Rake in the Regency Ballroom. Bronwyn Scott
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Danforth came out of hiding. ‘That’s quite a room you’ve got back there,’ he chortled. ‘Right out of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s time.’
‘That went well, I think,’ Lucien said, uninterested in Danforth’s thoughts on the priesthole.
‘Yes, indeed. Although, she could have said “yes”,’ Danforth was quick to point out.
‘At least she didn’t say no. St Just has turned her head, but how far is hard to say. We’re not the only ones making inquiries in London. She’s thought about it. My valet found a letter in her room. Still, her doubts about St Just are enough for us to exploit if we must.’
‘We must. It is a foregone conclusion,’ Danforth corrected. ‘She must marry you or sell you all her mining rights and ancillary companies. You have to control the Cambourne interests. I don’t see her selling.’ Danforth’s eyes narrowed in thought.
‘We could stage another accident, perhaps several of them, that would convince her to sell.’ He began to plot.
‘No.’ Lucien cut him off sharply. ‘Properties with accidents don’t inspire investors to cough up their pounds. It would do us more harm than good in the long run. Besides, she’s stubborn and sabotage would take too long. We need those properties by late summer.’
‘Then it looks as if the Duchess should reconcile herself to being a June bride,’ Danforth said in a tone that suggested Philippa Lytton would find herself at the altar, whether she wished it or not.
Lucien raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the end of my bachelor days.’
Chapter Nine
She was glad to be home! Philippa put down her pen and looked up from her ledgers, taking a moment to stretch her back and survey the glorious view spread before her through the long windows of the library. Not even the fine mist that blurred the landscape could dim her appreciation. The vast lawns spread before her, green even in winter. The pond floated on the horizon, filled with ducks. In good weather, she would have been tempted to throw open the windows in order to hear their squawking.
In all, she’d been gone two months; first up to London for the Little Season and the Michaelmas session of Parliament, wanting to support some early discussions on mining reform; then to Richmond for Christmas and Lucien’s for New Year. Now she was home for three months before she’d need to return to London after Easter.
Home. Her kingdom where she reigned supreme. She did the ledgers, she oversaw the transactions of daily business, she visited the tenants, the fields, the home farm, the mining interests. Here, she was not ruled by any man.
Philippa knew how rare her situation was. It had not come easily, but at the price of sacrificing a youthful dream. She’d wanted to marry for love, the passionate romantic kind of love found in fairy tales and Minerva Press novels. Instead, she’d married the man of her family’s choice and found a quiet companionship with him.
Perhaps that was better. Her experience with Valerian had been quite illuminating about the quality and strength of romantic love. It had its limitations. But companionship had its limitations, too. Cambourne had been kind and generous with a giving that extended far beyond his purse. He’d educated her in business and finance, delighting in her interest in his estates.
In the beginning she’d become interested to keep her mind off Valerian’s desertion. She had to do something to fill her life. Later, she’d seen the genuine need to take an active part in the life of Cambourne’s holdings. She’d built the school for miners’ children and it had become one of her favourite projects.
Then Cambourne had died so suddenly, firing her involvement in legislation concerning mine safety. Oh, yes, there was no disputing that her life was full these days. She’d remade herself admirably as the young Duchess of Cambourne and then again a few short years later as the Dowager Duchess. But re-fashioning oneself was hard work and she had no desire to do it again.
Philippa fingered the sapphire at her neck. She’d worn Lucien’s gift today out of a need to honour her word. There was no one to see her, no one to hold her to her commitment. But she knew. She’d told Lucien she’d consider the offer. Wearing the pendant was a reminder of what she’d promised. She owed at least some consideration of his offer. Although, if he could read her thoughts, he’d probably wish she hadn’t felt so obliged. Marriage to Lucien would definitely require some re-fashioning.
Most likely, she could get her solicitors to design a betrothal contract that would protect her property, but it would be difficult. Not even a dowager’s possessions were safe from a new husband’s rights. She would have to give him something. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him precisely. It was more the issue of having to give up the control she was so used to having.
Control would be given up in other areas, too. Lucien would expect her to stay with him wherever he went. The year would be divided up between Truro, London, his father’s estate, and then Cambourne. There wouldn’t be time to live as she liked. Her interests would give way to his and when his father eventually died, Lucien’s responsibilities would increase. Becoming the future viscountess to Lucien Canton would require quite a lot of re-fashioning, leaving very little room to be the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne—obliterating it, in fact.
And for what?
Security? She didn’t need security. She had it aplenty with her own holdings.
Finances? She was far wealthier now than the Pendennys family had been during her growing-up years. Marriage to Lucien didn’t enhance her wealth in any meaningful way.
Companionship? Certainly they rubbed along well together, but that was already something she enjoyed with him, not something she needed marriage to gain.
Love? Definitely not. In spite of his protestations the night before she left, Philippa knew without question that Lucien didn’t love her any more than she loved him. She appreciated him, but one didn’t marry for appreciation. She wasn’t sure Lucien was capable of a great love, the kind of love you married for, because you knew with a pure certainty that this was the one person in the entire world whom you could find fulfilment with.
There were none of the usual reasons that women typically married for. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would want to marry Lucien and give up all she had. It all provoked the question—why Lucien had asked in the first place? Surely he knew?
But Lucien needed the one thing she didn’t. He needed an heir and he was approaching thirty-five in a couple of years, the magical age when heirs finally decided it was time to start their nurseries and look to their futures. Perhaps he’d looked about for a wife and decided she would be better suited for him than one of the débutantes peopling London’s marriage mart.
That was a conclusion she could understand. Lucien would not tolerate an insipid wife. He would want someone with intelligence and social skills. It was the only conclusion that made sense. Like her, Lucien didn’t need additional wealth. Being a man and his father’s heir gave him inherent security. He didn’t need to marry for companionship.
Philippa sighed and took off the necklace, carefully laying it in a desk drawer for the time being. She’d take it upstairs later. Lucien would be disappointed in her answer and it could very well scotch their friendship. He would want to know why. He would try to resolve her misgivings with promises he’d mean to keep, but that social pressure wouldn’t allow him to—like the right to live her own life. He would say, laying out his assets like a balance sheet, ‘Why not me? Do you think someone better will come along?’
In fact, she did. At least she hoped. She’d married once for the sake of her family. If she married a second time, it would be for her. For someone who considered herself to be fairly conversant in the realities of the world, she was hard pressed to let go of her romantic notions.
It didn’t mean she had someone specific in mind and it absolutely didn’t mean she was holding out to see if Valerian could be brought to heel. He’d already proved he couldn’t be. But his kisses were