Page 6 of The Lady (Daughters of Dishonour #3)

A week went past, and there came no letter from Lady Flora.

Part of Philip’s mind was reassured, telling himself that as he whiled away the lonely evenings, Lady Flora was a grand lady, hardly likely to waste her time on the likes of him.

He had been silly to bow to the idea of a matchmaking scheme.

But the question remained, why had she offered? The mitigating effect meant he spent an inordinately large amount of time watching the post, both eager and annoyed with himself as he sat around awaiting her letter.

So much so, that on this bright Saturday morning, he finally snatched up a missive clearly written by a feminine hand, and he felt extremely relieved.

Sunlight poured cheerfully through the lace curtains, and it seemed like the summer wished to impart a great deal of joy onto the inhabitants of London.

He had grabbed up the letter without properly judging the handwriting and had ripped open the envelope, unfolding the pages before realising who it was from.

Disgust curled through his stomach as he moved the letter farther back and scanned over his mother’s scrawl.

There were the normal complaints, all too familiar to Philip.

There was the regular levy of abuse and resentment that his presence in Town had ruined her reputation, deprived her of all good society.

It was nothing that Philip had not heard for the last ten years, save for the postscript, which was written in an unfamiliar hand?—

Dear Sir,

I regret to inform you that the dowager’s condition has worsened since she composed this letter. Mrs. Winchester and the lady herself urged me to send this regardless.

I have taken the liberty of contacting Lord Langley, and we are awaiting his imminent arrival. Should you wish to communicate with the dowager, I would recommend doing so in person, within the week.

I write respectfully, your humble servant, etc. etc.

Edgar Peters, physician

Philip lowered the page, frowning as he tried to make sense of the postscript and what action he should take.

Certainly, he had envisioned her death when he was younger, but with age and a little wisdom, his vindictiveness had decreased.

The strangest occurrence was that Langley had not reached out to Philip to say their mother was dying.

In fact, from what Langley had said on his last visit, the dowager was still as bilious as ever, and physically, she had been as hale and hearty as a woman half her age.

His eyes travel to where he had stored all his mother’s letters, going over to the leather case and pulling it from the shelf.

A wiser man than him would have destroyed these years ago, but the truth of the matter was it was the only sign that his mother acknowledged his presence.

She was his only parent. No one had ever bothered to inform him of the footman who had sired him.

Since he had no idea who his father was, or where the man might be.

The family who had raised him and bestowed their name on him—the Catons—were not motivated by anything but money, so in his sentimental heart, it was better to cling to at least one sign of recognition than have nothing from either parent.

At least he could take comfort in the presence of his brother.

A wry grimace played over Philip’s face as he considered the most horrible parts of his mother’s letters, which had stayed with him, regardless of whether they were written two years ago or ten.

The very worst mistake.

How I regret the moment you were born.

No mother should endure what I have.

How could he have really considered marrying when even his own mother regarded him as a thing so unlovable? It beggared belief. He could not inflict himself on another woman.

Since this morning, he had no appointments scheduled, he could depart for Derbyshire where his mother had hidden away.

Yet there was little desire in Philip for such a reunion, any sweet sentiments his mother might express would be false, and he was not overly inclined to listen in person to her diatribe.

As he dwelt on the options before him, there came a knock on the door, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Wotton, slipped into the room, and said, “There is a young lady waiting for you in the front room, sir.” She handed over a card, and as Philip took the fine silk calling card, he saw Lady Flora scrawled on the page.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wotton, I will go through to her ladyship immediately. Can you send Alice up to the front room with some tea?”

“Of course, sir.”

With a quick step, Philip headed towards Lady Flora, walking through the door and then onwards down the hallway.

He could tell that Mrs. Wotton had questions for him, the older woman curious about who might own such a smart card, and yet who might call directly on the doctor—rather than commanding Philip to come to her.

On entering his front room, Philip felt a sudden nervous energy rush through him.

