To Seduce a Scoundrel (31 page)

They walked their horses a few minutes, and she came abreast of him. He looked over at her, but she couldn’t see his expression beneath the brim of his hat. However, when his horse picked up speed, she understood it was time to move faster.

Philippa spoke softly to Matilda and took her to a trot. The air was so pure and lovely, the breeze from the ocean so fresh and crisp. There was truly nothing better than riding on a glorious day. She laughed with pure joy as she passed Ambrose and took Matilda to a full run.

She raced along the cliffside. Below, the pale beach stretched along the ocean’s edge, an endless stretch of dark green-blue water intermittently dotted with white. A sound came from behind her, and she turned in the saddle.

Ambrose was bearing down on her. Now she could see his face perfectly. He was livid.

He brought his horse beside hers and snatched the reins from her grasp. Philippa gasped, as shock mingled with a bead of admiration. Though, now was not the time to reflect upon his superior horsemanship.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, as he brought his horse to a halt. Watching his muscles tighten and his eyes flash furiously, she was all too aware of the strength of his body and the fragility of his temper. Still, she was weary of him constantly getting angry with her.

She summoned her own ire and glared at him. “Riding a horse. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s how you ride a horse? At breakneck speed along a path you’ve never ridden before? And then you
turn around
?” The flesh around his mouth turned pale. He was afraid.

Philippa instantly gentled. She reached out and touched his hand. “I’m an excellent rider. You’ve no need to worry.”

He jerked back, unsettling Demetrius, who danced beneath them. Ambrose tossed her the reins. “Since you’re such an excellent rider, I’m sure you can find your way back to the stables.” He pulled his reins.

She tried to touch him again. “Wait, don’t go.”

He gave her a pained look, then turned and rode off, throwing dirt and grass in his wake. He cut across the field, away from the cliff.

That hadn’t gone at all as planned. She’d scared the wits out of him somehow. She wanted to follow him, but thought it might be better if she approached him later. After he had a chance to work through whatever her actions had stirred.

Resigned, Philippa clutched her reins and leaned over Matilda. “Let us continue. I’m not yet finished with our ride, and you seem to be enjoying yourself too.”

After walking a few minutes along the cliff path, Philippa led her mount away from the breathtaking view of the ocean and cut through a lush green field. With the wind rushing over her face and the scent of the sea behind her, she could almost forget the daunting task she’d undertaken in coming here. But then the tall spire of a church rose before her and she was instantly reminded of where her life was headed—to the altar with a man she’d no desire to wed.

Slowing Matilda, Philippa entered the town of Gerrans. At least she thought it was Gerrans. Mrs. Oldham had described Gerrans as being on the hill and Portscatho down on the bay—really not much farther away to warrant being a separate town, but it was.

She passed the medieval church on the right, which was surrounded by a large yard. Headstones marched neatly across the back. Was Ambrose’s family buried there? His brother?

Further on were cottages and shop fronts, a small inn with a tavern. Then an open area with a few market stalls.

Curious, she dismounted and tethered Matilda to a post. The first stall offered baked pastries and sweetmeats. The delicious scents wafted in the air. So far the wonderful smells of the Roseland Peninsula were unparalleled.

The next stall was operated by a fishmonger, a red-cheeked woman perhaps ten years older than Philippa. She and her customer, a petite and voluptuous woman with blond hair, grew quiet and turned as Philippa approached.

“Good morning,” Philippa greeted.

“Good morning,” the fishmonger said. She gave Philippa a quick, inquisitive perusal. “Ye’re new to town?”

Philippa nodded, unable to keep from glancing at the blond woman. She was quite striking with sparkling, cat-like eyes and full pink lips. Philippa returned her gaze to the fishmonger. “I’m visiting Beckwith.”

The fishmonger’s eyes widened briefly—so briefly, Philippa might’ve missed it. However, there was no mistaking the silent communication between her and the blonde.

The blonde offered a brilliant smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Miss Lettice Chandler.”

Miss? She had to be at least a few years older than Philippa. Why was a beauty like her unmarried?
Maybe for the same reasons as Philippa
.

Pleased to meet a—perhaps—like-minded woman, Philippa returned her smile. “I’m Lady Philippa Latham.”

Miss Chandler gestured to the woman in the stall. “Lady Philippa, this is Delores, our beloved fishmonger. You’ll not want for fresh seafood on the Roseland Peninsula.”

Philippa perused the array of fish and other creatures laid out behind Delores on a shaded table. “I can see not.”

“Are you visiting from London, Lady Philippa?” Miss Chandler asked. “I’m from London.”

“Indeed?” Two unmarried misses from London meeting all the way in Cornwall—what were the odds of such an occurrence? “Your family relocated here? That’s quite a distance.”

Delores made a small sound and bent her head. Miss Chandler shot her a glance, but Philippa couldn’t determine if they were exchanging any sort of meaningful communication.

