A Second Chance at Love, A Regency Romance (A Danby Family Novella) Read online

  Philip smiled. "All right. Anyone else?"

  The crowd remained silent. Philip cocked his head at Giles. "Let's go rescue a damsel."

  He rode on the box with Giles and his coachman, his head clear for the first time in days. The cold air had cleared the cobwebs from his mind and a sense of purpose uplifted his spirits. Scanning the road for a young lady in distress, he was—for the first time in years—a rescuer, a hero. Not a vagabond and a seducer. Not a Whitton family disappointment.

  Straining his eyes, he glimpsed a shadowy figure up ahead. He nudged Giles and pointed. "Is that our damsel? Or is it just a rock on the side of the road?"

  Giles squinted. "I'm thinking that's the lady."

  Giles motioned to the coachman, who nodded and slowed down behind the young woman. She must have heard the carriage approach, for she stopped walking and dropped her valise on the side of the road.

  Philip jumped down from the box, making his way to the lady with quick strides. "Hello, there. Are you from the post? We were sent here to retrieve you and to get help from Kings Lynn."

  The lady turned in his direction and deftly pushed the hood of her cloak back from her head with a graceful gloved hand. Philip froze. He would know those rich brown eyes, that mahogany hair anywhere. She was the girl who haunted his dreams. The girl who taunted him all those years ago, and left him for a portly little prick of a man. His ultimate desire and his ruination.

  "Emily."

  "Philip. I mean, Lord Philip Whitton." Emily gave herself a brisk mental shake. His sudden apparition caught her off guard, but there was no reason on earth to be gawping at him so openly. Yes, he was handsome. He had always been so, with dark brown eyes, and blonde hair that waved back from his forehead. He was taller than she remembered, thinner too—a man now, where a boy had been. There was an unreadable expression in those eyes, one of anger and something more, something deeper. She took an involuntary step backwards and reached down for her valise.

  "What are you doing out here?" Even the tone of his voice had changed, from friendly solicitude to a harsh rasp.

  "I was taking the public post home to Sheffield, and they broke an axle, as you saw. So I was walking ahead to Kings Lynn to find help."

  He grasped her valise in one hand and steered her towards the carriage, his warm hand sending shockwaves of heat from her elbow to the tips of her fingers. "Come, into the carriage."

  He bundled her into the luxurious coach most unceremoniously and slammed the door shut. His muffled voice gave directions to the coachman—something about Kings Lynn—and then the door opened again. He sank onto the bench across from her and rapped on the window. With a jolt, the carriage swung back into motion.

  In the warmth of the coach, and under Philip's glowering gaze, life began wakening in Emily's limbs again. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. Heavens, she must look like a clown, with cheeks that red. But if her appearance was amusing, it had no effect on her rescuer, who continued to regard her as one might regard a worm that had crossed one's path. He was staring at her, which was horribly ill-bred—but then, Philip had never been one for social niceties.

  Fine, two could play at that game. She turned the full force of her gaze on him, as boldly as he regarded her.

  "Thank you for the ride," she said evenly.

  "Why were you taking the post?" he rejoined, waving off her thanks with a brusque gesture.

  "I had business in Norwich, and now I am returning home." Not that it was any of his affair.

  "What business?" Again, no politesse from Philip Whitton.

  "Business affairs related to my husband's death."

  A rueful half-smile quirked his lips. "You are a widow now, Emily?"

  She indicated her widow's weeds. "As you see, these four months." She turned her gaze away from his. He could always outstare her. It was rather unnerving, really.

  "I can't say I'm sorry. You know me too well for that."

  His tone was harsh, unyielding. Yes, she did know him too well. "I am not offended, Lord Philip." She sought anything to change the subject. The air in the carriage was stifling. He was too close to her. She removed her cloak and placed it on the seat beside her, catching a glimpse of a familiar leather case on the seat beside him. "Ah, your violin. You always did have it close by."

