Page 2 of Her Unsuitable Match

During the carriage ride home, her mother had ceased talking but had commenced glaring. Despite Philippa knowing her own mind, her mother’s censure was no less irritating. Mothers were supposed to be sympathetic to their children, weren’t they?

Her sister-in-law, Elaine, was kind and compassionate with her two adopted children, and would certainly be so with the babe she had born a few short months before.

But then, Mother railed against Elaine’s place in the family every chance she had. Despite Elaine’s kindness. Despite the grandchild Elaine had provided. The dowager countess acted as though Elaine’s marriage into the family had created a scandal too great to live down. When, in fact, Society openly welcomed Elaine everywhere she went. Perhaps because of her money, initially, and her eye for fashion. But once people came to know Philippa’s sister-in-law, they couldn’t help but love her. No one kinder existed anywhere on earth.

Although happy for Adam and Elaine, there were moments when Philippa wished there had been a scandal. At least enough of one to keep their family in the country for a single Season. Hiding away from spiteful gossips and scheming bachelors.

Philippa loved the Season. But she hated the marriage mart. She had heard from friends that—once married—the time spent in London held many delights. No one had to stay at a ball longer than they wished. They could come and go from other events without worrying overmuch about what the gossips observed and spoke about later. Married women were protected from snobbery and criticism in a way no single lady was ever afforded.

It might be worth it—to marry someone—if only to end the constant speculation of others.

Philippa laughed quietly to herself and pressed a cool cloth to her forehead.

At three and twenty, she no longer felt the eagerness of a girl fresh from the schoolroom. She had no desire to marry in order to please her family or anyone else. When she married, it would be to please herself.

The dark shadows of her room painted swaths of gray forests upon her ceiling. Her eyes traced the imaginary branches, despite how heavy with fatigue they remained. She blinked, then gave in and closed them.

According to her father’s will, upon her most recent birthday, she had won access to her full inheritance. Every pound meant as a dowry to tempt bachelors belonged to her, even if she never married. But her horrid eldest brother, Richard, kept finding reasons to delay the transfer of her funds into her name. More than once, she had thought about finding a solicitor to force the issue. But her family had already undergone a painful fracture with Adam’s marriage to Elaine, a former seamstress-turned-heiress.

Philippa didn’t particularly want to begin a new war with her mother, brothers, sisters-in-law, and sister. What harm did it do for her to spend one more Season doing her mother’s bidding? The money would still be there come summer, and then she would make Richard give it over to her.

And she would finally do as she pleased.

That thought made Philippa smile and think markedly happier thoughts as she finally slipped into peaceful slumber.

Two

The quiet hung heavily in the night air, thick as a fog. The lack of moonlight meant Myles couldn’t see much farther than the tip of his nose. He heard the shifting of the men around him, their whispered complaints, and someone snored despite the mounting anxiety felt by his fellows.

Myles gripped the butt of his pistol tighter and attempted to force back a rising sense of wrongness. He could practically smell it, like acrid smoke and gunpowder. He’d been ordered to keep his men here. Yet an itching sensation in his heart made him want to move. Did he dare go against orders?

He struggled with instinct, wary of trusting himself when those ranked above him could make his life more a misery than it was at present. Surely his men deserved more from him, though.

He hesitated too long.

From far away, he heard the boom of what he knew, despite his hopes, was not thunder. A cannon had fired. But where? From their side, or the enemy’s? And how? The enemy had to be as blind as Myles and his men.

Everyone woke. Flashes in the distance, coupled with the sound of rifle-rounds shot, brought everyone first to their feet and then their knees as they tried to duck down.

Who was foolish enough to begin a battle in the dead of night? Dawn was still hours away. Myles shouted for order, demanded his men pay attention to him—and then he fell forward, propelled by a force he couldn’t see. He put his hand out to catch himself, and another flash of light revealed why it hurt when his palm made contact with the ground. He crumpled, gasping and uncertain of what he’d seen. He heard a loud ringing in his ear, until sound came roaring back to him.

Confusion reigned as his men shouted and scrambled to fall back, and someone took his arm to help. A pain in his shoulder and the fire in his left arm nearly brought him down. More gunfire, scattered from behind and on all sides, made him stumble. But he kept moving. Kept trying to get to safety and make sense—

An explosion of air knocked him backward, a tree he hadn’t known was there shattered, and the pain was too much—too great. Then there was more screaming…

Myles sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, the screams still echoing in his head. He didn’t shout, though. He kept his lips pressed shut, as he had that night, too. That night so many years ago—he hated to think on it. Never did, if he could help it. And he had thought himself winning at last when it came to repressing the memories of battle.

He covered his face with both hands and took several deep, measured breaths. Then he reached for the curtains surrounding his bed and ripped them open, desperate for sunlight. He was in luck. He hadn’t woken from his nightmare in the dark hours; the faint yellow light of London’s morning sun came whisper-soft through the windows of his small, rented room.

He knew why he’d had the dream.

Myles strode with purpose to the small desk near the window and sat in the chair, not caring that he’d left his robe behind on a hook by the bed. No one was around to see him, half-unclothed, or to remark upon the twists of skin on shoulder and chest where a Frenchman’s round had passed through his body.

He picked up the letter, and its accompanying invitation, from one of his oldest friends. Truthfully, one of the only friends he had left. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to maintain the relationships that had been his before he went to war—merely that it had become too difficult.

The letter was brief. Written in Joshua Moreton’s usual cheery style. The letter encouraged Myles to accept an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Gillensford to their ball, as one of their honored guests, held that very evening. Moreton had sent his letter to Myles the week previous. Moreton had promised that Myles would enjoy himself. That the ball would be full of beautiful ladies. He insisted the host and hostess would need men like Myles present if they were to achieve their goal of raising funds for a veteran’s hospital. “A most worthy cause,” his friend had said.

“I am not a cause,” Myles muttered to his friend’s letter, narrowing his good eye at the paper. There wasn’t enough light yet to read the faintly inked words, but Myles knew every bit of it by now.