Page 3 of Peril in Piccadilly
“Philippa,” I said.
He nodded. “Of course. And on that note…” He offered his elbow to his fiancée, who latched on with a simper, “we shall let you get back to your supper.”
Wolfgang clicked his heels together and inclined his head. “Viscount St George. Lady Laetitia.”
“Grafvon Natterdorff.” Crispin smirked, and didn’t bother with either the heels or the mock bow. “Darling. Tell Kit I said hello.”
“I shall,” I promised.
And then Laetitia towed him away, and Wolfgang pushed my chair under me so I was seated, before he walked around the table to seat himself. And there we were, in the same places we had been before the door opened, except now the atmosphere had changed.
“I hate her,” I said.
Wolfgang looked at me.
“How dare she tell him that he can’t call me what he’s been calling me for the past ten years?” Or eight years, or perhaps only six years. But no matter: how dare she tell him that he couldn’t call me whatever he wanted? It was none of her concern.
Except of course it was. She was engaged to him, and she didn’t want her fiancé to call another woman darling, whether it was her name or not. Had I been engaged to Crispin—God forbid—I would probably feel the same way.
Wolfgang didn’t say anything, and I added, “She’s going to make him unhappy, the horrible cow.”
Wolfgang cast a glance in their direction. They were behind me, so I didn’t.
“He doesn’t appear unhappy,” he said.
“You don’t know him as well as I do.” Of course he was unhappy. Or if he wasn’t yet, he would be. That’s what happens when you propose to one person when you know full well you’re in love with another.
Wolfgang made a dissenting noise. “She’s a lovely woman. He has no reason to be unhappy.”
“Surely happiness requires something more than just a lovely woman?”
He didn’t answer, so perhaps he didn’t think so. And that didn’t bode well for the possibility of our union, did it? I wanted a husband who wantedme, after all, not someone who thought that I was interchangeable with just anyone else, lovely or not.
He must have discerned the direction of my thoughts, because he glanced behind me one more time before he asked, a bit stiffly, “Is he the reason, then?”
“Is he the reason for what?”
“The reason you won’t say yes,” Wolfgang said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out something small and glittery that he placed carefully in the middle of the tablecloth, equidistant from both of us. I stared at it the way I would have done a snake that had materialized in the middle of the table.
When I didn’t speak, Wolfgang added, “I’m aware that you didn’t accept my proposal of marriage, Philippa. I surprised you, and you didn’t know what to say. We were in front of your friends and family, and I imagined you didn’t want to cause a scene. I behaved as though you had said yes, but I knew very well that you hadn’t.”
I ducked my head. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it…”
“Of course not.” He flicked another glance over my shoulder. “So it is he?”
“No. Not at all.” I had no idea why so many of my nearest and dearest seemed convinced that there was something going on between me and Crispin. “I abhor St George. Not only is he a horrible cad, but he’s a horrible human being in general. I wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth.”
Nor did my affections, such as they were, belong with anyone else. Except Christopher, I suppose, but that was entirely platonic. Not only do his feelings not swing my way, but we’re first cousins, so any relationship between us would be ill-advised from the start.
“Then why—” Wolfgang began, and I cut him off.
“I like you, Wolfgang. It isn’t that I don’t. We could probably rub along together very well.”
He nodded, so apparently he felt the same way. There was no declaration of love from him either, you’ll notice, glittery ring notwithstanding.
“I’m just not certain that I want to go back to Germany.”
He blinked.
