Page 12 of The Lady
Try as he might he could not take his eyes off her. No matter what occurred with the various ladies he was introduced to, his gaze kept drifting to the slim, striking blonde figure of Flora. Awareness of her graceful movements, the turn of her head, how perceptive her expression was, how ready she was to smile, kept drawing him back.
The sheer boiling anger and jealousy that had ripped through him at the sight of Lord Gilbert. How dare the man. And yet how grateful Philip was that Gilbert had been foolish enough to marry another.
That had led to the kiss in the maze. He had been a fool to escort her.
Sucking in a breath, Philip set about tidying his study. On his desk was a half-completed list of the ladies he had met, and the ones he was trying his best to recall with polite precision. With included hints if they might be interested in being courted by the likes of him.
Lady Briers.
Mrs. King—Sarah?
Miss Becker.
Miss Gwendolen Kindred.
He had scribbled down their names with the intention of including some positives about each lady he had been introduced to, but nothing came to mind. It seemed far too insulting if he wrote down what they had looked like in case he forgot.
Pencil paused above the page; Philip discarded it. This was an entirely pointless task when all he could think about was Lady Flora. He had been so close to kissing her properly in that maze. Her tempting bow of a mouth, rouged from the wine he had bought her.
Dragging his hand over his eyes, Philip cursed himself for his desires. For all his best intentions, it seemed he was no better a man than his brother, whose famed rakish ways were now abandoned but they still plagued Philip. It was the damned matchmaking scheme. Philip had asked for Lady Flora’s help, and now all he could think was how much he wanted her for himself.
In annoyance at himself and the situation, he turned the page of potential females over, and started a new list, trying to scribble down the things he wanted in a bride.
Intelligence.
Understanding.
Kindness.
Grace.
Blonde.
With a quick strike through the final word, Philip added not another word to his list of preferences. Before too long, it would simply be a description of Lady Flora.
No, he needed to be sensible. Scolding himself, he recalled that Lady Briers could possibly use some of this brief too, but he didn’t know how he would fare as a stepfather to a brood of five. Besides, would she be understanding of his illegitimacy? At least Lady Flora could not claim ignorance of it.
There came a knock at the door; one he recognised.
“Yes, Mrs. Wotton?”
The middle-aged housekeeper swung the door open and let in the most shocking sight. As if conjured from his fantasies, Lady Flora strode into his study. She gave him a fleeting smile as she swept in. Of course she was magnificent as always. Dressed in an elegant, sage green dress which made her skin glow, and set off her hair in all its shining fineness. As fresh and as tempting as a bouquet of spring flowers. There was a lulling fragrance to the air, a soft seductive jasmine and something else that was entirely Flora. Her large eyes were bright and arresting, full of questions and matters to be discussed. An eagerness flooded through him to hear all the topics that were on the tip of her tongue—to have them raised, fleshed out and solved if he could.
Next to her fine appearance, Philip recalled he was gowned in a hastily thrown-on shirt and his barely fastened trousers. His shirtsleeves were even rolled up to his elbow. It being a Sunday, he had planned as little as possible for the day. Recovering from the shock of his attraction to the blasted woman had been really the only thing he had hoped to do. Of course, a gentleman would stand up, but if he did so, she would see the state of his dress. He froze, caught between acting the gentleman and exposing howmuch he truly wasn’t one. Philip forced himself to stand, and as he did so, he said to Mrs. Wotton, “Please fetch us tea.”
If Lady Flora took offence at his garb, she gave no indication.
“May I sit?” she asked, looking around his study and making her way over to his favourite squishy armchair.
On his feet, Philip followed her to the opposite seat, which was more of a small divan that Philip tended to use as a footrest. Still, it was better, he reasoned, to be closer to her than remaining in his desk chair. Between them was a rosewood table, a thick crimson rug and a wall of tension that he was all too conscious of.
They sat in stony silence until Mrs. Wotton had returned with tea things, laying them out alongside a selection of lemon biscuits, and then shown herself out.
As Lady Flora poured the tea, Philip was startled to see her hands were shaking. Not for years could he remember seeing her so unnerved. Her youthful reaction tended to be nervous excitement rather than aggravation.
Casting aside his own concerns and selfish wanton desires, he reached out and touched her hand, stopping her from adding milk. “Is something wrong my lady?”
Lifting her troubled gaze to his eyes, Lady Flora finally nodded. “Yes.”
