Page 16 of The Spinster’s Stolen Heart (Willenshires #5)

“‘But I am not quite so eloquent as you, Lady Thomasin, not half as much. I must keep my speeches simple and short. I cannot reflect on the nature of love; I can only feel it. Let me say, then, that I love you. I love you, and this is not a thing I can argue with, not to myself or to others. I love you, and I was foolish to ever believe otherwise.’”

Pippa kept her gaze aimed on the floor, these words echoing in her mind. Her heart pounded, and she felt faintly dizzy.

She’d read this book, of course. She’d read this passage. It came near the end, as Timothy said, but he’d wisely avoided giving any extra context. Wise, because this speech came as Lady Thomasin reveals that she intends to marry a villainous duke, in order to save her father from the debtor’s prison. The readers were going to have to wait till the next volume to learn what happens next.

It wasn’t this speech that had made Pippa’s heart ache, though. That came later, in an impassioned speech from Lady Thomasin.

“‘What am I to do, Cornelius, what am I to do? Must I choose between duty and love? Oh, if love hurts the way this does, let me rid of it. What woman could ever follow her heart?’”

It was a good novel, well-written and compelling. Of course, some critics were already disdainful of it all. Even Mrs. Radcliff and her contemporaries were mocked, with the latest fashionable authors, the enigmatic Bells, being ridiculed. Pippa had read the infamous Jane Eyre , and found it breathtaking, and so did everybody else.

With, of course, a few notable exceptions.

Timothy continued his reading, passing into the passage where Lady Thomasin and Cornelius are interrupted by the bumbling but good-natured lady’s maid, a comic passage that was pleasantly jarring after the tension of the previous passage. Pippa found that she’d stopped listening, lost in her own head.

Lady Thomasin may not be real, but I know exactly how she feels. Falling in love with one man, only to find herself forced towards another.

That gave her a start. Was she really in love with Lord Whitmore? Things would be a great deal easier if she was not. Closing her eyes, Pippa concentrated on the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, a heavy and reassuring rhythm. She wished the evening was over. She wished that her mother was not watching her every move, eyes narrowed as if she were waiting for her daughter to make a mistake.

She wished that Lord Whitmore was sitting beside her.

No, she didn’t wish that . She wished that he were not there. His presence seemed to cloud her mind. And then, of course, there was her mother’s not-so-quiet disapproval and annoyance whenever Lord Whitmore was near her.

An elbow dug into her ribs, making her flinch. Her eyes flew open.

“Can you credit this nonsense?” Bridget hissed. She spoke in a whisper, but still too loudly for the quiet room. Colour flooded Pippa’s face.

“ Mama ! You must not say that.”

“Why? It’s not a good novel.”

“It is a breathtakingly good novel,” she insisted. “Everybody says so. I enjoyed it very much.”

Bridget snorted. “Well, I disagree.”

Pippa’s face was now beet red. She glanced furtively about, praying that nobody had overheard. Timothy and Katherine were their hosts , and their family. They had both been remarkably kind to both Pippa and her mother, and Bridget’s ingratitude was becoming more and more obvious.

The closer we get to what she considers our rightful place in Society, the more unpleasant she becomes.

Pippa wondered uneasily what things would be like if she really did become betrothed to Lord Barwick. How would Bridget behave then?

No sense in worrying about that. One can only hope that Lord Barwick loses interest in me. Heaven only knows I’m not a very interesting woman.

No, I’m not being fair to myself. I am moderately interesting, I suppose, but I am not rich and I am not titled.

What does he want from me?

Pippa thought uneasily of what Katherine had said. Since the incident in the gazebo, Bridget had not allowed Pippa to be alone with her cousin. It took quite some doing, and often Pippa was entirely mortified at her mother’s impolite inserting of herself in every situation, as if she were afraid that Katherine would poison her daughter if they were alone even for an instant.

Katherine must have noticed but had the grace not to remark upon it. Frankly, Pippa thought that her cousin was too tired to fight, the baby draining her energy.

Besides, Katherine told me to stand up for myself, and I haven’t yet. Perhaps she’s disappointed in me.

This was an unsettling thought. Pippa found that she didn’t want to disappoint her cousin, who’d been so kind and so very welcoming. Katherine’s house felt more homely than home had in the last few years.

