Her mother lowered her voice. “You know that servants gossip, and it was Lady Prescott’s own butler who recommended him to us.” Her teacup and saucer clattered as she placed them on the walnut table that separated their sofas. “I can only imagine what she’d think if she found out—”
Phillipa cut off the tirade before it could start. “Mama, you know I cannot marry.”
“My dear, must you persist in referring to that unfortunate incident? We are all working hard to fulfill the plan my sister has drafted for you,” she admonished.
That unfortunate incident. Pain squeezed Phillipa’s chest, along with the shame her family kept insisting she should feel.
The door to the parlor swung open and Lady Merryweather waltzed into the room. She wore a bright purple riding habit with a matching hat. The rosy glow in her cheeks indicated she had just returned from her morning ride.
“My dear niece,” she gushed, pulling off her gloves.
“Aunt Florence.” Phillipa tilted her cheek for a kiss, frowning at the excitement that sparkled in her aunt’s eyes. They were a perfect mirror of her mother’s, and the only feature they shared as twins.
“I saw you dancing with Lord Anthony at Lord Calvert’s ball. I have been bursting to question you,” her aunt crowed.
Phillipa’s heart thumped. She loathed the excitement in her aunt’s voice, never mind that her pulse jumped with traitorous pleasure at the reminder.
“Phillipa,” her mother screeched, “why have you not said anything?”
“Mama, it was just a dance.”
“You were the only woman he danced with,” her aunt stated gleefully. “He disappeared shortly afterward, leaving everyone in a fine twitter. Lady Nelson and the Marchioness of Gale accosted me this morning in Hyde Park. Lord Anthony is very wealthy, has impeccable breeding, and he is heir presumptive to Calydon. It is common knowledge his brother has vowed never to marry. Lord Anthony is a most eligible bachelor.” Her aunt fairly vibrated with enthusiasm.
Phillipa would be lying if she did not admit her own interest in the man. But a stab of regret swiftly brought her back to reality. A gentleman with such impeccable bloodlines would never consider her for a match. He could only view her in one light. Her encounters with Lord Orwell had made that much glaringly clear.
“He is considered the catch of the season. Happily for us, he is still available. You could not hope to align yourself with a greater family than Calydon.” Her aunt beamed.
Her mother harrumphed at her lack of response.
“You have two wonderful suitors, my dear. The family will be greatly elevated if you snare Lord Anthony, but even if you do not, Lord Orwell and Lord Hoyt are both fine catches,” Lady Merryweather murmured conspiringly with a wink.
Since capturing her own English lord several years ago, Aunt Florence would only be satisfied when the Peppiwell girls were also wedded to noblemen.
“If we were in Boston, I would not be pressured to marry.” Phillipa sank deeper into the sofa, wishing she could disappear in its depth.
Her mother glared at her. “If we were in Boston, we would be pariah because of the unfortunate—”
“I vow I will scream if I hear of the incident uttered from your lips again, Mama.”
“Phillipa!”
She struggled to stay calm at the sharp admonition from her aunt.
“You must marry, child, for your sake and for your family’s.” Her aunt sat down next to her and clasped her hands. “No one in London knows of the incident and we must keep it that way. Your sisters will desire good matches, and therefore you must be aligned with a respectable family.”
“We are no longer in America, and your father needs a proper entry into British society. Our fortune alone is not enough.” Her mother sniffed in affront. “I find it so indelicate to be discussing money.”
“Oh, Mama.” Phillipa felt a pang of annoyance. They had been a wealthy family in Boston before a series of unwise investments by her father had seen their fortunes dwindling rapidly. He’d been convinced taking his business ventures across the sea to England would provide the opportunity he needed to recover. And it had. Since coming to London, he had found wealth in the textile industry and the soap business. More so than they’d ever had in Boston.
Now he had a notion of expanding his business into an empire. But for that he needed investors. Credible and influential investors whom others would follow. Her father’s business partner, Lord Orwell, was a start, but a stingy one of late. Her father needed a more substantial connection to attract the wealthiest investors.
