My Enchanting Hoyden (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel, #3) (18 page)

P
hilip rose early the next morning in hopes of breaking his fast alone and then heading off to see Scarsdale before calling on Jemma to tell her what he had learned about Frazier. As he neared the dining room, the distinct quick, merry chatter of women drifted down the hall. He paused outside the dining room door, debating whether to skip the morning meal to avoid having to converse with Mother and Cousin Eustice. He had too much on his mind to make small talk, which would be expected since the footman had informed him that Eustice had arrived at their house last night. Philip had yet to greet her.

Yes, eating could wait. He turned to go when something Eustice said made him pause.

“And what did your physician say when you saw him?”

Philip frowned, swiveled on his heel, and strode through the dining room door, his gaze focused on his mother. He examined her as she smiled at him, her coffee cup raised in midair. Her color looked well, her eyes bright. She wasn’t too thin, but still, what did he know about a woman’s health?

“Mother, are you ill?”

Giggling erupted beside his mother as she shook her head. Philip whipped his gaze toward Eustice and almost groaned. He had hoped the years since he had last seen his cousin had been kind to her and allowed her to blossom from the unattractive girl she had been. It would certainly be easier to find a husband for her among the
ton
if that had been the case, but it was immediately apparent that the years had neither given her grace nor beauty. They had instead accentuated the very things that had made the poor girl a likely candidate for the wallflower line. Damned fickle Mother Nature and damned the shallow men of the
ton.

Her nose was still long and beak-like with a prominent bump on the right side where she’d fallen off her horse as a child and broken it. Philip didn’t think it would be so noticeable if her eyes were bigger, or even a more remarkable color, but they were brown and beady. Not a particularly interesting shade of brown, either. Not even a brown sparkling with mischief. Just a dull brown. Poor Eustice. She also had a small mouth that always seemed to be pinched, as if she were grimacing all the time. However, she
was
a rather kind girl. Woman, now, he supposed. Her hair color matched her eyes, and she wore it pulled back in a severe bun. Finding a husband for his cousin was going to be a task given the superficial qualities most men considered important in a wife.

Philip inclined his head and pasted on a smile. “Eustice, you look lovely, as always.” Another lie. But he refused to browbeat himself over this particular one.

She smiled, displaying her best quality—the most perfect set of dazzling white teeth he had ever seen. “Philip, you are as kind as I remember. I know quite well I don’t look lovely, but you say it in such a way that I almost believe it.”

Philip smiled, genuinely this time. Eustice had turned out to be a well-spoken, no-nonsense, intelligent young lady. Perhaps there was hope for her yet, if she met the right sort of gentleman. A smart one, for starters. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Cousin.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to be here.” Her earnest brown gaze locked with his. “I’ll do my very best to attract a husband, Harthorne.”

Philip nodded. “I’m sure you will.” Worry tightened his gut, and he prayed his face didn’t show it. He did not want to wound Eustice’s sensibilities.

Mother cleared her throat. “Now about the matter of a dowry...”

Philip tensed. Good God, he hadn’t even considered that he may be the one who was supposed to provide a dowry for Eustice. He tugged on his cravat, which seemed to have magically worked itself into a tighter knot.

Mother smiled gently. “I assured Eustice you would provide a dowry for her, but she refused.”

A break from the Gods!
Philip almost shouted.

“Philip,” his mother continued, “of course, you must persuade her to take your money. I’ve done all I can. She fears being a burden.”

He feared she was, too, but then again, anything requiring funds was an encumbrance at this point. He almost choked on the stressed laughter he struggled to retain.

“I told her she wasn’t and that she simply had to have a dowry.” Mother gave him a look that shouted
, Look at her, Philip! You can see what I mean!

Philip nodded but shifted as he did so. He felt as if someone had secured a boulder to each leg and he was being dragged underwater. If he didn’t find another solution to marrying for money this morning, he was going to have to swallow his self-loathing, after all, and find a wife immediately.

