My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,95

a shake. “Does that fine prince over there know the consequences of his bastard brother deflowering an English lady? Does he?”

“He didn’t deflower me,” she whispered.

Her father’s face relaxed, but his grip didn’t. “Ah.” Then, more slowly: “That would explain why he’s not here, trying to make his way out of the servant class by marrying you.”

“He refused to marry me!” She half shrieked it.

Her father dropped her arms, tottered, and sank back in his chair. “Margaret, Margaret, why did you leave me?” he moaned.

Philippa raised her chin. She couldn’t even imagine what her mother would make of the situation. “I asked him to marry me.”

Her father’s only response was a loud groan.

“And he refused on the grounds of his honor.”

“Where did I go wrong?” he moaned. “What did we do wrong, Margaret?” He raised his head. “This is all because of Rodney, isn’t it? You got a bee in your bonnet about Rodney, and so you fell for a good-looking servant with an interesting tale.”

“Wick is a gentleman and as honorable as you are. He means to be a doctor, just like your own brother.”

“You are not the first,” her father said, unheeding. “There’s that daughter of the Earl of Southplank, a year or two ago. Everyone knew she ran off with a footman, some say for an entire week. But she’s properly married, right and tight now.” He stood again. “And that’s what you’ll be as well. I’ll visit Sir George this very afternoon.”

“I will not marry Rodney!” A numbing wave of despair broke over her head.

“You will.” Her mild-mannered father suddenly took on the look of a bulldog. “You’ll do as I say, Philippa. I won’t have you ruining your life, pining after a servant who has a better understanding of propriety than you do. I don’t know whether I’m more appalled that you played the fool enough to ask such a thing of the man, or more grateful that he didn’t lunge at the chance.”

“No, Papa!” Philippa cried. “You don’t understand. You can’t!”

“I can,” he said. He took her arm and began towing her up the stairs. “And don’t think you’re going to run away again. I’ll tell the baronet that you suffered from a bout of sun-sickness. You will marry the fat-bottomed Rodney on the morrow and count yourself lucky. The last of the banns were said Sunday, just as you were flitting around that castle making a fool of yourself!”

“Papa,” Philippa said, her voice catching with tears. “I love Wick. I love him more than—”

“You will forget him,” her father stated. They reached the top of the stairs, and he pushed her directly into her bedchamber. “Someday you’ll look back on this episode as if it were a bout of fever. I always thought you were a sensible girl, Philippa.”

“I am!” she cried. “I loathe Rodney, Papa. I loathe him, and I will not marry him.”

“You will,” he said, shutting the door in her face. She heard him through the wood, his voice only slightly muffled. “Tomorrow!”

A few hours later Philippa heard the front door burst open, and she knew that her father had returned, and not waited for Quirbles to open said door to admit him. She hurried down the stairs, her heart pounding. Her father’s face was gleaming with sweat, his usual rather mournful expression metamorphosed into pure anger.

Without a word, Philippa ran into the sitting room before him. “That bastard!” her father bellowed, slamming the door behind him.

Philippa fell into a chair, judging that the bastard in question was not her beloved Wick. Evidently, Rodney had revealed all.

“He took advantage of you, a maiden, a gently born maiden. And he did so”—her father wheeled and glared down at her—“in a barn? In the straw?”

Philippa swallowed, but honesty made her admit, “I allowed him to do so, Papa.”

Rage twisted the corner of her father’s mouth. “That is irrelevant. Irrelevant! You are a gently born damsel, the only child of my house, and you were deflowered in a barn!” He spluttered to a halt. “Your mother,” he added heavily, “would kill me for this.”

Philippa bit her lip but said nothing.

“Sir George threw his son across the room once that young fool confessed,” her father said, seating himself opposite her. He reached up and pulled at his neckcloth as if it were strangling him.

“He did?” Philippa squeaked. “Across the room?”

“The baronet was as appalled as I,” her father said, dropping his head back on his chair’s high back. “That donkey didn’t even seem to