Page 5 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“An aristocrat puts courtesy above all else,” she proclaimed. That sounded like one of her long-dead mother’s absurd dictums. By this standard, few true aristocrats existed.

“Then why did you consider marrying him?” Philippe quipped.

She tossed her head, for this was unanswerable. Hythwick was known for his bad manners, but they both knew her pronouncement was aimed at Philippe. Since that disastrous night five years ago, she had taken every opportunity to express her disdain for his revolutionary views—the very views she had lauded during their brief infatuation. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether she agreed with liberty, equality, and fraternity. He cared greatly that she’d proven to be such a hypocrite. That he’d been so taken in.

She had shown herself to be not only brazen and manipulative, but also imperious, intolerant, and as much of as snob as her mother. In choosing Queen Elizabeth’s sobriquet for her daughter’s name, old Lady Garrison had been inspired—or perhaps merely successful at duplicating her own faults.

He still clenched deep inside when he recalled his first meeting with Gloriana after that night at the summerhouse. It was at a ball in London, and she’d said to her friends with a derisive laugh, “Here comes the fool who believes the scum of the earth are our equals!”

Judging by her desire to marry Hythwick, she was downright stupid as well. Philippe certainly didn’t love her anymore, to the extent that he wondered what he’d seen in her five years ago. However, seemingly he retained a degree of concern for her—God only knew why—or he wouldn’t have come to Garrison House, nor would he follow her now. If she’d chosen a decent man, he would have kept away and wished her well with a great deal of relief.

But she hadn’t, and Philippe feared for her again. Over the past few days, he’d seen a hungry look in the earl’s eyes when they rested upon her.

Or maybe that was Philippe’s imagination, seeing as he’d wanted Gloriana himself, in the most carnal way, since the very day they’d met.

He didn’t want her much anymore—even his cock seemed convinced of that—but he hadn’t forgotten, and he understood Hythwick’s desire all too well. Sacrebleu! What if the earl thought better of his decision and proposed to her?

“He’s not a good man,” Philippe said now. “He cares for no one but himself. He would have made you miserable.”

“This from you? Go away!” She stormed off, nose in the air, and he let her go. In what way could she possibly compare Hythwick with him? They were about the same age—thirty years—and similar in social status, but quite different in physical appearance. Philippe was dark-haired, tall, and well-proportioned, and without being vain, knew full well that he was a good-looking man. Hythwick was fair and shorter, with bony legs and the beginnings of a paunch. But what mattered most was that Philippe was a man of principle, while Hythwick most certainly was not.

Philippe shrugged it off as irrelevant. He’d lost his respect for Gloriana’s judgment years ago. He watched her go, and all at once he knew what she meant to do: to use her woman’s wiles to persuade the earl to change his mind. She might even try to compromise herself, forcing him to marry her. She’d certainly done her best to trap Philippe years ago.

Philippe waited until she disappeared from view and then hastened after her.

~ ~ ~

Affecting haughtiness may result in a permanent crick in the neck.

Mama’s dictum, were she alive to comment, would have been quite different—something to the effect that a haughty manner sets an aristocrat apart from the rabble. Regardless of either Mama’s version or her own, Gloriana maintained her rigid posture as she walked away. Philippe always won their confrontations, not because he was right, but because he remained calm, with that patronizing French smirk on his handsome French face.

Oh, he thought he knew exactly what she was suffering. So would the whole of society once they heard the Earl of Hythwick hadn’t come up to scratch, but that didn’t matter, as long as Philippe didn’t know the real Gloriana. She felt his eyes on her, and his penetrating intelligence analyzing her. He was a clever man—one reason she’d fallen in love with him—but he couldn’t possibly be that clever. No one understood the convoluted maze that was Gloriana Warren’s mind.

Therefore, he didn’t know. He didn’t.

What a pity she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Did he continue to watch her? More likely he had turned away now, indifferent.

Five years after their disastrous infatuation, she shouldn’t care. So, she didn’t. Thank heavens he hadn’t gone into the summerhouse and browsed through her sketchbook. It contained drawings of Philippe, not just from years ago, but also from this house party where she’d lurked, sketching him whilst he was unaware. Sketching was her solace, but if he ever saw those drawings, it would become her greatest mortification instead.

She entered the Dower House by way of the kitchen garden, greeted the housekeeper and footman, and went in search of Elspeth. She found that longsuffering woman carrying a tray down the stairs and motioned her into the drawing room.

“How is Lord Hythwick?” she asked. “And why are you doing a housemaid’s work?”

“I volunteered, as no one wishes to serve him, not even his own valet.” Elspeth set the tray, which held an empty chocolate cup, a loaf of sugar, and a pair of nippers, on a table. “Three times he sent the chocolate back, complaining it was not sweet enough, too sweet, and too cold.”

“I’m sorry I foisted him onto you,” Gloriana said. “I didn’t feel I had a choice. He upset everyone yesterday, and it was my fault he had come to Lancashire in the first place.”

“All I can say, Miss Glow, is that I’m right glad you’re not about to marry him.”

Gloriana giggled. “So am I.” What a relief to be frank. She’d had to conceal her true intentions from everyone, even her maid—a good thing, because her plan, if she could call it that, had been stupid from start to finish. She’d been so thrilled and so sure of success when Philippe had come north and wangled an invitation to Garrison House, but evidently, that had nothing to do with her. Philippe de Bellechasse didn’t love her, so he didn’t care if she married someone else.

Elspeth bent a severe gaze upon her mistress. “You never did intend to wed Lord Hythwick, did you?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted to see if he would come up to scratch.” That wasn’t the whole story, but she didn’t intend to confess the rest—although she wouldn’t be surprised if Elspeth guessed.

“It’s not my place to say so, but you’ll catch cold one day with such shenanigans.”

“He would have come up to scratch if it weren’t for my cousin Daisy.” Thank God for her dear, disreputable Daisy, who’d appeared out of the blue with her fiancé, Sir Julian Kerr.