A Marriage of Notoriety. Diane Gaston
a generous allowance, but only if he moved to the Continent. Your brothers travelled with him to make certain he reaches his destination and keeps his word. He is to remain there. He will not come back.’
‘He is gone?’ She turned pale, making her red scar more vivid. ‘I had no notion of any of this.’
He feared she would faint and he rose from his chair to sit beside her on the sofa, wrapping an arm around her. ‘I know this is a shock.’
He remembered how he’d held her as a little girl, when she cried about being ugly. He’d never thought her ugly. Certainly not now, although to see her face, half-beautiful, half-damaged, still made something inside him twist painfully.
She recovered quickly and moved from his grasp. ‘How could I have been so unaware? How could I have not had some inkling?’
‘It is not your fault, Phillipa. I am certain they meant to protect you,’ he said.
‘I do not need their protection!’ she snapped. She looked at him as if he were the object of her anger. ‘I do not need pity.’
He admired her effort to remain strong.
‘I must leave.’ She snatched up her gloves and stood.
He rose as well. ‘I will walk you home.’
Her eyes shot daggers. ‘I am fully capable of walking a few streets by myself.’
He did not know how to assist her. ‘I meant only—’
She released a breath and spoke in an apologetic tone. ‘Forgive me, Xavier. It is unfair of me to rail at you when you have done me the honour of exposing my family to me.’ She pulled on her gloves. ‘But truly there is no need to walk me home. I am no green girl in need of a chaperon.’
‘If that is your wish.’ He opened the door for her and walked with her down the stairs.
She stopped on the first-floor landing and pointed to a doorway with a half-closed door. ‘Is this the game room?’
‘It is.’ He opened the door the whole way. ‘You can see the card tables and the tables for faro, hazard and rouge et noir.’
She peeked in, but did not comment.
As they continued down the stairs, she asked, ‘Why are you here in a gaming house, Xavier?’
He shrugged. ‘I assist Rhys. As a friend.’
He was useful to Rhys. Because of his looks, men dismissed him and women were distracted. Consequently, he saw more than either sex imagined and, for that, Rhys paid him a share of his profits.
‘Do you have the gambling habit, then?’ she asked.
Like her father? ‘Not a habit,’ he responded, although once it had been important to prove himself at the card table. ‘These days I play less and watch more.’
They reached the hall and Xavier walked her to the door. When he turned the latch and opened it for her, she pulled down the netting on her hat, covering her face.
The action made him sad for her.
He opened his mouth to repeat the offer to escort her.
She lifted a hand. ‘I prefer to be alone, Xavier. Please respect that.’
He nodded.
‘Good day,’ she said in a formal voice and stepped away.
Xavier ducked inside and grabbed his hat. He waited until he surmised she would have reached the corner of the street, then stepped outside and followed her, keeping her in sight, just in case she should require assistance of any kind. He followed her all the way to her street and watched until she safely entered her house.
It was a familiar habit, looking out for her, one he’d practised over and over that long-ago summer in Brighton, when his duty towards her first began.
Chapter Two
Phillipa walked briskly back to her family’s town house, emotions in disharmony. Her mind whirled. Rhysdale’s gaming house. Her father’s shameful behaviour.
Xavier.
She had not expected to see Xavier and her face burned with embarrassment that it had been he who exposed her family’s troubles to her.
Her family’s shame. Did there ever exist such a father as hers? What must Xavier think of him? Of them?
Of her?
She hurried through the streets.
How could she have been so insensible? Her family had been at the brink of ruin and she’d not had an inkling. She should have guessed something was awry. She should have realised how out of character it was for her father to hold a ball for anyone, least of all a natural son.
Seeing Xavier there distracted her.
No. It was unfair to place the blame on Xavier. Or even on her family.
She was to blame. She’d deliberately isolated herself, immersing herself in her music so as not to think about being in London, not to think of that first Season, that first dance with Xavier, nor of dancing with him again at the ball.
Instead she’d poured everything into her new composition. With the music, she’d tried to recreate her youthful feelings of joy and the despairing emotions of reality. She’d transitioned the tune to something bittersweet—how it had felt to dance with him once again.
Her mind had been filled with him and she’d not spared a thought for her family. In fact, she’d resented whenever her mother insisted she receive morning calls, including those of Lady Gale and her stepdaughter. It surprised her that she’d paid enough attention to learn that Ned intended to marry the artless Adele Gale. The girl reminded Phillipa of her school friends and that first Season when they’d been innocent and starry-eyed.
And hopeful.
Phillipa had paid no attention at all to her father, but, then, he paid no attention to her. She long ago learned not to care about what her father thought or did or said, but how dared he be so selfish as to gamble away the family money? She would not miss him. It was a relief to no longer endure his unpleasantness.
Phillipa entered the house and climbed the stairs to her music room. She pulled off her hat and gloves and sat at the pianoforte. Her fingers pressed the ivory keys, searching for expression of the feelings resonating inside of her. She created a discordant sound, a chaos, unpleasant to her ears. She rose again and walked to the window, staring out at the small garden behind the town house. A yellow tabby cat walked the length of the wall, sure-footed, unafraid, surveying the domain below.
Her inharmonious musical notes re-echoed in her ears. Unlike the cat, she was not sure-footed. She was afraid.
For years she’d been fooling herself, saying she was embracing life by her study of music. Playing the pianoforte, composing melodies, gave her some purpose and activity. Although she yearned to perform her music or see it published for others to perform, what hope could she have to accomplish that? No lady wanted a disfigured pianiste in her musicale. And no music publisher would consider an earl’s daughter to be a serious composer.
There was an even more brutal truth to jar her. She was hiding behind her music. So thoroughly that she had missed the drama at play on her family’s stage. All kinds of life occurred outside the walls of her music room and she’d been ignoring it all. She needed to rejoin life.
Phillipa spun away from the window. She rushed from the room, startling one of the maids passing through the hallway. What was the girl’s name? When had Phillipa begun to be blind to the very people around her?
‘Pardon, miss.’ The girl struggled to curtsy, even though her hands were laden with bed linens.
‘No pardon is necessary,’ Phillipa responded. ‘I surprised you.’ She started to walk past, but turned. ‘Forgive me, I do not know your name.’