  "Better for me than drink." He caressed the case with his gloved hand. Philip had beautiful hands—large but sensitive enough to coax a single quivering note from a harpsichord or a viola. And, of course, that one night when she let those lovely hands stray too far—she shut off her thoughts with a snap.

  "'God save you pilgrim! Wither are you bound?'" she quoted, hoping that the flush on her cheeks could still be attributed to the change in temperature from the frosty outdoors and the warmth of the carriage.

  "Danby. Grandfather has issued a summons to the entire family. I was studying abroad when I heard the news. I just landed yesterday."

  "Why did your grandfather send out a summons?" Emily cocked her head, regarding him with curiosity.

  "The old fellow says he's dying." Philip crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window.

  "Oh dear, how terrible!"

  "He's not really. Just wants to set the whole family straight." Philip lapsed into a brooding silence, and Emily took quick glimpses up at him from under her lowered lashes. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. Why was being so close to her former beau having such an effect on her sensibilities? She was, after all, a widow and a mother. Those flutterings should have vanished long ago—by society's standards, she was decidedly on the shelf.

  The carriage slowed to a halt, and Philip peered outside. "We're at the inn," he announced. "Go inside and warm yourself—I'll bespeak a room for you if you wish."

  "Oh, no indeed, thank you. I must be going. I need to return to Sheffield as quickly as possible." She gathered her cloak and prepared to step out of the carriage.

  With a gentle but insistent hand, Philip pushed her back onto the seat. "What awaits you in Sheffield?"

  "My daughter. I must pack up our home and move back to my aunt and uncle's now that Charles has passed."

  Philip looked down at her, the color draining from his face. "You have a child?"

  "Yes, Rose. She is but two years old. I must go to her quickly and prepare for our travel."

  Philip released his hold on her arm and stepped outside the carriage. He extended his hand to Emily.

  "I'll take you home."

  Why had he made such a daft promise? From the moment the words slipped from his lips, 'twas obvious he had made a mistake. It meant two more days of traveling next to his temptress and muse, giving himself the double pain and pleasure of seeing her but not being able to touch her—not in the way he wanted, not in the way he had dreamed for two years.

  Philip snuck a quick sip of the burning contents of his flask. Was it worse to sit on the box with Giles and the coachman, freezing and denying himself the painful pleasure of Emily's company? Or was it better in the close confines of the carriage, pretending not to notice her rapid, appraising glances? To engage in idle prattle about the weather while watching that enchanting beauty mark above Emily's mouth, like a pert little exclamation point above her smiles?

  Yesterday he chose the former. Today, the last leg of the trip before Sheffield, the latter was thrust upon him. A somewhat raw throat and the threat of snow in the air meant the remainder of the trip must be spent inside the coach. He shifted on his seat, glancing over at Emily. She was reading—or at least pretending to. He hadn't seen her turn the page in a good five minutes.

  "Emily, why are you going to live with your family? Why not continue living in Sheffield?"

  She jumped, dropping her book. Deftly, he scooped it up and placed it on the bench beside him.

  "Circumstances dictate that we must move." She blushed so easily. She was never good at deception. It was one of the things he found most attractive about her.

  "What circumstances?" All right, so he was pressing
her. He wanted the truth.

  "Those of a financial nature." She flicked a glance over his visage and then sighed, her shoulders drooping. "If you must know, my husband's affairs collapsed. We are paupers now. I am staying with my aunt and uncle until I can find a position or vocation somewhere."

  "I'm sorry to hear it." And he was. No rush of exultation followed her confession. His rival had been a poor provider, and probably a poor husband, too. But Emily's downfall did not bring him any joy.

  "Thank you. And thank you for offering to bring me to Sheffield. You travel so much faster than the public post. The company is more agreeable, too." She offered a shy smile.

  He stared at her, unwilling to let this brief spark die out. "Why did you marry him?"

  Her eyes, the exact shade of sherry in a decanter, flashed back. "Because he asked me," she replied tartly.

  "You didn't give me a chance to," he admonished in a voice so low, he wasn't sure it had registered.

