Love Springs Anew: A Regency Romance Novella Read online

  The lady in question of course was found out, and pressed to marry Simon, but perhaps that was what she had wanted, helped in her quest for the gentleman’s hand by Philippa’s ire. Supposedly, the lady was engaged to some stuffy old nobleman. Philippa did not know the woman or the nobleman, as both were above her circle. She did not care to know them…any of them.

  Philippa had called her own carriage and rushed home unchaperoned. She barricaded herself into her room to weep for her lost love. Father was right. No man would want a shrewish skinny bird of a woman, who was all bones and angles when he could have buxom bride with softness to spare and money besides.

  Philippa realized for the first time that the only reason Simon saw her at all was her father’s money. She was available and an heiress. The thought disgusted her. Lydia comforted her with hot chocolate and when Philippa was done with tears, she buried herself in a book that Lydia had procured for her.

  There in the fiction, she could imagine herself with all of the attributes that young men wanted. At least she could imagine what if felt like to be sought after, and loved by her hero. In her imagination she did not need money. Instead her hero loved her only for herself. She gave her husband a strong son, whom they both loved, but of course, it was all a fantasy.

  After her outburst, Philippa was labeled a shrew and placed firmly on the shelf. At least that was what everyone thought. Even Philippa had to ask, what gentleman would tolerate such behavior? She had merely lost her temper, but she had not acted with decorum. She should have been calm and discrete.

  She had not acted as a gentlewoman, who would never know such words, much less utter them publicly. Her eyes stinging with tears, her body and mind exhausted from crying, in one day, with a single incident, she had gained a reputation as a virago among the Ton.

  Her own father called her a senseless woman, and took her into the country in the hopes that other suitors would forget. They did not forget. Her already sparse suitors had fled quickly. She had been eighteen. Now at twenty-six, Philippa was sure she would never marry.

  The more she thought about it, the more she tried to convince herself she was fine with that fact. Of course, that would have been a lie. Her sour mood was enough to betray the idea that she did not find the prospect of being an old maid appealing.

  Money was no issue for Philippa. With his younger brother dead her father had no one else to leave his fortune. She was an heiress, and she would be fine; at least monetarily. Still money and land and a beautiful home were not the only things a woman required.

  She desired companionship. She needed love. Philippa told herself the love and friendship of her almost sister, Charlotte was enough. Then just when she almost convinced herself of that fact, a suitor would take Charlotte away and she would have to re-examine her wishes. Then Lydia, who knew her mistress’s moods so well, would bring Philippa another book to devour.

  Philippa glanced up at Charlotte now, laughing with her latest gentleman caller. Would this one be the one to marry her? Philippa wondered. It would be sad to lose her friend, but she did want Charlotte to be happy. Charlotte grinned at her over a cup of tea, and Philippa went back to her reading.

  Charlotte and her suitor were whispering with their heads together and giggling like two school children. Philippa smiled. Perhaps she would give them just a moment of privacy. She remembered Simon’s secret kisses in the garden with bittersweet fondness. She caught Charlotte’s eye and said, “Would you care for a walk a in the garden, cousin? The rain has stopped.”

  “I shall accompany you of course, Miss Dunn,” Charlotte’s suitor said picking up on Philippa’s cue.

  It was easy to lose one another amongst the vegetation even though the summer foliage was not yet in full bloom. Philippa took one path and as expected, Charlotte and her suitor took another. What was his name, Philippa thought. William perhaps? Philippa frowned. She really should keep track of these things, but it seemed a different man called every day, and until Charlotte settled on one of them, Philippa could not think that their names mattered.

  * * *

  3

  Philippa eyed one of the benches in the garden. It was wet from the rain, and sitting would spoil her dress, so she tucked her novel under her arm and made her way for the covered gazebo. It was peaceful there, with the slacking rain dripping on the window sills and from the leaves of the trees which ran along the edge. She tilted her head up towards the sky. The sun was peeking out, fat and orange above her, sending down warmth.