Would such a respectable, fine lady judge the simplicity of his Bloomsbury home?

Would Lady Flora consider it beneath her sensibilities?

The furniture, which had always seemed perfectly acceptable, were made of oak, and the seats were decorated in a fine sprigged muslin, ordered from Trawlers in Piccadilly.

It had seemed entirely elegant in Philip’s eyes until now, but he feared it was not suitable for the likes of her.

Lady Flora stood in the middle of the room, dressed beautifully in his humble opinion.

She wore a delicate walking dress of forest green, whose silk skirt flowed down her long legs, and atop her head there was a tiny, plumed hat balanced on her gleaming curls.

Whilst she was out of place in his home, Philip was suddenly very keen to keep this anomaly in this room—so much so, that any nerves vanished as he focused on this new task.

“Doctor Caton,” she said pleasantly, “forgive this early morning call on my part?—”

“Good morning, my lady. It is always good to see you.”

“I fear it might have been deemed odd on my part, but nonetheless, I had kept you waiting far too long, and I thought this might go missed?—”

“Up before you might be seen by any one of good ton ?” His question was a touch more biting than he originally planned it to be, but nonetheless, he assumed that was why she had come at such an unfashionable hour.

Or perhaps his anger at his mother, and his own resentment of the situation, was peeking through no matter how much he had tried to ignore it.

Why would both of them feel embarrassed by him—and would this extend to other eligible women too?

To his surprise, Lady Flora laughed as if he had made a joke, the sound sending a warm spasm of awareness through his stomach. “Given that a vast majority of polite society have now departed for the country, I did not consider it a great worry on my part.”

“What a relief for you.” He gestured towards one of the seats and was pleased when she sat down, arranging her skirts so they fell in a pleasing manner. Hastily he looked away and sank into the opposite chair. “Why have you not likewise left Town?”

Whilst the furniture and setting might have been precisely chosen out, he hardly spent any time in this room—it was meant for company and of that he had very little need for it.

“Why to help you of course.” She was watching him with a bright ferocity that made him certain Lady Flora was plotting something wilder that her ducal brother would not approve of. It was clear that Ashmore would find any association between them entirely erroneous.

It was then that Alice, his housemaid, slipped into the room with the tea tray.

Mrs. Wotton had added an assortment of filbert biscuits too, which mitigated the simplicity of the arrangement a little.

The maid brought it over to Lady Flora’s side, and the lady smiled encouragingly at the girl but did not resume her talk until they were alone again.

“I have dwelt on how to manage your particular problem—from writing to the best papers and placing an advert for a bride.” She laughed at the concept, and Philip marvelled that she could find the entire situation as amusing as she seemed to.

Did she not see that in seeking matrimony he was desperate, that he had failed on his own part, and this was a source of embarrassment for him?

“I do not believe that method is?—”

“No, it is not ideal.”

He would have to admit as much. “This is not an easy matter for me, my lady.”

“I do not treat it as such.”

“In the effort of securing a match, I do not approach it with the lightness that you might be used to. It is not a game. I am searching for a woman of intellect who will be comfortable with marrying a man like myself. One with some means but…” How would he explain he was unlovable to such a beloved sister, friend, aunt, like herself?

Would Lady Flora be capable of grasping this?

She glided through life on a cloud with little to trouble her, save perhaps which fashionable gown she should don for her next party.

“I do not wish to disillusion any woman with an offer which I cannot fulfil.”

“I am certain, if those are your only requirements, we can locate you a bride.”

“I do not offer false promises of love or?—”

“Or fidelity?”

“Of course I would always be faithful,” Philip spluttered, surprised by Lady Flora’s illusion to more nefarious activities.

“Well then, you differ from a great many men who proclaim that such loyalties should only be applicable to women.”

“I am not like most men,” Philip said, thinking of the pile of letters two doors away that demonstrated he was not the sort of man even a mother could love.

