She proceeded to introduce him to her mother, to her daughters and their husbands, and to her guests.
He should, Julian thought, withdraw immediately. His continued presence here would seem an unpardonable intrusion. But he could not tear himself away just yet.
“Crabbe.” Mr. Dean got to his feet when he was introduced and bowed stiffly. “I believe we have a previous acquaintance.”
“An unhappy one, as I remember with deep regret, sir.” Julian returned his bow. “I was a wild young cub in those days.”
He bowed to Mrs. Dean and asked her how she did.
“Do you have an acquaintance with Miss Dean also, Mr. Crabbe?” Mrs. Hunt asked him, indicating Philippa by the window.
At last she moved. And at last he looked at her.
For the first time in two years.
She curtsied. He bowed. She raised her eyes to his.
He had held in his memory an image of a sweet, almost ethereally pretty blond, green-eyed slip of a girl with an eager, smiling countenance. Two years had made her only more beautiful, for she was clearly a woman now.
If it was possible for a heart to stop and then resume its beating, then his surely did just that within the second or two that elapsed after the introduction.
“Miss Dean,” he said.
“Mr. Crabbe.”
Ah, that well-remembered sweet, light voice. Memory had not done it full justice.
Why the devil had Darleigh gone away?
But he had, and she was free.
She was free.
“You must be wishing me at Jericho, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Hunt, tearing his eyes away from Philippa’s. “I have come at an awkward time and embarrassed everyone.”
He hoped the Deans would not hold it against him.
“No one need be embarrassed on our account,” Mrs. Dean said briskly. “You invited us here for a week or two, Mrs. Hunt, on account of my mama-in-law’s friendship with Mrs. Pearl, and we have enjoyed your kind hospitality more than I can say. We will return to London with renewed vigor to enjoy the rest of the Season.”
“It is kind of you to be so gracious,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I am quite sure there are many gentlemen who will be delighted to see Miss Dean back among them.”
All eyes turned toward Philippa, and she half stumbled as she turned to the window, reaching out to the windowsill to steady herself even as Julian took a hasty step toward her and her mother jumped to her feet.
“Come and sit down, my love,” she said, hurrying toward her daughter.
“No,” Philippa said, “thank you. I—I would rather take a turn outside and breathe in some fresh air if I may be excused. It has turned into such a lovely day.”
“I will come with you,” her mother said.
“I beg you will not.” Philippa looked distressed again. “I would rather—”
“If I may be permitted,” Julian said. “My presence here in this room is decidedly de trop. But it would be my pleasure to escort Miss Dean into the garden before the house if her maid will chaperon her.”
“That is both tactful and kind of you, Mr. Crabbe,” elderly Mrs. Pearl said even as Mr. Dean opened his mouth to speak. “You are a relative of the Redfords of Bath, are you not? And a nephew of the Duke of Stanbrook, did you say? His heir, I believe?”
“I have that honor, ma’am.” Julian inclined his head to her. “Mr. Redford is my mother’s brother.” He looked beyond her to Mr. Dean, who was frowning at him. “With your permission, sir, I will escort Miss Dean into the garden before I resume my journey.”
“This has all been too much for you, Miss Dean,” one of Darleigh’s sisters said. “Oh, just wait until I get my hands upon that brother of mine.”
“If you will be so good,” Mr. Dean said to Julian, still frowning. “My daughter’s maid will be sent for.”
And Julian crossed the distance to the window and offered his arm—and she slid her hand through it and for a moment the world stood still.
Her eyes met his, and it seemed to him that the world stopped for her too.
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, and he led her from the room while everyone watched with deep concern.
They walked along the wide corridor to the great hall without speaking. He led her through the double doors, down the flight of marble steps to the terrace, and across it to the parterres of the flower garden. A young woman, presumably her maid, came scurrying after them but remained on the terrace.
He drew air into his lungs and allowed himself to feel elation. She was free.
“Julian,” she said softly.
“Philippa.” He looked down at her and saw that color had taken the place of paleness in her cheeks. And her eyes were bright. “My love.”
“They thought it was because Viscount Darleigh has run off rather than marry me,” she said, “when in reality it was because the butler came into the room and Mrs. Hunt took your card from his tray and said your name. And then you came.”
“Did you think I would not?” he asked her.
She turned her face up to his.
“Just yesterday,” she said, “I was out here with him. He is charming and good-natured and very likable, and I played horrid games with him. I am ashamed of myself.”
“Games?”
“I did what I could see most annoys him when his family does it,” she told him, “though he is always cheerful and well mannered and patient with them. I spoke to him as though he were an invalid, I agreed with everything he said, and I offered him help even when he did not need it and resented it. I drove him away.”