  It had been a week of thunderstorms, and this was the first time the rain had ceased for some time. The world felt washed fresh and dripping. She was glad for the sun on her face and the fresh smell of the rain-drenched earth.

  However, something was amiss. There was something out of place in the garden, and it took Philippa a minute, and a several steps forward, away from the manor, before she located it.

  Smoke. Someone else was out in the garden. A man and her father did not smoke a pipe. Could it be Charlotte’s suitor? That would be horribly rude, she thought. Philippa paused, her heart pounding within the confines of her chest.

  It was not uncommon for her father to have guests; of course, he was an important man after all, with many acquaintances, both purely social and from his work. Was her father out here in the garden as well? She thought not, but she may be wrong. Perhaps her father’s guest wanted a bit of air.

  She turned to go the other direction. Philippa usually went out of her way to avoid people, for they always seemed to know her, and always seemed keen to speak about her behind her back. Whether she was actually out of earshot did not seem to matter.

  “I’m sorry Miss, allow me to put my out my pipe,” a deeply masculine voice called.

  Philippa turned her head sharply and saw him. He was suddenly right there; perched upon a bench that was only partially out of sight beside a bush with several pale green shoots. He stood at her appearance, as a gentleman should.

  The soft sound of conversation told her that Charlotte and her suitor were not far behind, but right now, she could not think of chaperoning. She could only think of the man in front of her.

  “No,” Philippa said, shaking her head. “Please do not put it out on my account. I like the smell of it. Cherry, is it not?”

  “It is,” the man said, tapping out the tobacco beside the stone bench and then slipping the pipe into his breast pocket regardless. “But the smell permeates everything. It invades my hair and my clothing. Even my small clothes,” he added, his voice dipping as though his words had traversed too far, across some invisible line drawn through the center of good taste.

  Perhaps he had crossed that line, but Philippa was no young girl at her coming out. She would not blush and giggle, or raise her hand to her lips or dab at her forehead in a show of feeling faint. She was not that girl, not any longer at least, if she ever had been.

  The man was expecting some reaction from her, perhaps he had been hoping for one, but she would not give it to him. She turned to face him long enough to make him an apology, and then she planned to retire, but he said nothing. He only looked at her.

  “I am sorry for intruding,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” the man replied. “The garden is yours, Miss Dunn.” He bent over her hand and kissed it. “It is I, who am intruding.”

  He held her hand longer than was polite, the smile refusing to fade from his face.

  Philippa was very aware that she was not wearing gloves, sitting as she was previously in the parlor. Gloves made turning the pages of her books difficult. His hands were inordinately warm as he squeezed her hand lightly with both of his, saying, “It is fortunate that you happened upon me Miss Dunn; it has been so long. I have not seen you in Town.”

  Philippa hoped her own face contorted into something that could be mistaken for something resembling civility, though she could not be sure. She was not sure how she felt, with this man holding her hand, his fingers pressing upon her bare skin. Apparently, he though
t she should know him.

  Philippa could not help but note how handsome he was. Tall and broad shouldered, he looked particularly striking. His jaw was strong and he wore a closely trimmed beard, which was not quite the fashion, but she liked it. The brunette hair on his head matched that upon his chin, but the later was streaked with gray. Like two white stripes, perfectly matched along both sides of his face, which reached from his temples through his sideburns and down to meet at his chin. There was something about the man that was undeniably familiar to her, but she could not place him. Blast, this was embarrassing.

  “But I am invading the privacy of your stroll,” he said with a bow and a smile.

  “Yes,” she said frowning as she tried to place his face from her brief time coming out time, before everything fell apart. “I mean, no. I do not mind. I am only chaperoning my young cousin and her suitor who are walking in the garden. I do not mind company.” Who was this gentleman? She felt certain she should know.

  He apparently, was familiar with her as well, although he had the advantage, knowing whose house and garden he frequented.

  “Is the bench not wet?” she inquired gesturing where he had sat.

