“I am sorry about Mr. Mendelhall,” she said. “I know you and Mama approved of him and were hoping I would accept him.”
Two days later, her father arrived home late in the morning with the announcement that Julian had found him at White’s Club and asked if he might call upon him during the afternoon.
Philippa sat in the drawing room, stitching at her embroidery. Embroidering was one of her favorite activities, but she had scarcely touched it since coming to London. She had been too busy. And it was hard now to think her way back into the design, which she was creating for herself rather than working from a pattern book. Her thoughts were otherwise occupied.
Her mother sat across from her, similarly employed.
He had arrived. Julian, that was. Her mama had been looking through the window—she herself had studiously avoided doing so—and had seen him come. He had been downstairs with her father for what seemed an endless age.
What if he could not convince Papa that he would make her a good husband? What if he had been sent away already and Papa had neglected to come to tell them so?
The door opened even as the horrid thought came to her.
“Well, Philippa,” her father said after coming inside the room and closing the door behind him. “Crabbe is in the book room waiting to speak to you. I have given my leave for him to pay you his addresses, though I assured him that the final decision is yours and yours alone to make. You know that bringing you here for the Season has been an expensive business and one I could not repeat next year—not with two other girls to bring out within the next few years. Nevertheless, your happiness is of the first importance to me, and to your mama. If this young man does not suit you, then you must tell him so without the fear—”
“Oh, good gracious, Geoffrey,” Philippa’s mother said impatiently. “Can you not tell that Philippa is head over ears in love with the man?”
He raised his eyebrows, set his hands behind him, and rocked on his heels.
“Well, I can tell,” he said. “But I—”
“Thank you, Papa.” Philippa had threaded her needle through her cloth and set it aside and got to her feet. She crossed the room to him and hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I do love him, you know, and always have. But I love you too, and I was sorry to disappoint you and Mama two years ago. I hope I will never do so again.”
And she left the room and ran lightly down the stairs, forgetting about the dignity that should have taken her down far more slowly—as if she did not care that all her future happiness was waiting on the other side of the book room door.
The butler opened it and she stepped inside.
Julian was standing over by the window, formally and elegantly dressed in tight pantaloons and shining Hessian boots and with a form-fitting coat of green superfine over crisp white linen and neckcloth. He looked more handsome than ever and … nervous?
She smiled at him and stopped herself from rushing across the room toward him. She sank her teeth into her lower lip.
“Philippa,” he said.
She blinked away tears.
“My love,” he said, “will you marry me?”
If she had pictured bended knee and a poetic speech and a few dozen red roses, the picture vanished beyond a trace.
“Yes,” she said.
And if she had imagined the pretty speech she would deliver after he had asked, it was gone from her mind never to be recalled.
He took one step toward her and then another, and she released her lower lip and moved toward him.
They met with a rush in the middle of the room, both of them laughing, and he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her off her feet, and spun her around in two complete circles before setting her down.
But he did not release his hold on her waist. She set her hands on his shoulders and gazed into his eyes.
She had never been this close to him before, even when they had waltzed. His arms had never been about her like this, holding her to him as if he would never let go. She had never felt the hardness, the maleness of his body against her own. She had never felt his breath warm on her face.
He had never kissed her. His mouth hovered now a tantalizing inch from her own.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Her lips parted, and she gazed back into his eyes—oh, so close to her own.
“I love you too.”
How lame words could be. Especially such words. But it did not matter. It was not words they were saying to each other. It was all that the words meant.
He loved her, and she loved him.
He closed the inch of space, and his lips touched hers.
Oh, no, words were quite, quite unnecessary. Except that they echoed in the mind, the words everyone dreamed of hearing from that special someone and dreamed of saying in return.
I love you.
Her arms twined about his neck, his wrapped more tightly about her waist, and they kissed with all the passion of young love.
Words no longer existed.