She felt guilty about that. Equally, she felt that he would not have gone simply because she agreed with everything he said.
When they were not talking in the carriage, she dreamed.
Julian had come to Middlebury Park. It had not even occurred to her that he might, but then Lord Darleigh’s butler had come to announce a visitor, and Mrs. Hunt, lifting the visiting card from his silver tray, had murmured his name.
“The Honorable Mr. Julian Crabbe,” she had said. “And he has word of my son? Show him in.”
And Philippa had known she was about to see him again—suddenly, with no warning at all.
Ah, memory was a poor preserver of reality. Philippa had had vivid memories of Julian from those weeks in Bath, memories of a tall young man of pleasing, athletic build with a handsome, good-humored face. And a smile to make her breath catch in her throat and dark eyes that could turn her knees weak. And thick, dark, shining hair that made her fingers itch to run through it.
But the present reality was so much more … real. And so much more.
A man, a stranger, had stridden into the morning room at Middlebury Park following the butler’s announcement. A confident gentleman with a commanding presence and a serious, intelligent face beneath dark, neatly styled hair. A man to be reckoned with. A man who looked virile and elegant even in riding breeches and top boots with a coat of expensive cut and a simply tied neckcloth.
And yet not a stranger. For he was Julian, as he had become in two years, and her heart would have known him anywhere. Her whole body had yearned toward him with an awareness she had felt for no other man.
He had made a good impression. He was the nephew and heir of the Duke of Stanbrook, who had taken in Lord Darleigh when he was carried back from the Peninsula both deaf and blind. And he had come, as was courteous and proper, to pay his respects—and had then behaved with consummate tact, withdrawing his person as soon as he decently could and escorting Philippa out into the garden for a few minutes so that she could recover from her near swoon.
Even Philippa’s parents had been inclined to look kindly upon him and had commented upon how he had changed for the better since their last encounter with him.
He was not mentioned during the journey back to London.
But surely when they met him there again …
Oh, surely.
He did not come for five whole days. Of course, he would have felt obliged to stay away for a short while in order to make his story about visiting a friend in Gloucestershire believable.
In the meanwhile, the busy round of social activities resumed. Philippa went out every evening, including a first visit to Almack’s, her mother having finally procured the coveted vouchers. She danced every set there except the waltz, for which she needed permission from one of the patronesses. She had three regular partners wherever she went, each of them both personable and eligible, and five or six other gentlemen had solicited her hand for a dance more than once or stopped to exchange pleasantries if they saw her on Bond Street or Oxford Street or strolling in Hyde Park.
They could put the unfortunate incident of their visit to Middlebury Park out of their minds, her mama remarked on the fifth morning after their return while they were at breakfast. Miss Ginty had invited Philippa to a picnic at Richmond during the afternoon and there was to be a party of young people with them as well as Mrs. Ginty, of course, to act as chaperon. Mr. Mendelhall was to be one of their number. He had singled out Philippa for particular attention ever since her come-out, and everyone knew that he was in possession of a substantial fortune.
“I believe we may be confident of an offer from him before too many weeks have passed,” she said, smiling at her daughter and looking at her husband.
Mr. Mendelhall was good-looking in a boyish sort of way, and he had agreeable manners and easy conversation. Philippa enjoyed his company and that of her other new friends. Indeed, she told herself at the end of a very pleasant afternoon, she was one of the most fortunate of mortals. If she tried to list all her blessings, she would grow weary long before reaching the end of the list.
Except that Julian had not come.
And five days seemed like forever.
How much longer would he stay away?
Mrs. Ginty’s coachman set down the steps of the barouche when she arrived home, and she turned on the pavement to offer her thanks and say her farewells. There was a flurry of merry good-byes as the butler opened the door of the house and held it for her, and the barouche went on its way.
Philippa ran up the steps and into the house—and almost collided with someone coming the other way.
He caught her upper arms in his hands to steady her and took one step back from her.
And suddenly the determinedly cheerful smile she had brought into the house with her so that her mama and papa would smile in return and believe her happy—suddenly her smile glowed with all the sunshine in the world.
“Julian!” she cried.
“Miss Dean.” He dropped his hands from her arms and made her a bow, and she was reminded of the presence of the butler and perhaps other persons not far off.
“Mr. Crabbe,” she said.
She could not tear her gaze from his face. His skin had a dark tone to it, as though it was sun-bronzed. She had forgotten that about him. It was a fact that made him more than just handsome.
“I came to pay my respects to Mrs. Dean,” he told her, “and to assure myself that you had returned safely from Gloucestershire. I was fortunate enough to find Mr. Dean at home too.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointment suddenly taking the place of the first euphoria of seeing that he had come at last. She had missed his visit. “I have been to Richmond for a picnic.”