  “No longer,” he said with a smile and a gesture. “I have cleaned it for you with my trousers, if you will sit with me, or walk if you will.”

  “Oh,” she said sitting.

  “Miss Dunn,” the man said, the handsome face beneath his beard breaking into a broad smile. “You do not remember me,” he said. His eyes were green and shone like the sea at dawn as he sat beside her. He had caught her out, and she was mortified. It was only then that Philippa remembered, and her embarrassment escalated.

  “Your Grace,” she said standing immediately and slipping into a hasty curtesy.

  He was the Duke of Chesney, she remembered in a rush. His given name was Gregory Burrowes. He was quite a few years Philippa’s senior, and he had been her former fiancé’s best friend. Perhaps it was former best friend now, she thought with a bit of scorn. The woman Simon had quite thoroughly kissed in that oh so public scandal years ago had been the lady who was expected to marry The Duke of Chesney. The very gentleman that stood in front of her!

  It dawned on Philippa that finding one’s best friend in a compromising embrace kissing your own intended bride may be bit more of a jolt than finding your friend kissing some nameless tart. She doubted that the Duke remained friends with Simon after such a scandal. She suddenly felt sorry for the Duke. It was an unaccustomed feeling.

  The Duke chuckled at her discomfiture and then apologized. “Oh do sit. It did not occur to me that you would not remember me. After all, we shared an acquaintance or two…And the embarrassment they caused.”

  “Yes, quite.” Philippa said as she sank back down boneless on the bench.

  He did not bring up the embarrassment she had caused, and for that she was grateful. Still, had the Duke not married another woman not long after that dreadful affair? She could not remember. Charlotte would know. She kept up with all the news of the Ton, but Philippa let it slip by her. She felt completely adrift. Why could she remember figures on paper and characters in a play, but such gossip eluded her, even when it pertained to her? Perhaps she purposely forgot the whole ordeal and all involved.

  The Duke was still sitting beside Philippa on the bench, speaking easily. “I had business with your father this morning, and then snuck off for a smoke,” He noticed the book in her lap.“What is it you are reading?”

  “Oh,” she said attempting to hide the offending volume in the inadequate folds of her skirt. It was too late. He saw.

  “The Memoirs of Emma Courtney,” he read. “Do you not find Mary Hays a bit…onerous for a maid?” he asked.

  Onerous was not the word she would have chosen. “I do not think my reading material is any of your business, Your Grace.” She said raising her chin a little.

  “So your father is aware that you are reading about forbidden embraces during thunderstorms?”

  The man’s teasing attitude annoyed her. “The book is far more than that!” She snapped. “Emma is an amazing woman who has overcome much. She does not let the fact that she is a woman stop her, and…” Philippa realized she was digging herself in deeper. “You are no gentleman to tease me so.” She amended. “But, how would you…. Pray tell, how do you know the plot?”

  “My wife was taken with such novels,” the Duke said. “Miss Hays, Maria Edgeworth and more. All filled with passion, adultery, abortion, murder and madness.”

  “Your wife.” She repeated stupidly. “The Duchess of Chesney, your wife.”

  The Duke smiled softly and shook his head to the side. “Yes. She loved them so. She died over two years ago; a fever.”

  “My condolences,” Philippa said, her cheeks burning. “I did not know.”

  “And how could you have?” The Duke asked, attempting to drive the conversation away from his misfortune. “You were not in Town at the time.”

  “You met with my father?” Philippa asked. She still had enough social sense in her head to remember how to tactfully allow a conversation to be steered from one subject to the next. Neither the late Duchess nor her choice of reading material were subjects Philippa wanted to pursue.

  “I did,” the man said. “Always a pleasure to experience the sharp mind of Lord Montclair.

  “It is regrettable that you no doubt had to experience my father’s sharp tongue as well,” Philippa said, and the Duke laughed.

  “Your own tongue, Miss Dunn, is as sharp as ever,” he said to her. “I’d best be wary as to not cut myself upon it.”

