Page 6 of The Dark Duke’s Cinderella (The Untamed Ladies #1)

CHAPTER 6

I t occurred to Philip, as he sat down at the dinner table later that night beside Anna Walford, that George may have been trying to match him with one of his cousins, after all. If not Alicia, it seemed he would content himself with Anna—who, from the little Philip had gleaned of her, was very different from her singer cousin.

Nothing more easily set up a romance than errant looks over a candlelit table, arms brushing by accident, and of course, forced conversation.

And it was not as though George was being subtle about it. After having been introduced into the drawing room with the other guests, Philip had mingled with a few familiar faces.

No sooner had a genuinely interesting conversation begun at last than George appeared at his side with a pre-dinner glass of Negus. Likely trying to get him in an agreeable mood.

“Have you had a chance to speak with Anna yet?” George had asked, with about as much tact as Philip had come to expect from him. “She was asking about you before you arrived. Seemed genuinely interested in hearing war stories from you.”

“You and I both know that there is not a woman in the whole world who genuinely wants to listen to a man drone on about his service.” Philip sighed and took the glass from George, walking a little distance away from his group. They settled in a quiet corner of the drawing room. “But no, we haven’t spoken since our introduction. I can’t see why you would want me to seek her out. We have nothing in common.”

Except for the secret we share—which will remain a secret until I understand why she was so terrified of being seen last night.

“You could both use a friend,” George argued, shrugging his shoulders as if that was a usual remark.

“Are men and women in the business of being friends now? Before I left England, they kept a respectable distance from one another.” Philip smirked, taking a sip of his drink. “Except when they didn’t.”

It was George’s turn to sigh. “You’re as bad as Simon—but at least you agreed to come tonight.”

Unlike hopelessly romantic George, Simon was a cosmopolitan to the core. He worshipped London, and now that he was a viscount, he was all too happy to continue living life as a successful singleton. Philip also planned to remain a bachelor, but he did not consider himself a rake like Simon, who wore the title like a badge of honor.

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want to attend the party and rub shoulders with your family,” Philip said. “You make for such a gracious, if Machiavellian, host.”

“Can a man not genuinely want to help his loved ones form connections that could make them happy?” George’s expression dropped. “We could all use happy connections at the moment. And it would make me happy to see you happy, and… I’m saying happy too much, aren’t I?”

“A few synonyms would not go amiss,” Philip suggested.

Of course, he knew why George was so concerned with happiness.

George’s father had passed from consumption two years ago, and his mother had followed him to the grave shortly after. With his parents now dead, it stood to reason that he had leaned on his family for support and wanted the best for all of them—even though his new patriarch, Anna’s tyrannous father, had questionable morals.

George looked up again, his lips curling into a smile. “Fine. Perhaps you could not become friends with Anna. But that doesn’t mean you could not talk to her. She is like you in many ways. A bit of an outcast.”

“You seem to forget that I am an outcast by choice,” Philip corrected.

He had spent his fair share of nights, in his youth, dancing and socializing with the crème de la crème of the English ton. And he had discovered that he did not like it.

It had been different at war, where friendships were necessary to stop oneself from going completely mad. In the cantonment, at night, he had welcomed the company of his fellow soldiers. But in England, back in reality, he had his three friends—now two friends—and that had been enough for him. By all accounts, London needed him more than he needed London.

“And so is she—a wallflower because she wants to be one.” George turned away from him, scanning the room, likely in search of Anna. “Which is why I thought you would get on swimmingly. She likes to keep to herself, to read. And frankly—if we must speak frankly—I think her parents would give her an easier time if she was seen socializing with someone of your rank.”

Philip bit his tongue, not mentioning that George had made the same comparisons and arguments in Alicia’s favor the night prior. Surely the two women weren’t that interchangeable.

“From what little I have seen of Lady Anna, she seems like a perfectly respectable young woman.” Philip took a sip of his drink, then clapped George on the shoulder. “I am not a respectable man. You are welcome to think what you will, but her parents would not look kindly on me taking her under my wing, no matter the grandeur of my title. Which is precisely why I shall keep my distance from her.”

Until the distance could not be kept, because George had seated them beside one another at the dinner table later that evening.

Philip arrived in the room first, thumbing his place card before looking over at hers. Her name, the one he had forgotten, was scrawled in an elegant hand on the place card beside his own. They stared up at him from the large mahogany table with an almost teasing air.

The dining room may have looked lovely, with its wooden fixtures and deep purple wallpaper, but it was no better than a prison of George’s making. And Philip and Anna were his prisoners.

