My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,94

suspects otherwise, of course. The servants have talked.”

“Please not the first day,” Philippa implored. “Surely, we can have a quiet day to ourselves. I’ll have a posset made, and we’ll play a game of chess in your study.”

They did just that.

Chapter Eleven

But the very next morning her father looked up from his plate and nodded to the butler, standing at a side table by the fire, ready to provide fresh toast. “That will do, Quirbles.”

Philippa put down her fork as their butler closed the door quietly behind him. “What is it, Papa?”

“You’re not the same,” he said abruptly.

She blinked at him.

“There’s something different about you.”

“I hope not.” She didn’t know whether to hope that Wick’s French letter had worked just as it ought or not: there was nothing to the outward eye that admitted she’d been ravished—and loved.

“What happened in that castle, Philippa?” her father asked. His voice was kind, but firm.

She picked up her fork again and studiously pushed her eggs to the side of the plate. “I took care of the little prince. I told you that already, Papa.”

“That’s not what I mean . . . His father didn’t do anything untoward, did he?”

Philippa’s mouth fell open. “Of course not, Papa! What a thing to suggest!”

“His Highness is not English.”

“He is all that is honorable,” Philippa said reprovingly. “And the princess is perfectly lovely. We even became friends. And by the way, she is English—though really, Papa, you should not make assumptions about people’s characters based on where they come from.” In truth, she missed Kate, which was absurd because they had been acquainted for only a few weeks.

“Nevertheless, you have changed somehow. What happened there?” her father persisted.

With a deep breath Philippa took the plunge. “I fell in love.”

“Ah, I thought so,” her father said, with the satisfaction that comes with having one’s guess confirmed. “You know, sweetpea, when your mother was dying, she was very worried about you. She was certain that I wouldn’t notice what you were feeling or thinking.”

“Well, you didn’t, when it came to Rodney,” Philippa pointed out, rather unkindly.

“I made up for that now,” he said, taking a bite of kipper.

She watched him chew and smile to himself.

But then the significance of it hit him. He put down his fork with a sharp click.

“You fell in love—with whom did you fall in love? Some dissolute scrap of gentry hanging around the prince’s knees, hoping for a handout, I’ll warrant. One of those glittering court fellows with no more substance or ethics than a tomcat!”

“No.” She took a bite of her now-cold eggs though she couldn’t taste them.

He frowned at her.

“The butler,” Philippa stated; having plunged, there was nothing for it but to keep going.

At this unimaginable revelation the blood drained from her father’s face. “You’re jesting.” His voice was a whisper.

Philippa squared her shoulders. “Mr. Berwick is the prince’s own brother. He is the son of a grand duke. He serves as His Highness’s majordomo out of strong loyalty and affection.”

Her father blinked. “No gentleman would ever serve as a butler, no matter what fancy label you give the position.”

“He is a gentleman,” Philippa snapped, in a tone she had never before used with her father.

“Then there’s something else wrong with him . . . Oh, dear God, he’s a married man.” Mr. Damson dropped his head into his hands. “I should have wedded you to Rodney the day you turned sixteen.”

Philippa rose, then slipped into the chair next to her father. “He is not married, Papa.”

Her father raised his head. “Poor as a church mouse, I expect. No estate.”

“None,” she admitted.

“Still, that doesn’t explain why he’s the butler. The man could marry an heiress if he’s the son of a grand duke. There’s no need to put on livery; there’s many a rich merchant who would love to boast of a son-in-law with that pedigree.”

Philippa bit her lip.

It came to him. “Wrong side of the blanket,” her father stated, his mouth bunching up with disdain.

She nodded.

“Damnation!” The word echoed harshly in the little room.

“Papa,” she said imploringly. “Wick is not—”

“Wick? Wick? Like the wick of a candle? I’ll be damned if my daughter will have anything to do with a man named after a household necessity.” He surged to his feet. “Tell me that the bastard touched you, and I’ll kill him myself.”

Philippa jumped up as well. “Papa, no!”

He grabbed her arms and stared into her face. “No? No, you are still a virgin?” She didn’t answer, and he gave her