In Boston, Jonas Peppiwell had been respected, his influence wide and welcomed. But here in London, her father was nothing, a mere uncouth colonial merchant, not a nobleman, and therefore well below society’s notice. Even the gentry thought him inadequate to mix with. It mattered not that he had amassed a fortune that rivaled the wealthiest lord…it was new money.
His daughter’s connection to a British family of esteem would open doors for her father to build the empire he dreamed of. She hated that he believed that could only happen if he rubbed elbows with peers. But, she hated even more that in dealing with the haute monde it was most likely true. The family had hoped her aunt being married to the Earl of Merryweather would provide the entrée her papa needed, but so far, it had not.
Her aunt’s grip on her fingers tightened. “It is more than your father’s merchant status we must overcome, my dear niece. I have also had to deflect sly whispers about you. Whispers that hint you may have secrets in your closet…secrets from Boston.”
She froze as she met her aunt’s gaze. It could only be Orwell spreading tales, the wretched man.
“If it were not for the patronage of the Lady Gale, my dearest friend, I would be hard-pressed to quell the rumors,” her aunt said with a frown. “You simply cannot become the victim of scandal again. The best solution is to marry quickly, and to a family that commands utter respect. You have been dancing with Lord Hoyt for weeks and he refers to you as his close friend. You will either need to accept his offer of marriage when it comes, or refuse his invitations to ride with him and to attend picnics.”
Phillipa winced. Oh, how she despised London society. Any actions by her, however innocent, could excite comment and malicious speculation. She had endured that once—had devastated her family, and had friends she loved turn from her—when all she’d wanted was to be free of society’s ridiculous rules.
She ignored the sympathy in her aunt’s eyes and quelled the heat that burned in her veins. She desperately wanted to be alone. To think and to feel something other than the disgrace they insisted she must feel. For months all they had spoken about was the unfortunate incident. Yet, to her, it had been one grand adventure.
But now she was impure, and not fit to marry anyone of quality. Lord Orwell had told her so, boldly, and in no uncertain terms. And it was no doubt true, for it was impossible to reclaim one’s virginity.
Not that Phillipa cared. She had other plans. And she would follow through, even if Brandon had deserte
d her.
“Are you not feeling well, my dear? Your cheeks have taken the most remarkable shade of red.”
“I…” She straightened her spine and cleared her throat several times before responding. “Just a slight touch of headache. I think I will rest for the remainder of the day.”
She gently removed her aunt’s hands, gracing her with a wan smile. Lady Merryweather’s lips curved in return, but worry glowed from her eyes.
“We only want your happiness, my dear,” her mother burst out anxiously.
“Yes, Mama.” Phillipa demurred, knowing her mother and aunt would not stop their campaign until they married her off. Not to just anyone, but to a nobleman. She grimaced. She had no desire to marry a priggish fop who believed himself more elevated than she.
The traitorous image of an audacious green-eyed lord danced mockingly through her mind, and she banished it with a huff.
“Please remember Lady Graham’s ball tonight. Oh, and Lord Orwell left his card earlier. He will call this afternoon,” her mother said expectantly.
Phillipa scowled, her stomach curdling in distaste as she excused herself. She loathed her father’s business partner. Since being in England, she had attended several balls, soirees, and musicales. Orwell was always present, watching her like a predator. A devious, disgusting, unprincipled predator she’d been stupid enough to trust, misguided by what it meant to be a lord and a gentleman.
She would never make the mistake of trusting a gentleman again.
Not even ones with tempting green eyes.
Her chest squeezed as she heard the crinkle of stationery and was reminded of the letter she’d stuffed in her pocket. All men must be untrustworthy, she realized, thinking of its contents. She had hoped and trusted Brandon would fulfill his promise to her. Never had she expected him to send word, instead, that he had gotten married.
Oh, the fickleness of love, and the perfidy of promises.
Let this be a lesson to her.
Chapter Five