  "As if the son of a marquess would stoop to marry a commoner," she rejoined, her voice hushed and her head bowed.

  "Do not speak so. We were never like that. Not you and I." He crossed the space between them, grasping her hands in his as he sat down beside her. "What are mere social stations when there is love?"

  She tried to remove her hands, but he refused to release her. "Lord Philip, you mustn't say these things. The past is over and done with."

  "Philip. You used to call me Philip."

  "Philip, then. You must understand that I had to think of these very social stations you mock. I grew up as a poor relation, and I had to strike out on my own. I had to find my own security, and I thought that was what Charles Barlow offered." She gave a bitter laugh, and the sound wrung his heart. "How wrong I was. Here I am, worse off than before."

  "I am here with you." He moved closer and stared deeply into the flecks of gold in the amber depths of her eyes. With one finger, he gently traced the outline of her full lips and the saucy beauty mark just above them. "Lovely, Emily. You don't know how I've suffered because of you."

  Her mouth dropped open in protest, and Philip took full advantage. He tasted her lips slowly at first; enjoying the instant intimacy her parted lips gave him, expecting Emily to push him away. With an endearing sigh, she melted against him, giving him free rein. Throwing caution to the wind, he plundered his muse's mouth. Her special scent of gardenias—the scent that almost drove him mad and made him commission a garden outside his bachelor's quarters in Rome—filled his head, making him dizzy.

  He was driven with a need to strip her of her widow's weeds—to be skin to skin with her and nothing more—laying aside the mistakes of the past and the false social constructs that drove them apart. Roughly, he tugged at her bodice, tearing the ridiculously high collar that concealed her graceful neck.

  Emily gasped, pushing away from him. "Philip, please. The carriage has stopped. We must be in Sheffield."

  "Come with you? To ask the duke's help?" Emily glanced up at Philip hopefully.

  He sat back, as though disconcerted by her response. "I suppose so. Your aunt and uncle live close by, after all. I could deliver you to their home, and you could come to Danby to speak with Grandfather—if that's what you truly wish."

  "Oh, Philip. Thank you so much." Emily reached out and took his hand. "The journey won't be half so tiresome if we can travel with you. And I will feel better about asking the duke myself rather than begging intermediaries to do so."

  Philip closed his eyes and brought their joined hands up to his lips. "Then it is settled."

  Emily tried to free herself. That sounded so final, as though she had agreed to something she didn't fully understand. "Philip, please. We shouldn't even be here like this. You make me—uncomfortable."

  He opened her hand, his mouth gently teasing her palm. Shivers ran up her arm, causing her shoulders to jerk. "Good," Philip rejoined. "Then we have something in common. You make me uncomfortable too."

  With her free hand, Emily clutched her shawl more tightly. "I am afraid I gave you the wrong impression, Lord Philip, by allowing you to kiss me earlier. I-I'm not…" Emily trailed off uncertainly. That kind of girl? She always seemed to turn into that kind of girl around Philip Whitton. His hold on her sensibilities was nothing short of remarkable.

  "Call me Lord Philip one more time, and you will answer the consequences, Mrs. Barlow. I'd chuck the bloody title into the sea if it would change anything. If it meant not spending the last two years in torment."

  Anger surged in Emily, bubbling to the surface. What, after all, did the coddled grandson of a duke know of suffering? "Torment? What torment? Didn't you say you had been abroad? Where were you, then?"

  Philip's head snapped up and he regarded her evenly. "Rome. I was studying music."

  "How bad could that have been?" Emily stared at him, confusion overriding anger. Honestly, Philip had grown up with such luxury, such privilege. What did he know of penury? Most people would give their last pound for a trip to Italy—all expenses paid, surely, thanks to the duke.

  He finally let go her hand, and bereft of his touch, her own hand was icy cold and trembling. "It was bad enough." He sighed. As if casting aside an unwinnable argument, he sat back, leaning against the bedpost. "Rose is sweet," he muttered.

  Ah, there was Philip again. The same abrupt changes in topic, the same quick flashes of temper followed by mellow introspection that had marked his personality as long as she'd known him. "Thank you. She is a darling."