The sound of a woman beginning to recite a poetry verse jerked Pippa out of her reverie. She glanced up at the platform, and found that Timothy had finished his part, and others were taking their turn. Already Pippa was beginning to feel fidgety. She was tired, bored, itchy, all at the same time, hungry for something, although she wasn’t entirely sure what.

The recital part of the evening ended with applause and excited chatter, and Pippa stood up with something like relief. At once, before she could move away, Bridget linked her arm through her daughter’s.

“Not so fast, my girl,” Bridget muttered. “I know you. If I look away for a moment, you’ll be off consorting with unsuitable bachelors or whispering with your cousin in the corner. We are here for a reason, Pippa, and don’t forget it.”

Anger swept through her. Pippa longed to yank her arm free, but it would make too much of a scene.

“Yes, Mama, we are here for a reason,” she shot back. “And that reason is to support Timothy and his new novel. You were ever so horrid about it, you know. It’s an excellent novel.”

“I think your time would be better served concentrating on more serious matters, instead of wafting around and reading novels,” Bridget responded, without missing a beat. “Now, unfortunately, Lord Barwick and his mother aren’t here tonight. It seems that your cousin and her foolish husband did not have the wit to invite them.”

It was too much. Pippa drew back her arm, turning to face her mother.

“Didn’t have the wit ? Mama, Katherine is the cleverest person I know! She didn’t invite Lord Barwick and his mother because they are not literary-minded, and they do not approve of novels or of Timothy’s writing. Why would she invite them? She also does not approve of Lord Barwick’s attachment to me, such as it is, and she makes no secret of the fact.”

Bridget eyed her daughter stonily. “Mind your manners, Pippa. I am doing all of this for you, remember.”

For me? Pippa wanted to shout. No, you are not. You are doing this for yourself, and nobody else, regardless of what you have convinced yourself.

Before their sharp-tongued debate could turn into something less suited for a genteel event, the Dowager Duchess appeared.

“There you are, Bridget,” the Dowager said, smiling faintly. “And good evening to you, Pippa.”

Pippa made a neat curtsey. “Good evening, Aunt Mary.”

“I came to fetch you, Bridget. The O’Hares are here tonight, and Mrs. O’Hare – Clara Clarke as was – is keen to reacquaint herself. Do come along.”

Pippa held her breath. A muscle twitched in Bridget’s jaw. She shot a quick look at her daughter.

“Of course. I shall bring Pippa along.”

Aunt Mary tutted, linking her arm through Bridget’s. “No need. Let the young people entertain themselves, Bridget.”

And that was that. The Dowager drew Bridget away with an air of unassailable authority and Bridget could do nothing but oblige her.

I’m free, for a few minutes, at least, Pippa thought, barely smothering a grin. Turning, she headed straight towards the shelves, planning to pick up some novels she’d noticed beforehand.

That was her only aim. It had nothing to do with the fact that Lord Whitmore was standing in that exact spot, scanning the spines.

“I believe we are looking for the same book, Lord Whitmore,” Pippa said, a little shaken at her daring.

Lord Whitmore glanced down at her, a smile spreading over his face. Pippa felt that familiar, traitorous little skip in her heartbeat. She smiled back.

“Pride and Prejudice ? ” he asked, eyebrows raised. “The one that Miss O’Hare recited from?”

“Indeed. I read part of it once before but was never able to finish the book. I’ve heard that it’s quite an adventure story.”

Nodding, Lord Whitmore glanced up at the shelves again. Reaching up, he pulled down a slim tome. “This is it, I believe.”

He handed it straight to Pippa, and she raised her eyebrows.

“Well, if you located the book, you ought to have the privilege of reading it first.”

He smiled faintly. “Whatever happened to ladies first?”

She chuckled. “This lady can be quite patient, when she wants to be. Please, I insist. I have a great many books to read first, anyway.”

He held her gaze for an instant too long, and Pippa could have sworn that her breath was stolen away altogether.

Oh dear, she thought, heart thumping. Lady Thomasin was right. Love is nothing but a parcel of trouble. I rather wish that Timothy had recited that speech.

“I sensed that Lady Randall was not enjoying the evening,” Lord Whitmore said suddenly, breaking the silence away. “Is she fond of novels?”

Pippa gave a most unladylike snort. “ Mama ? Novels ? Heavens, no. She thinks them entirely too frivolous. She would most disagree with what you said earlier.”