Philip gave his cravat another vicious tug. “Mother is correct, Eustice. I won’t hear of your entering Society without a dowry.”

A look of extreme appreciation came over her face and lit her eyes so that, for a moment, they did, indeed, sparkle. “Harthorne, I must hug you,” she gushed and sprung to her feet.

In her haste and inherent clumsiness, she knocked her knee against the table and sent a stack of books flying to a heap on the floor. She sank down to gather them, and Philip bent to help her. As he came up with several books in his hands, so did she. They knocked heads, and he could have sworn his teeth rattled in his jaw.

Eustice’s face flamed red, and she looked at him. “You’ve already done too much.”

“I have?” He rubbed his head, trying to think what he—or more aptly, his mother—had done.

Eustice nodded. “Well, yes. The gowns, opening your home to me, and now the dowry.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied. “I know I didn’t.” In fact, under the spell of Jemma, he’d thought little of what he truly needed to be concentrating on. Was openly weeping unmanly? Surely, men cried when faced with destitution. He held back a groan. His humor was not making him feel a damned bit better.

His mother rose, came to him, and hugged him. “I told Eustice you would not let us down. I can always count on you, Philip.”

He nodded. He certainly hoped the day never came when his mother didn’t believe those words. He would provide a dowry for Eustice, but it would be a huge help if she caught the eye of a man who wasn’t too wealthy, since the wealthier her future husband was the higher her dowry was supposed to be. In fact, maybe she would fall in love with a nice baronet or even a man of the merchant class. True love didn’t have a dammed thing to do with money, even if he was one of only a handful of people in England who believed it.

“I’m so glad that’s settled,” his mother said cheerfully. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Philip, Eustice needs to try on her gown for tomorrow night’s ball, and Dr. Talbot is coming to see me.”

“If you’re not ill, why are you seeing Dr. Talbot?” he asked.

She exchanged a very strange look with Eustice while clearing her throat. “Er, well, I do have a bit of a cough, and you know how Dr. Talbot is. He just wants to be sure I’m in perfect health.”

Philip nodded. Dr. Talbot had always been the sort to be preemptive.

His mother stared at him with earnest eyes. “If he hears anything in my chest, he may want me to go to Bath to take the waters for several weeks so that I don’t become ill. Would that be all right, darling?”

Of course, it had to be all right. He’d not deny his mother doing something for her health. But those boulders chained to his legs were about to drag him through the floor and deliver him straight to perdition, as he’d be unable to pay his bills if he had to pay for medical treatments, too. He reached up to tug on his collar, again, only to realize the thing was now dangling loose around his neck.

His mother frowned at him. “If you’d rather I not go—”

“Of course not,” he interrupted. “If the physician says you need to depart, you shall depart immediately. But what of Eustice?”

“I’ll make arrangements if need be. Oh, Philip!” His mother sniffled. “If your father could see how well you have managed things despite his foolhardiness, he’d be so proud.”

Likely not if he got a good look at the books. “Thank you, Mother,” Philip managed to reply without choking on his humiliation. “I’ve got business to attend to elsewhere, but I’ll return in time for dinner,” he added. He had to get away. Lying to his mother, however well intended, filled him with disgust.

T
wenty minutes later, he was heading away from the Duke of Scarsdale’s home after a futile attempt to talk to the man, who would apparently be away for the next several days on business, according to his footman. Now Philip’s coach clopped along the street toward Jemma’s grandfather’s house. He needed to forget coming up with another solution to his problem; he already knew there wasn’t one. Scarsdale coming up with an alternative had been a false hope Philip had allowed himself in a desperate attempt to buy more time. But time had expired. He now had even more financial burdens pressing down on him than he’d had yesterday.

Sweat covered his brow. He’d see Jemma and tell her about Frazier, keep things proper between them as they needed to be, and then he’d depart and focus on his list, determining with whom he might dance at the next ball. The prospect held absolutely no appeal, but it had to be done.