“So, I gather,” came Lady Flora’s rather snippy reply. She sucked in a breath and then said, “I have in fact been thinking now might well be the best time to search for a bride, as there is an excess of recently unmarried ladies who did not find a match in the Season.”

“I do think a lady who might have wed a lord would think twice about marrying me.”

“I did not mean you should pursue the debutantes, especially given your… reputation amongst their stepmothers and aunts.”

A rush of relief pounded through Philip despite the unfair charge of his affairs. Despite all his efforts to dispel this reputation, it seemed Lady Flora could not be swayed in her viewpoint.

“I am pleased you have dismissed such young women, given I am now six and thirty, I would think an older woman would be better suited to me.” He had no thought of marrying some youthful chit—that would never suit him.

No, he needed someone who was practical, sensible…

perhaps a widow, although young enough to have a child or two.

The women amongst the beau monde he had met did not fill him with much enthusiasm.

“I was thinking on the matter, and I believe we should consider the merits of a companion. After all, my sister-in-law’s mother was one, and the position is a precarious one. Therefore, such a woman might wish to find the security of a match.”

“This might indeed work. Have you a candidate in mind?” If Lady Flora had an employee, a woman ready and waiting in the carriage outside, how would he feel?

A start of surprised fear suddenly consumed Philip—it had been so hypothetical so far, and now could Lady Flora actually be planning to spring a bride on him.

“Your face, sir, has taken on a greenish turn.”

“I fear you have a candidate at the ready.”

“I thought the suggestion you were so willing to marry was a false one. I have no desire to waste a woman’s time.

Far too many men are like you, leading a woman on, only to disappoint her.

Why—” Lady Flora was on her feet, and Philip launched himself out of his chair, ready to stop her in her tracks, his hand reaching out to touch her elbow.

The pleasure of touching her confounded him, and he immediately dropped his fingers away from her.

“You misunderstand me, I merely…” He tried his best to find the right words as Lady Flora watched him with narrowed eyes. “It is a very warm day for tea, would you care to discuss my matrimonial prospects at a more suitable location?”

A perplexed look came over Lady Flora’s face. “Where were you thinking?”

“Gunter’s, my lady. You did suggest it last time we met.”

After a moment, she nodded, and within the next thirty minutes, the two of them were sat at a white clothed table, enjoying the most delicious lemon ices in London, the chilled desert providing the counterbalance to the seriousness of the topic.

On the journey, there had been some general talk, but Lady Flora had been polite enough not to focus on his earlier scare.

“It is far quieter than I am used to,” Lady Flora said as she ladled another spoonful of sorbet into her mouth with the enthusiasm he would normally have seen in a child.

“All of the ton have gone, leaving just the rest of London.”

She giggled at this and lowered her spoon. “How refreshing.”

“The ice or the lack of proper company?”

“Why not both?”

“Is my lady wishing herself divorced from the company she normally keeps?”

“No…” Lady Flora seemed to dwell on this as she passed the spoon from one hand to the next, thoughtfully. “Merely that there is a little freedom not to be awaiting the crushing judgment of an Almack’s patron or a countess on every passing corner.”

“You certainly would not be allowed to be seen with the likes of me.”

“No, you are right.”

The next words slipped from his mouth, spurred on by a daring that was so unlike him. “Would you like to shock them all the more?”

Lady Flora raised her eyes to his and did not break eye contact, awareness bright within her gaze. Slowly and with a care that surprised him, she said, “What did you have in mind?”

What was his implication? He had spent the whole of the morning with her.

He had entirely forgotten his mother’s letter, the normal humdrum of his patients’ notes out of mind, even the anxiety that he might be entirely incapable of finding solace in this world had been buried—banished by the sheer joy he took in her company.

He realised with a sinking feeling that he was attracted to Flora, the very woman he had asked for help finding a bride.

Truthfully, he had been in denial about this attraction for far too long.