Chapter 20
For a moment, he couldn’t believe it, but there wasn’t the slightest doubt. The sketchbook, which Gloriana had left on the table by the door, had fallen to the floor, open at a drawing of Philippe himself. He was leaning in an open doorway, a sneer on his face. After a moment he recognized it as the entrance to her bedchamber in the Dower House, with an overturned chair in the background and a stain on the carpet.
He made his way to his sister’s drawing room, where he lit a branch of candles and lowered himself heavily to a chair. He still seethed with rage, despite spending a half hour rubbing down the gelding, trying to burn away the anger and leave only fatigue. He didn’t want to approach Gloriana in this state.
Had he really looked so unpleasant, so thoroughly disgusted, that day last summer? Shame suffused him. She had almost been violated by that cur, but his treatment of her was far worse, for he loved her. He had no excuse.
Nor did he have a good reason for his anger now. She was not to blame.
He leafed backward through the sketchbook. Interspersed with sketches of children playing in a London square, of Alice Stowe and Mr. Bridge eating an ice at Gunter’s, and of Elspeth mending a shirt, were many more drawings of Philippe himself.
A happier Philippe, concentrating on a hand of cards, toasting with a glass of wine, sitting pensive in a corner, expressing his opinions at a salon—he could almost see the movements of his hands, so vivid was the sketch—to an audience showing everything from interest through indifference to lascivious attention directed entirely elsewhere. He laughed at that one. He remembered many such evenings at Alice Stowe’s.
Gloriana had been sketching him for years.
~ ~ ~
Philippe trod softly down the corridor and opened his bedchamber door. The housekeeper had shooed him off to bed. The footman was readying himself to bring a message to Elspeth. Sophie had gone to sleep, after telling him sharply not to be a jealous fool, for she had seen enough of those.
Gloriana was sitting up in bed, and in the candlelight, she seemed to glow, just like her name. She didn’t notice him. She was clutching the little book that had ended their long estrangement. Her lips moved silently. Was she praying?
He watched her, unable to bring himself either to speak or to leave. After a minute, she looked up and saw him.
“Philippe.” Her voice trembled. “Thank you for my book.”
“Ce n’est rien,” he said.
“It’s not nothing to me.” She set the book aside. “Please come and talk to me.”
He shut the door, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of the bed. He set the sketchbook down. “You have made many sketches of me over the years.”
“You are my favorite subject.” She twisted her hands together. They did not know one another well, but he recognized this gesture of distress. “Philippe, if you are having second thoughts, it will be better if we don’t marry.”
He took her cold hands between his warm ones. “Better for whom? Not for me, ma belle. I will be desolate without you.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” He leaned in to kiss her. “I am sorry for my bad temper. I have never been as afraid as I was tonight, but never doubt that I love you.”
“As long as you never doubt that I love you too,” she said.
He sighed. “I shall do my best.” But one doubt still ground at him, and for all he knew, there would be more in future.
“You don’t trust easily. I understand.”
“Then you have the advantage of me,” he said, “for there is one thing I do not understand.”
“Only one?” She gave a sad little chuckle. “We scarcely know each other.”
“We know enough,” he said. “Ma belle—”
“What is it?”
“I understood that you liked Mr. Bridge very much. It would have pained me greatly if you had married him, but I would have accepted it, as he is a good man. But why the Earl of Hythwick?”
~ ~ ~
Embarrassment suffused Gloriana. She would have to explain her worst folly of all. She’d been praying for the courage to let Philippe go, but it seemed she needed it for this as well.
“He is an arrogant bore, and vile and stupid as well,” Philippe said, “and yet you favored his suit. You treated him as an honored guest at your brother’s house despite his rudeness and his insults to your family. How could you consider wedding such a man?”
Explaining it was bad enough, but would he believe her? Or forgive her?
She took a deep breath. “I didn’t consider wedding him. If he had come up to scratch, I would have refused him. It was—it was all an act.”
He let go of her hand. “An act.”
Her voice wobbled. “I’m so sorry, Philippe. I thought—I hoped that if you truly loved me, you would not let me marry Hythwick. That is why, at various parties in London, I talked a great deal about his upcoming visit to my brother’s house. I wanted to make sure you knew about it.” She bit her lip. He didn’t look angry. If anything, she saw the beginnings of a smile.
“I had hoped for years that you would understand my pain and anger and show that you still loved me,” she said. “But nothing I did worked.”
He grimaced. “You seemed to despise me. How was I to know?”
“Yes, it was childish of me. Elspeth never tired of telling me so.” She took another breath. “Pretending to favor Hythwick was my final attempt to find out if—if you had ever loved me at all. I hoped you would declare your love again and insist I must marry you instead.”
He burst into laughter, which was only to be expected, when she’d been such a fool. At least he didn’t seem angry . . . No, he was positively beaming.
“Oh, my darling, ma belle, it was an excellent plan in its way. You were correct—I would never have let you marry that man. I invited myself to Garrison House, and I plotted ways and means. It was a choice between throwing Hythwick off a cliff or running away with you under his nose.”
Happiness blossomed within her. He had come for her.
“But I favored the first, because what is the point of abducting a woman who hates one?” He laughed again. “It seems the jest is on us both.”
“Come to bed, Philippe,” she said.
“Yes.” He folded her into his arms.