Page 62 of A Mind of Her Own
Clifford chuckled nervously. “You must forgive her candor, Lord Blackmeer. She forgets herself.”
“I never forget myself,” Philomena said, still smiling. “I merely prefer the truth, Uncle.”
William’s brows rose despite himself. She had named Metternich without a flicker of hesitation, delivered her father’s opinion with assurance, and yet her tone remained light enough that none could take offense. It was precisely the balance required of a great lady: knowledge without pedantry, wit without sharpness.
Later, over the fish course, she regarded William with calm interest. “Tell me, my lord—is it true you crossed the lines at Salamanca to rally your men? My father swears it, but I suspect him of embroidery.”
William felt the eyes of the table shift to him. “It was not so heroic as it sounds,” he said dryly. “I had a choice between advancing and retreating. Advancing seemed less likely to shame me.”
Her lips curved, composed but unmistakably amused. “Your humility is as rare as your courage, and twice as becoming, Lord Blackmeer.”
He ought to have dismissed the remark as an empty compliment, but the way her gaze held his made him wonder if she saw more than others did. He looked away first.
As the courses passed, William realized the company revolved around her. She was the axis of the room, each guest drawn to her warmth, her composure, her unerring sense of what to say. His mother had been like that—unassailable, polished, admired by all.
And unlike so many young women, Philomena never giggled, never babbled, never faltered. She was perfection itself.
When the ladies rose to withdraw, she passed him with a serene inclination of the head. “I hope, my lord, that you will allow me to ask you more of Spain when next we meet. My father insists soldiers never tell the true story, but I believe you might.”
William bowed. “I am at your service, my lady.”
Her smile lingered as she swept away with the others. Silence fell heavier after she had gone.
The gentlemen drew closer to the port, Lord Clifford thumping William on the shoulder. “Well, my lord? What do you think of my niece?”
William gave a noncommittal sound, though inwardly he admitted the truth. He was impressed—more than impressed. Philomena was everything he had been bred to prize in a woman of rank: intelligent, elegant, composed, possessed of powerful connections. His father would call her a prize. His mother would call her a triumph.
He admired her. He could even, with time, imagine himself loving her. If not for Jane.
For as Philomena’s image gleamed perfect in his mind, another face intruded: Jane’s, alive with quick laughter, unguarded as she gathered Margaret into her arms, tender with a mother’s warmth, fierce in her defense of ideas and beliefs,passionate when she argued with him. Philomena dazzled, but Jane haunted.
William lifted his glass of port, the warmth of it burning down his throat. For all Lady Philomena’s perfection, he felt no fire in his chest—only the echo of a governess’s voice, and the suspicion he may never be free of her.
Chapter 30
The drawing room at Lady Eversley’s Brook Street residence was a hive of restrained elegance. A handful of guests had been chosen with precision—for their taste, their titles, and just the right touch of gossip. A crackling fire kept the February chill at bay, and the scent of hyacinths drifted from cut-glass vases on every side table.
Everything shimmered: the conversation, the candlelight, the carefully curated calm. Lady Eversley’s niece played the pianoforte—a modest, elegant tune that floated gently above the chatter. At her side stood Miss Fournier, a lace fichu softening the cut of her day gown, her posture easy but her gaze distant, focused on the notes ahead.
“Just one more,” someone urged.
Lady Eversley smiled. “We must convince Miss Fournier—she’s our only true nightingale.”
William saw the young woman hesitate. Then Lady Julia—Ashford’s sister, and from what he had gathered both confidante and staunch ally—leaned close and murmured something in her ear. Whatever it was made Miss Fournier laugh, low and smooth. Then she nodded once and turned back to the pianoforte. When she began to sing—this time a different tune, soft and clear and undeniably French—the room fell quiet at once.
William cradled his glass of brandy, amusement tugging at his mouth, for just then Ashford entered through the opendoorway. The man halted as though struck, his expression caught between devotion and disbelief as he stared at her.
The young woman’s voice was all smoke and honey—not loud, but impossibly rich, the kind of tone that wrapped itself around you and didn’t let go. It was a chanson about longing, old and wistful, her vowels pure and floating, each note precisely shaped but entirely effortless. By the time the last note melted into silence, the room was still. Then: applause. Murmurs. Laughter.
Lord Harwood clapped once, then leaned forward. “Miss Fournier, if I may say—that was utterly transporting.”
The Duke of Morleyne smiled faintly beside him. “My mother was born in Rouen. She would have cried, hearing that.”
Miss Fournier inclined her head gracefully, eyes dancing. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”
“Not at all,” Morleyne said. “I believe you’ve cast a spell over us all.”
Harwood chuckled. “If you haven’t already commissioned a portrait, I suggest you do. That moment deserves oil and canvas.”
