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An image ofanother man’s hands on Emalyn’s petite body ploughed through Philip’s brain—again—making him wince. Since receiving her Venetian letter, it had been a vision that plagued Philip daily.
A widower with two children... is her mother mad? No, of course not. Merely looking after her vulnerable daughter in a society that was seldom kind to women of any status. But when he bedded her, would he be gentle? Understanding? Value her intelligence and all she could bring to such a partnering? Would he—
“You are thinking about her again.”
Philip shifted in the saddle and cleared his throat, resigned to his father’s knowing scrutiny. “Yes.”
They had paused in their ride back to the Ashton Park stables to peruse the landscape from a hillock that overlooked many of the tenancies. It had been a wet summer, and mud still plagued the area, slowing the work and exhausting the workers. Solomon had quizzed Philip endlessly about solutions, including the need to hire more hands to help with the harvest. They had joined their land steward for the tour of the tenant farms, although Philip felt certain Solomon’s motive for this day’s outing had been to distract him from brooding about Emalyn.
“This is not love. It is obsession.”
Philip glanced at his father. “If it were obsession, I would not be sitting here with you. Nor would I be willing to let her marry another man. I do not want to possess her. I want what is best for her.” When Solomon did not respond, Philip rolled his shoulders back, his gaze sliding to the far horizon. “Her mother has begun arranging meetings with potential suitors.”
“Ah. That is what has preoccupied you the last few weeks. You keep imagining another man in her bed.”
Philip turned a sharp look on his father, who shrugged. “Some things are obvious. You are eight and ten. So was I once. And in love.” He gestured at his head. “The mind goes to a woman’s bed a lot at that age. It is natural.” His mouth twisted in a quick grin. “At most ages, in fact.”
His father’s words from earlier in the year drifted back into Philip’s thoughts. “You said we all get over such emotion. Your paramour was not Mother.”
Solomon hesitated, then shook his head. “Someone I had known since we were children, in the same way you and Miss Benjumeda have known each other.”
“Was she not an appropriate match?”
“Perfectly appropriate, but she was not who my parents intended. Your mother was a better match, in terms of lineage and wealth, and Father wanted to make sure I was settled before he died.”
“You were only four and ten!”
Solomon nodded. “It is not all that unusual. Aminta and I were betrothed when she was but twelve. Any other attachment I may have formed was irrelevant. I could not dishonor Aminta, her family, or mine by going a separate way. We waited to marry, but the match was set.”
“That must have been painful.”
Another shrug. “You will discover, Philip, that as duke you will make a lot of choices out of duty and honor that are not of your own preferences. These are not always easy, merely right. It did make the first years of our marriage difficult, but Aminta and I are well suited. Then you were born, and our lives settled into the responsibilities of being duke and duchess.”
“And your lady?”
“She married another. Had children. They live up near the Scottish border. After a few passion-filled letters, we agreed never to contact each other again.”
Philip once again turned his gaze the horizon. “I suppose that would be best for Emalyn and me as well.”
Solomon remained silent several moments, leaving the creaking of their leather saddles and the jangles of the reins the only sounds between them. Finally Solomon cleared his throat. “Has she mentioned why they returned to England earlier than planned?”
“No. I have not heard from her, but I suspect her mother has a tight rein on her at the moment.”Why would he ask that?Philip twisted in the saddle to face Solomon, who had a sly grin on his face.
“They returned,” he said lightly, “because Gabriel Benjumeda was summoned by the prince.”
*
“Summoned? What doesthat mean? What would the Prince of Wales want with Father?”
Medina Benjumeda plucked at a section of needlepoint she had already stitched and ripped out twice. Anger showed in the hasty and harsh picks, although her face remained placid. “I am certain I have no idea.”
“Have you asked?”
Medina stabbed the needle into the fabric and thrust the hoop aside. “Why would I bother? He will not tell me. He comes and goes to these secretive meetings, and all he ever mutters is, ‘All will be revealed in good time,’ whatever that means.” Medina balled her fists and pressed them hard on her lap. “Oh, what are we doing here? We are not British! I begged your father to let us debark in Spain, to go home.” She waved one hand wildly. “But, no! He had to run here to his precious prince!”
Emalyn down on the settee near her mother. “Why would you call him that?”
Medina’s shoulders slumped. “Your father adores that profligate degenerate. He has been doing business with the Prince of Wales for more than a year, thanks to your beloved Duke of Kennet. Everyone knows the prince loves his wine, and the duke thought it would be a boon to our family.”