  "Two years old, you say? You must have had her very quickly after your marriage." He scanned her face carefully.

  Heat suffused Emily's cheeks. "Yes, I did. Charles wanted a family very quickly."

  "And…so close on the heels of our own affair…" He trailed off, but the intensity of his dark gaze made Emily catch her breath.

  "We never let things go that far, Philip. You and I both know that." She kept her tone quiet and even, the same voice she would use when comforting Rose after a fall.

  "I would have gone further." The words had a slight edge of challenge.

  "Oh, Philip, I would have too." The admission took a burden off her heart. It didn't feel sinful to confess the depth of her feelings to her former lover—no matter how scandalous they were. "But—"

  "No." Philip held up a hand to stop her. "Just let me have that."

  They sat together in silence for a moment, and he rose from her bed. "Emily, we will travel together to Danby. Whenever you're ready to go, we'll go."

  She nodded. A brief pang of regret clutched at her chest once more. Why not give in, just once, to impetuous desire? Why not follow her heart for once, instead of her head? But Philip was already on the threshold, his tall frame filling the doorway.

  "Good night," she whispered as he closed the door.

  The next day, Emily determined to be as industrious as possible, packing up her few belongings, making sure Anna had a place to go, and preparing Rose for the journey. The Duke of Danby was waiting for Philip, and delaying his journey would be beyond rude. Philip seemed content to play with Rose and offered to take her into the village for a few sweets. Glad of the opportunity to work without distraction, Emily shooed them off and tugged Rose's trunk out of the barn.

  Giles, Philip's manservant, was in the barn, helping the coachman ready the carriage for the morrow. He offered to help Emily bring the trunk up to Rose's room, and she accepted his help gratefully. As he toted the small burden up the stairs, Emily studied him. He seemed a good and loyal servant—someone who cared for Philip during what he called those two years of torment. What tragedy had Philip suffered? Surely this man knew. The question that had puzzled and angered Emily since her discussion with Philip suddenly bubbled to her lips.

  "Giles, what happened to Lord Philip?" She peered into his ruddy face and sat down on Rose's cot.

  If her brazen question took him off guard, he was too well-bred to show it. He deliberately set the trunk down, dusted his hands on his trousers, and the
n turned towards Emily. "He didn't take your marriage to Mr. Barlow too well, ma'am."

  "Tell me," she urged, clenching her hands around the wooden footboard.

  "He tried to do away with himself." The words rushed out, as if a dam had broken free. "Tried to hang himself. Lady Emma, she found him, started screaming for help. I came and cut him free."

  The ground shifted underneath Emily, and she clutched the footboard to keep from falling down. Giles seemed to be standing very far away, all at once. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

  Giles continued. "He was in a bad way. His family didn't know what to do. So the duke decided to send him to Italy to study music. But he's been living in a fool's paradise. Wine, women, song. Even started taking opium. I've tried to stay with him, tried to help him, but he was too far gone when we were in Rome. I think that coming home will be good for him."

  All the energy and the anger drained away from Emily, leaving her shaken and weak. Her hands, still clutched around the mahogany footboard, trembled violently. She licked her lips, but when she spoke, her voice betrayed a tell-tale crack.

  "I had no idea."

  "The family kept it very quiet, ma'am. Are you all right? You look awful pale." He tugged at his cravat and then shoved his hands in his pockets.

  "I'll be fine. It's just—I didn't know." She looked up at him, tears pricking her eyelids. "Thank you for telling me."

  "Of course, ma'am." He turned to go, and then paused in the doorway. "You'll have to forgive my boldness, but I don't believe in hiding things like others do. All the women he had in Italy—they looked like you. I don't believe he's ever gotten over you."

  Something had happened when he had taken Rose into town. Emily was pale and distracted, her eyes suspiciously reddened at the supper table. True, this was her last night in her own home. Anyone would be downcast under those circumstances. But her trembling hands and ghostly pallor indicated something deeper.