Half an hour later, Philip was back in his carriage in a darker mood than he’d previously been in after having been informed by the Duke of Rowan’s footman that Miss Adair was out and not expected back for many hours. No doubt Jemma had left the house early to avoid encountering Glenmore if he called on her, despite the fact that she had said she’d be out today. With no commitments until a dinner later at Lord and Lady Pembrooks’, Philip spent his afternoon boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s.

By the time he arrived at the Pembrooks’ that evening, he was determined to concentrate on getting to know the next debutante on his list—Lady Olivia. He was shown into the drawing room and saw her conversing with his sister. Amelia waved him over, and as he started across the room, the door at the opposite wall opened, and Jemma and Miss Anne entered, Glenmore close on their heels.

Philip paused in his trek, torn between doing what he must—speaking to Lady Olivia, who may well end up being his bride—or doing what he wanted—speaking to Jemma, who could never be anything more to him than an acquaintance he liked very much. He inclined his head to Jemma and forced himself to continue in his path. But as he stopped in front of his sister and Lady Olivia, his gaze strayed back to Jemma. She now stood near the pianoforte with a fake smile pasted on her face, her head cocked back in a halfhearted attempt to appear to be listening to whatever it was that Glenmore was saying, but her eyes, those breathtaking eyes, stared past Glenmore and out the window. Philip had the notion she was probably wishing she were a bird so she could take flight and escape. A physical ache gripped him.

“Philip.” Amelia touched his arm, making him jerk. He tore his gaze from Jemma and focused on his sister, who glanced from him to where Jemma was standing and back again. A question flickered in her eyes, and he was half-afraid she’d noted something in his face, but she smiled and motioned to Lady Olivia. “Lady Olivia was just telling me that she adores to read gothic novels as I do. I mentioned that you write poetry.”

Philip nodded dutifully, finding it hard to concentrate on Lady Olivia or his sister when he knew Jemma was trapped in conversation with Glenmore. “Do you like poetry?” he asked, forcing himself to really look at Lady Olivia. She had a sweet, heart-shaped face and plump cheeks.

She smiled. “I do. My favorite is Coleridge.”

“Oh, excellent!” he found himself saying. Finally a lady with whom he may have something in common. “I love Coleridge myself, and I also greatly admire Wordsworth.”

She frowned. “I detest Wordsworth.”

“Surely you jest!” he blurted, knowing he should not have, especially given the way Amelia was now glaring at him.

Lady Olivia shook her head. “I find his poems unreadable and uninteresting.”

The lady clearly didn’t know poetry, but he’d not mark her off his list because of that. He was not so small-minded.

“I’d love to hear one of your poems,” she said, prodding him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jemma departing the room, and not a moment later, Glenmore followed. Philip’s heart gave an extra thump. Did Jemma know Glenmore was following her? Where was she going?

“Lord Harthorne, I insist you share a poem with me this very moment,” Lady Olivia demanded.

Amelia’s eyes grew wide, and Philip considered telling Lady Olivia what she could do with her demands, but he did have a three-line poem memorized. It seemed simpler to spit it out and then go make sure Jemma was all right. He recited his poem quickly and was about to beg his leave when Lady Olivia patted him on the arm.

“Everyone must start somewhere, my lord. I’m sure your prose will improve with time.”

He didn’t bother telling her that he’d been writing poetry for years. He just mentally crossed Lady Olivia off his list. It wasn’t that she had wounded his pride, but rather, he knew instinctually that she’d never appreciate him and she’d be forever telling him what to do. “Thank you for your reassurance. If you’ll excuse me...”

Lady Olivia nodded, as did his sister. Philip sketched a quick bow and strode toward Miss Anne, who was speaking with Lady Pembrook. Both ladies greeted him warmly, and after a moment of trivial conversation, he thought it safe to ask after Jemma without appearing overly concerned.