  “I suppose, you must keep yourself clear of my mouth then,” she said without a thought.

  The Duke blinked at her as if startled and then laughed, his voice booming and echoing off the stone pathway and tall bushes.

  It was only then Philippa realized how very inappropriate her words were, but after all, she had a reputation to keep and he already knew the sort of novels she was reading. There was no going back now. She met his eyes baldly and refused to blush or look down, much like Emma her favorite heroine who positively stalked the man she wished to wed.

  “I am so glad to have seen you,” the Duke said when he had regained his general demeanor. “I would be grateful if you would sup with me at my country home.”

  Philippa paused for a moment, as sharp as her tongue may be, she was not accustomed to requests for her company.

  “Surely, you have someone else with whom you would rather dine?” she said softly.

  “I do not,” the Duke insisted. “I am in residence at my country house, and the servants have nothing to do.”

  “That is surely an untruth,” she said.

  “I am hosting Lord Grafton; his father The Earl of Taftwater passed recently, and I have offered my support to an old friend. Well, that said, I do suppose James is Lord Taftwater now. It ill suits him.” The Duke shook his head. “James is despondent. He and his father were very close. I’m sure some feminine company will cheer him.”

  Philippa never thought of herself as cheering company. “I had heard of Lord Taftwater’s passing,” Philippa said. “Surely a kinder man has not walked this world.”

  “He was a blustery arse and we both know it, but it is good to see that closing yourself up in your library there has not entirely dulled your sense of civility.”

  “I would not speak ill of the dead,” she said.

  “Only of the living.” the Duke said lightly.

  “Well, they are so much more able to return the favor.” Philippa quipped.

  He chuckled again. “I am glad to have drawn you out of your library, Miss Dunn. You are a treat.”

  “My library?”

  “I may have peeked into the parlor as I passed. The smoke was a way to steel myself to speak with you,” the man said.

  “Surely I am not so repellant?”

  “You have misunderstood,” the Duke of Chesney said, shaking his head and taking up Philippa’s naked hand
once more.

  His own hands were soft, the fingers blunt and manicured, with only the barest of callouses along the palm; from horse’s reins, she surmised. She remembered now that the Duke was an avid horseman.

  She knew almost nothing else about him, except that he quite obviously liked novels as well as she. She blushed at the thought. She drew her musings from the touch of his fingers and back to the conversation at hand.

  “You are quite the opposite of repellant,” the Duke said. “So much so that it made me nervous to speak with you as I can see that you have not lost a drop of your radiance in the years since I saw you last.”

  “Radiance? Oh, you flatter me, Your Grace” Philippa said, and she felt her cheeks burn red. A blushing child, that is what this man had turned her into, with merely a sentence. “Tell me, true,” she said. “Did you even remember me before you spied me in the parlor?”

  “I most certainly knew that Lord Montclair had a daughter.”

  “And you remembered my radiance?” she persisted. “Or perhaps my wit?”

  “I did not,” he admitted. “It was a pleasant surprise, but that does not make it less true.”

  “Flatterer,” she accused.

  “I hope to flatter you, Miss Dunn, enough to where you and your young cousin will accept my invitation. I am sure I can convince James to join us. The new Lord Taftwater would truly benefit from someone of your father’s ward’s temperament to cheer him.”

  “Ah, I see,” Philippa said finally understanding “The invitation is for my cousin Charlotte then.” Such was expected but her heart sunk nonetheless.

  “And for your radiant self,” he said quickly as if sensing her melancholy. “I would rather no one else be to be my fellow… chaperone for the youngsters.”

  The Duke favored her with a wry smile and Philippa smiled in spite of herself.

  “We shall join you then, Your Grace” Philippa said, before she was aware of what she was saying, and before she could manage to stop herself.

  Afterwards she told herself it was because she could not deny Charlotte’s chance at securing an Earl for her betrothed, and as for William…or Williams…there were two of them she thought, both entirely too boorish for her radiant cousin. Yes, Charlotte was the one who was radiant; not Philippa.