hen house.”
He did not wait for the Marquess’s reply and strode off with the port glass still in his hand, straight out onto the terrace. He didn’t stop there, descending into the dark, grateful for the cool air that swept over his face and ruffled his hair.
I never thought I would wish to be back on a battlefield.
The nights spent around campfires with men who understood, brothers-in-arms without affectation or self-importance, were far preferable to enduring one single evening with vacuous gentlemen who had never struggled in their lives.
“Give me strength,” he muttered, letting himself through the iron gate into the walled gardens.
He planned to find a comfortable bench and stay there until every last guest had gone to bed. Maybe tomorrow, hewould be the one to claim a vague malady that would permit him to keep to his rooms.
Peace and stillness blanketed him, the sky a carpet of stars. The night world was his favorite, where he could be alone and awake while everyone else slept, a realm all his own to anchor himself.
An old ache shifted him off the bench, and he rose reluctantly to shake out the stiffness. The port glass lay empty on the gravel. That, if nothing else, was a reason to return to the house instead of sleeping out there beneath the stars.
Back to society. Back to rules. Back to normalcy that feels foreign.
He sighed and picked up the glass. At least the manor would be quiet now, given the late hour. He wasn’t exactly sure how long he had been outside, but it must have been past midnight.
A yawn stretched his mouth as he made his way toward the entrance of the walled gardens, but as he passed the glittering spray of a fountain, he paused. His ears pricked at a soft sound that didn’t belong in the serene garden—the scuff of footsteps.
He turned in the direction of the noise.
There, coming to the gate of another section of the walled gardens, was a goddess. Her hair loose, falling in waves past her shoulders, the white hem of her nightdress trailing the ground, a cloak over the top to keep out the cold.