He looked blankly at her, faintly disconcerted. “What I…?”

“That everybody deserves a little frivolity,” Pippa reminded him, smiling wryly. “It was most insightful.”

Lord Whitmore coloured a little, laughing awkwardly. “It was a rather foolish thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“I did not think so.”

He held her gaze for a moment, as if trying to work out whether she was serious or not. Once again, Pippa felt that odd sensation of having her breath stolen, and it only intensified the longer she held his gaze.

Is this love? I think it might be. Or at least the beginnings of it.

Oh, heavens, what am I going to do?

“Pippa!”

Bridget’s voice cut crudely across the murmur of polite conversation, louder than anyone else’s voice. Several people turned their heads to look, and Lord Whitmore even flinched.

Cringing with mortification, Pippa turned, slowly.

Sure enough, her mother was marching across the room, a look of grim determination in her eyes. She slowed her pace as she approached, having the good sense to remove the angry expression from her face, replacing it with a forced and insincere smile.

“Pippa, there you are. I told you to wait at our seats, did I not?” she said, her voice tight and clipped.

“No, Mama, you did not,” Pippa found herself saying. “And nobody else is sitting down now.”

Bridget’s lips tightened at this, and Pippa wondered at her own daring. She wasn’t usually in the habit of contradicting her mother, as it generally was not worth the trouble. It took two people to argue, after all, and Pippa had learned that if she stayed cool and calm, the argument would never happen.

Today, though, her calmness had deserted her. Anger tightened her chest, and she found herself clenching her fists at her sides.

Why can’t I talk to who I wish? Why must Mama keep me so close beside her, like a little dog on a leash? It is not fair .

That might be a childish sentiment, but the words repeated in Pippa’s head, over and over again.

It is not fair. It is not fair. It is not fair .

Bridget stared at her for a moment, as if wondering whether to say something else or not. At last, she gave a tight shake of her head.

“Well. My mistake, then. It hardly matters, as I’ve found you now. Come along, I have some people for you to meet. Good day, Lord Whitmore. Enjoy the evening.”

There was nothing for it. Quietly seething, Pippa stepped over to her mother’s side, and Bridget turned to lead them away.

“Wait a moment. Miss Randall?” Lord Whitmore said, his voice cool and level. Bridget reluctantly paused. Lord Whitmore held out the book in his hand, meeting Pippa’s eye. “Your book. You must not forget it.”

Pippa paused, about to tell him that she had said that he could read it first. Then she realised – it was a gesture. She took the book with a wry smile. Bridget looked as though she would like to forbid it, but kept her lips pressed together.

“Thank you, Lord Whitmore,” Pippa said, meeting his eye squarely.

He said nothing, only giving a small bow. Then Bridget grabbed Pippa’s wrist and towed her away.

“I cannot take my eye off you for a moment, can I?” she hissed, once they were out of earshot. “I told you to leave that man alone.”

“This is not a large gathering, Mama,” Pippa shot back, teeth clenched. “I can hardly avoid the man.”

“Not with that attitude, at any rate. Now. Just because Lord Barwick is not here does not mean that we can’t do some groundwork . I shall introduce you to Lord and Lady Guye. They are close friends of Lady Barwick, and so you must make a good impression. As well as that, Lord Guye’s son is not a Marquess yet, but he will be once his father dies. It is not ideal, but one must always plan ahead.”

Bridget talked on and on in a sibilant whisper. Pippa was not listening. She kept the book clamped under her arm. It pressed against her ribs, but she was afraid that if she dropped it, her mother would not let her stop to pick it up.

She could see a trio of wan-faced people up ahead, two gentlemen and a lady, the younger gentleman presumably being the future Marquess. Pippa found that she did not care, in the least, about these people and their names.

I want to be with Lord Whitmore. I want to talk to him about books, about poetry, about everything . I don’t want to marry Lord Barwick.

There was no time for these thoughts, however, as they had reached the trio, and Bridget began to talk, her voice falsely animated, hands flapping about. Pippa kept a ladylike smile on her face and bobbed a curtsey when she was introduced. The young lord raked his gaze over her appreciatively, and she tasted bile at the back of her throat.

This is not fair. I cannot go on like this.

I’m not happy. Oh, heavens. Katherine was right.