Those few minutes before dinner stretched on, and when Anna did appear beside him, he felt more than heard her. She came in with another woman and smiled at her friend as she went to her seat. When she glanced down, seeing their place cards, then looked up at him , all the color drained from her face.

“Lady Anna,” Philip said, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “We meet again. Chance, it seems, would not see us apart for long.”

“Your Grace,” she just about managed, before the bang of the gong instructed them to take their seats.

The conversation flowed the opposite way during the first course. Philip was presented with a bowl of creamy white soup to eat and an older baroness to speak with. Lady Hartle was an average-looking woman, who was tactful enough not to ask about his scar. But by Jove, could the woman talk.

They somehow ended up on the topic of her summer home in Italy—a palazzo that her husband purchased to celebrate their marriage forty years ago. She was hard of hearing in one ear, which made Philip’s end of the conversation a pain to conduct. He wondered, as she asked him to repeat himself for the third time, whether he could use it to his advantage later with Anna.

In the meantime, he smiled and nodded, interjecting with “Hmm” and “I see” when the moment called for his participation. But he was more focused on the whisper of Anna’s voice beside him, engaged in her own conversation with an aging lord. If she was as distracted by Philip as he was by her, she was doing a good job of not showing it.

Despite George having called her an outcast, Anna seemed perfectly well-equipped to entertain her older companion, discussing books with him and skirting an invitation to a literary salon in Bath to be held over the upcoming summer.

It must have been easy for a woman in her position to impress an older gentleman. From what he had overheard, she was funny in a self-deprecating sort of way, genuinely interested in what he had to say, studious and not afraid to show it—and beautiful too, of course.

That last thought took him by surprise.

Since Philip had been back in England, he hadn’t thought twice about a woman’s beauty. Simon and George had wanted him to think about Alicia in that way, but it had been impossible. She was renowned for her good looks. Yet they had never had an effect on him.

But Anna…

Anna was beautiful in a way that struck him. Beautiful like a hardy wildflower that grew regardless of the attention it managed to attract.

He grew uncomfortably warm as the next course was served, and he was forced to face her with the thought of her stubborn beauty in his head.

She was reluctant to speak at first, avoiding his gaze while she sliced into her fish in its dill and cream sauce. He watched her hands work her cutlery, finding himself hoping that she would speak to him, rather than forcing him to make the first move.

Taking a sip of his wine, he scanned the dinner table to see whether any other couples were struggling for words. Instead, he caught the wandering eye of Anna’s father, staring at her while he spoke to George, who was seated beside him.

If she refuses to speak with me, her father will notice and presume that I’ve deemed her unworthy of my attention. I cannot let that pass. The last thing I want is to be embroiled in someone else’s familial drama. Oh Anna, how already you test my pride and patience.

“Good fish?”

Philip shocked himself with that. He doubted he could have asked a more pathetic question.

Anna turned toward him, pausing her meal. Her throat bobbed as she paused, obviously looking for something to say.

“I do not like fish,” she murmured, before taking another bite.

“Then you do not have to eat it.” Philip frowned. He leaned into her a little, then pointed discretely at the woman opposite them. “You could do as the lady over there is doing and hide your plaice under your spinach.”

Her lips twisted as she tried and failed to hide her smile.

She was an obstinate little thing, forcing down a meal she didn’t like just to please those around her.

“I doubt the lady has quite so many eyes on her as I do,” Anna replied, wiping her mouth on her napkin and reaching for her wine.

She did not sip so much as chug it. For her father’s benefit, perhaps?

“You needn’t speak to me just because George told you to, Your Grace. I am flattered— honored— that you are making the effort?—”

“Do you truly believe it is an effort to speak with you?” Philip reached over for the bottle of wine nearby and refilled her glass. “Or perhaps you feel that it is an effort insomuch as I am a poor, or reluctant, conversationalist.”

“I would not dream of judging you so quickly, nor so harshly.” She licked a bead of wine from her lips after taking another sip, seemingly pleased with his attention. She was not quite so timid anymore, the wine having brought a gentle flush to her face. “In fact… everything you have shown of yourself has surprised me, Your Grace. Your quick mind. Your tact. Your discretion…”

She was aware that he had lied about having met her, and had continued to lie into the night. George may have been an aspiring puppeteer, but Philip did not believe that Anna was using him like that. She seemed genuinely grateful that he was keeping her secret. And what a relief that was. He did not need her telling anyone about their encounter.

“Discretion is a virtue that is long lost on this generation of men, I fear. A person’s secrets are no longer his own. Everybody seeks to know them, and exploit them.” He wasn’t just saying this for her benefit. Privacy was something he valued dearly, his own past liaisons kept close to his chest. “If I were to discover another person’s secret and saw no good reason to expose it, then it would follow me to the grave.”

