Where was he? Doubt and worry gnawed at her.
She rose, and tentatively wandered through the mazelike main level of the house. In a small, bright room, she found an easel positioned in front of the windows facing the gardens. She picked up a bit of charcoal. She’d always had an artistic bent, so she sat down before the easel and started to sketch. Her hands slashed with bold movements, and before long, the raw beauty that was Anthony appeared on the paper. She drew him as how she saw him—vital, energetic, and a little rakish. On a whim, she added wings that arched with graceful power on his back. She brushed the charcoal, her brows frowning in intense concentration as she darkened his wings, turning them a deep shade of midnight.
“You are immensely talented.”
She gasped in surprise and spun on the stool to look at him. A blush heated her cheeks. She was not sure how to act after their night of excess. “Thank you. I love drawing and painting.”
“A lady of many talents.” His lips fleetingly brushed against hers, and pleasure unfurled inside of her. He cupped her cheeks, and his thumb caressed a light bruise at the corner of her lips.
“I will crush him,” he avowed. “He will not escape unscathed after such contemptible behavior.”
Her heart beat faster as he gently kissed the bruise. “Forget him. I don’t want him to spoil the day for us.”
“You’re right. He’s forgotten.”
She smiled up at him. “Your estate is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Come. I have not yet eaten.”
They returned to the breakfast room, and he strode to the sideboard, while she accepted another cup of coffee. He filled his plate and she tried not to gape at the quantity when he seated himself across from her and picked up his fork.
“My mother and sister have arrived,” he said. “My mother penned a letter to your father, informing your family of your visit, and the rain that forced your overnight stay. No one knows she and my sister only arrived this morning, and it must be kept that way. Many will still speculate, and rumors will abound, since I resided under the same roof. I will announce our engagement, and then we will wait an appropriate time and wed.”
Phillipa tilted her head up a notch, filling with rebellion. After telling him of her inheritance last night, she’d been hoping he would dispense with that line of thinking. “If your mother stands behind our tale, such a noble sacrifice on your part is unnecessary.”
“It is no sacrifice,” he said evenly. “I am happy for us to wed.”
She rose from the chair and started to pace. “But I am not.”
“Is marriage to me so undesirable?” he asked with a shade of irritation. Or perhaps hurt.
“It is not you, Anthony,” she said softly. “It just that…I do not wish to remain in London. I hate the whirl, the restrictions, and the quick condemnation. I am continuously told how a proper young lady must behave. Be biddable, do not prattle, and heaven forbid I display some modicum of intelligence. If our relationship becomes known, I will be ostracized. Better to leave now. I do not need the approval of a society I loathe, and have no intention of spending my life bowing and scraping to it.”
She stopped pacing, and sank back into her chair, trying to hold his gaze. His mien was carefully neutral, but she could see the coldness encasing his eyes.
“You know how I feel about marriage,” she pleaded. “I hate the condemnation I see blazing from you. Is it not enough that we are lovers?”
He rose and strode around to stand over her. “Is that all you desire of me? For me to be between your legs pleasuring you?” His face was bland, but she thought he sounded a little hurt.
She winced at his bluntness. “No. I enjoy your company. I love being with you—conversing with you, dancing with you. You are the most honorable man I have ever met, but I have no desire for marriage, Anthony. I would like for us to remain lovers and friends.”
His chuckle held no mirth as he folded his arms and walked over to lean against the mantel. “You do not understand the nature of the society you live in, Phillipa. This is about more than us being lovers. Orwell will undoubtedly drop hints about you, providing grist for the vicious rumor mill. He is a coward and will never act in an honorable manner. You can only benefit from our marriage.”
She clamped her jaw. Why did everyone insist they knew better than she what would benefit her? Still, the last thing she wanted was to fight with Anthony. Not after all the wondrous things they had shared together. She slowly took a few sips of coffee, composing her thoughts, trying to still the trembling of her heart.
“What benefit will being married provide to me? Pleasure? I can receive pleasure without tying myself to the whims of a man. A man who can dictate how I dress, what I do, a man who can beat me any time he so wishes. I want to travel. Africa, Egypt, Shanghai, the Caribbean. You propose to be my husband, Anthony. Will you be content with a wife who is not here, attending to you and your home? Will you be content with a wife who yearns for more than a conventional life, instead of one who gives you babies and hosts your dinner parties? A wife who will attend women’s rights conventions?” She hiked a brow. “I don’t think that is what you want in a wife.”
His face shuttered, and her heart squeezed. For some reason she desperately wanted him to say yes, he did. He wanted her with all her eccentric ways. Because of all her eccentric ways.
“You paint quite a picture,” he ground out.
“You seek to marry me out of some misguided notion of chivalry, Anthony. I’m telling you, it is not necessary.”
“I do not offer to marry out of honor or to obtain legal issue,” he growled.
“Why then? Love?” She scoffed, expecting it to be anything but. Her heart shook when she noticed his expression closed up even further.
Love?
“Much too high an aspiration for a licentious rake such as myself,” he bit out coldly. He stalked to the window and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
Phillipa hesitated, then got to her feet and went to him. “You know very well I did not mean it like that, Anthony. You are not debauched in any way. You are both heroic and kind. I simply have no desire to wed, and I do not understand why we must do so if your mother will help us avoid a scandal.”
He shifted, and she held his gaze. Her chest squeezed as his eyes became even more distant. Concern curled inside her.
He lifted his hand, and his thumb brushed against her lips, slowly, seductively. The regret that coated his voice deepened
her unease. “The bonds of matrimony are never something I would enter lightly, nor for something as cold as chivalry. But I understand now, that is all you would see them as, Phillipa. Bonds.” He dropped his hand and gave a curt bow, conceding to her wishes.
She did not feel the relief she had expected to feel. Instead, her stomach felt hollow. Confusion swirled through her, and she hated the blank, neutral look that evened out his features as he walked back to the table.
“Anthony.” She was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. “Are we still lovers?”
He sat back down, methodically finishing his food. “I am not interested in a cold, meaningless relationship, Phillipa. If I need sex, I can take a mistress. I want more. A wife…children, a family.”
“What we have is not cold and meaningless!” she said, affront tingeing her words. “You knew how I felt. Did you think I would change my mind after spending one night in your bed?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “My mother and Constance will travel with you back to London. She will tell your family, and anyone else who asks, that you dined with us and the inclement weather prevented your return. Hopefully, that will be enough to silence the gossips.”
Phillipa nodded mutely at his matter-of-fact recitation, dropping her gaze to her hands and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. She was suddenly hit by a painful realization. If he had murmured words of affection, or love, rather than cold logic, she might actually have considered marriage.
But it was too late now. Pride tied her tongue. If Anthony had felt affection for her, he would have said so when she mentioned love. She would not mistake the passion between them to mean anything deeper to him than lust.
His mother swept into the breakfast room, and Phillipa blinked at her dainty perfection. She forced herself not to react to the curious way the viscountess regarded her. She must know Phillipa spent the night with her son.
Anthony’s voice remained blandly polite as he introduced them.
She battled the urge to fidget. Or smack him for his damned insouciance. Instead, she curtsied nicely. “My lady.”