“And I will never love another woman above you.”
The deep, hungry yearning in his eyes made her knees weak. She caught at him, fumbling for words, the vow that would make him understand that she was his forever. That she would wait a lifetime.
But he was gone.
Chapter Ten
Philippa lay awake until the thin gray light turned pale yellow, and Jonas stirred. She had no sooner washed and dressed herself and Jonas than a footman announced that her father requested to speak with her.
The moment she entered the sitting room, she threw herself into her father’s open arms. “I’m sorry, Papa; oh, you were worried! I told you not to be.”
For a moment, her father merely stood, his arms now tight around her. Then he sat down heavily, pulling her to his knee as if she were five years old. “You told me not to worry . . . and you truly believed your reassurance would be sufficient?”
“I did when I first ran away. But I’ve learned differently in the past weeks,” she confessed. “I thought it would be better for you if I was gone because I didn’t want to obey you. But I know now that love is far more possessive than that.” She leaned against his shoulder, as if she truly were a little girl again. “I missed you.”
“Were you treated well? I spoke to the prince, who seems a very orderly and mannered young fellow. But were you treated well?” He looked around. “I cannot countenance the fact that my daughter has been working as a nursemaid. Thank heaven your mother wasn’t alive to see it.”
“The prince and princess treated me with nothing but the greatest kindness, Papa.”
“I will give them my thanks, but then we must be away. I neglected the house, the estate, everything after you ran away.”
Philippa came to her feet and stood as straight as she could. “I will return home with you, Papa, but I will not marry Rodney. I will never, ever marry Rodney.” In that long hour before Jonas awoke, while she lay awake longing for Wick she had concluded that it was best not to inform her father that she planned to marry the butler.
“So I gathered from your note,” her father said, perplexed. “But why, sweetpea? You’ve always loved Rodney—”
“No, Papa,” Philippa interrupted. “You have always loved the idea of my marrying Rodney. And Rodney said he loved me. But no one ever asked me how I felt about marrying that fat-bottomed . . . fellow!”
Her father frowned. “Fat-bottomed? Is he?”
“Yes.”
“I never noticed. Still, you can’t make a decision of this nature based on something as unimportant as a bottom. It’s a man’s character that counts. Rodney is a sturdy lad, in character as well as physique.”
That may be true but it was beside the point.
“Would you call him intelligent?” she asked.
Her father gave this some thought. “Well, perhaps not precisely intelligent, but . . .”
“But?”
“A head is like a house,” he said. “If it’s crammed too full, it’s cluttered.”
“Rodney’s house doesn’t have a stick of furniture in it,” she said flatly.
Her father’s shoulders slumped. “I thought I was doing the best for you.”
“Papa,” she said, “I will not marry Rodney. Ever.”
“Just come home,” he said, coming to his feet and taking her in his arms again. “Just come home, please, Philippa. These last weeks have been insupportable.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, realizing the depth of her own unkindness, however unintended it may have been. “I was as bad as the serpent’s tooth in the Bible, wasn’t I, Papa?”
“Not quite,” he said wearily. “And it was Shakespeare’s Lear who called his thankless daughter a serpent’s tooth. But I haven’t felt so distraught since your mother died, and that’s the truth. I’ll have to speak to Sir George. I told him that you were visiting my brother all this time, but he suspects otherwise, of course. The servants have talked.”
“Please not the first day,” Philippa implored. “Surely, we can have a quiet day to ourselves. I’ll have a posset made, and we’ll play a game of chess in your study.”
They did just that.
Chapter Eleven
But the very next morning her father looked up from his plate and nodded to the butler, standing at a side table by the fire, ready to provide fresh toast. “That will do, Quirbles.”
Philippa put down her fork as their butler closed the door quietly behind him. “What is it, Papa?”
“You’re not the same,” he said abruptly.
She blinked at him.
“There’s something different about you.”
“I hope not.” She didn’t know whether to hope that Wick’s French letter had worked just as it ought or not: there was nothing to the outward eye that admitted she’d been ravished—and loved.
“What happened in that castle, Philippa?” her father asked. His voice was kind, but firm.
She picked up her fork again and studiously pushed her eggs to the side of the plate. “I took care of the little prince. I told you that already, Papa.”
“That’s not what I mean . . . His father didn’t do anything untoward, did he?”
Philippa’s mouth fell open. “Of course not, Papa! What a thing to suggest!”
“His Highness is not English.”
“He is all that is honorable,” Philippa said reprovingly. “And the princess is perfectly lovely. We even became friends. And by the way, she is English—though really, Papa, you should not make assumptions about people’s characters based on where they come from.” In truth, she missed Kate, which was absurd because they had been acquainted for only a few weeks.
“Nevertheless, you have changed somehow. What happened there?” her father persisted.
With a deep breath Philippa took the plunge. “I fell in love.”
“Ah, I thought so,” her father said, with the satisfaction that comes with having one’s guess confirmed. “You know, sweetpea, when your mother was dying, she was very worried about you. She was certain that I wouldn’t notice what you were feeling or thinking.”
“Well, you didn’t, when it came to Rodney,” Philippa pointed out, rather unkindly.
“I made up for that now,” he said, taking a bite of kipper.
She watched him chew and smile to himself.
But then the significance of it hit him. He put down his fork with a sharp click.
“You fell in love—with whom did you fall in love? Some dissolute scrap of gentry hanging around the prince’s knees, hoping for a handout, I’ll warrant. One of those glittering court fellows with no more substance or ethics than a tomcat!”
“No.” She took a bite of her now-cold eggs though she couldn’t taste them.
He frowned at her.
“The butler,” Philippa stated; having plunged, there was nothing for it but to keep going.
At this unimaginable revelation the blood drained from her father’s face. “You’re jesting.” His voice was a whisper.
Philippa squared her shoulders. “Mr. Berwick is the prince’s own brother. He is the son of a grand duke. He serves as His Highness’s majordomo out of strong loyalty and affection.”