Anna was quiet for a moment, allowing him to taste his meal. He relaxed now that she had addressed him properly. The double servings of wine probably helped in that regard too.

“To you… what would constitute a good reason for exposing someone’s secret, if you were in the possession of one?” she asked, masking her real question behind ambiguities. “Or maybe you are waiting for an opportunity to use it, to gain some sort of advantage.”

“Had I any need of advantages in society, I would not gain them immorally by trading secrets,” he was quick to explain. “And let us be clear. I am not in need of anything but being a decent human being. Which is challenging enough.”

He gripped the stem of his wine glass, watching her reactions carefully, hoping she believed him. “As for what would push me to share someone’s secret… If I believed the person was in danger or had committed some sort of crime, then I would share it.”

A pause as she considered his words. Her face took on a terrifying air when she wanted it to, too serious for her own good, but still no less beautiful.

The older gentleman beside her suddenly rose from his seat and excused himself to his engaged neighbor. Old bladders, Philip presumed, and a lack of care for propriety in his old age. Between Anna’s absent neighbor and Lady Hartle’s poor hearing, he saw no reason to continue with their charade. And she visibly saw none either, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

“And do you believe she has? Committed some sort of crime, that is?” Anna asked.

“No,” Philip replied, shaking his head as he watched the lord toddle away. “I believe that the person in question has a strong enough moral fiber to report herself for any wrongdoings as they occur.” He looked over at her father. “I believe the only crime the person has committed is being herself—or perhaps being born the wrong sex. It is so difficult to tell in these situations what has displeased the father.”

Anna shifted a little in her seat. “George talks too much,” she concluded, tucking back into her meal with a grimace as the fish hit her tongue.

“Oh, absolutely.” Philip laughed, liking this side of her much better than the frightened Anna he had met the night prior. “And he thinks he understands everyone so well, when he does not. I could never hate him for this flaw. It is his good heart and honor that makes him act so…”

“Foolishly?”

“I was going to say erroneously . I do not think he is a fool. I think he loves you as a cousin should and wants to protect you. And in honoring that…” He leaned in, not close enough to cause a scandal, but close enough for her to hear him and him alone. “I swear to you that I will say nothing to him about our meeting, so long as you do not want me to. In exchange, I only ask that you trust me, and do not waste your time worrying that I will betray you. It will be as if last night never happened.”

She fell quiet again, and he studied her.

He was curious, if only for his own benefit. The more he knew about this young woman, the more easily he could fix their… complication. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman to take an actor as a lover. But then again, he had only just met her. Acting skills ran in the family.

Was it possible that Anna was lying?

He doubted it before he had even thought the question. And he doubted it further when she spoke next.

“But it did happen,” she murmured, suddenly solemn. “And so, Your Grace, while I appreciate your offer, I will have to politely decline my end of the bargain. I will remember the encounter. I cannot forget it, though it is not because of a lack of trust in you. I don’t know what it is. I just know… I will never feel at ease now that we have met.”

Her stance on things seemed wise, even though Philip wished she would just believe him. He did not want this young woman, who he intended to let live in peace, to think about him constantly, worrying he would reappear at any moment and ruin her life. He didn’t want to be involved like that with anyone.

It was unlikely they would meet frequently outside of events planned by George. She could only have been twenty, or twenty-one. She would have a husband soon—and then, maybe, she would be able to forget, shielded by her status as a married woman.

But he was thinking too deeply about things. About her. The situation shouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest. Who was she to him, really?

Yet the situation did bother him. A lot.

“Then consider this,” he said, hoping to assuage her doubts once and for all. “If I were to tell your father about what I saw, would that not implicate me as well? You might not trust me, but it should not be difficult to believe that I do not want my name tied to yours unnecessarily.

“It has nothing to do with you. What you have shown of yourself so far has been favorable, to say the least. But I am not looking to marry, and you are a young, eligible woman.” He hoped he had not offended her with that. “It was foolish to ask for your trust. So, let us employ common sense instead.”

Anna considered his words carefully—he could see it in her eyes. Whatever she found in his scarred face seemed to convince her, and she raised her glass to his in a toast.

Philip was almost too startled to respond, clinking his glass clumsily against hers. Their fingers brushed, distracting him, and he welcomed her touch. He would likely never feel it again.

In that toast, he silently wished her the best of luck with whatever—whomever—she chose to pursue.

“To common sense,” she toasted, flashing him a smile.

“To common sense,” he echoed.

And to never again living in peace now that we have met.