“I came here to marry,” Miss Chandler said, “but unfortunately my betrothed passed on.” How sad, yet why wouldn’t she have returned to London? Philippa was curious, but possessed too much tact to ask. Lydia would ask, if she were here. Miss Chandler added, “It was long ago, and I’m betrothed again. Just recently in fact.”

Long ago? Perhaps Miss Chandler had merely fallen in love with the Roseland Peninsula. Philippa could well understand that happening. She was already halfway there. “Congratulations.”

Miss Chandler gestured toward the High Street. “Would you care to stroll?”

Why not? It wasn’t as if Ambrose was waiting for her at Beckwith. “Yes, thank you.”

They both nodded toward Delores before starting along the High Street.

“You’re Lord Sevrin’s guest?” Miss Chandler tipped her head and looked at her askance. “How is he?”

This wasn’t a simple conversational question, based on the subtle glint in Miss Chandler’s eye. A glint Philippa likely would’ve reflected in her own gaze if she’d asked that question. Suspicion inched up Philippa’s neck.

How to answer?
He was an angry reprobate who’d ruined and abandoned her
? Philippa wanted to answer with her own question—
how should he be
?—but wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Nervously, warily, she said, “He’s well. He’s training a fighter for a bout in Truro next week.”

“I’d heard that. I’d no idea he was a pugilist.” Clearly then, Miss Chandler had some knowledge of him.

Could she possibly be the woman Ambrose had ruined? Nigel’s fiancée? Though Philippa had come to Cornwall for answers, now faced with Ambrose’s past in the form of this beautiful woman, she couldn’t quash the anxiety rising within her breast. “Miss Chandler, how do you know Sevrin?”

Miss Chandler stopped and turned toward her. “You haven’t heard of me?”

There could be no question as to Miss Chandler’s identity now. Philippa tensed. The sun seemed to grow hotter, the air more still. “Not by name, but I gather you’re the woman he ruined.” Well, the
other
woman he’d ruined, but she needn’t share that information.

Miss Chandler reflected no surprise, no outrage. But then she’d lived with this blemish for years. Unlike Philippa, who still cringed whenever she thought of the day Lydia and her aunt had cut her on the street. “He’s told you all about me then?”

“No, he has not.” For that would involve a depth of trust they didn’t share. If they did, she would’ve told him about her impending marriage and what she was really hoping to gain from this visit. “I know you were… lovers.” The word nearly stuck in her throat. Heat raced up her neck and burned her cheeks. She glanced away. “And I know you were betrothed to his brother who apparently died by Ambrose’s hand.”

Miss Chandler’s eyes widened. She raised her hand to her open mouth. “That’s not what happened.”

Philippa’s heart raced. “Any of it?”

“We were lovers, yes, and I was betrothed to Nigel, but Ambrose didn’t kill him.”

“They say Ambrose and Nigel dueled. That Ambrose killed him.”

Miss Chandler shook her head. A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “Forgive me.” She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

Philippa wanted to dislike the woman who Ambrose had chosen above his own brother, a woman who’d cuckolded her fiancé. However, Philippa recalled her own treatment of Allred and felt a peculiar connection to Miss Chandler.

Philippa gestured forward. “Come, let’s walk.”

Miss Chandler walked beside her. “Are you and Ambrose, that is… I should think you would hate me, but perhaps you don’t possess a tendre for him.”

Other women might’ve hated her, but Philippa wanted to get to the heart of Ambrose’s pain and this woman could help her do that. “I’m here to see if Ambrose and I might suit.”

“You’re not betrothed?” Miss Chandler smiled ruefully and shook her head. “Of course not, Ambrose didn’t even propose, did he?”

She felt a stab of pity for Miss Chandler. He’d given Philippa far more consideration than his former lover. “Actually, he did. I refused him.”

Miss Chandler’s mouth dropped open. “Why?”

“I didn’t think he’d make a very good husband. And I’m still not sure. Why didn’t he propose to you?”

“He didn’t want to. But even if he did, I don’t think he would’ve married me. I’d only remind him of Nigel, of how he—how we—wronged him.”

Philippa noted Miss Chandler said nothing of love. “But he took care of you. I mean, you’re here, and you seem to be all right.” It was really none of Philippa’s business how Miss Chandler survived, but she was curious nonetheless.

“Yes, Ambrose purchased a cottage for me.” She glanced away. “My father didn’t want me to come back to London.”

“I’m so sorry.” Philippa wondered if her father would treat her the same if she refused to marry Sir Mortimer.

“He was so proud I was to marry a viscount. I hadn’t given him much hope, you see. Plenty of men were interested, but none of them offered for me. When Nigel patronized Father’s shop—he’s a tailor—and fell in love with me, Father was thrilled. He could hardly wait for us to go to Cornwall and marry, which was Nigel’s preference.”

“And when you didn’t marry, he didn’t want you to return home.”

Miss Chandler shook her head. “I haven’t corresponded with him in five years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I created my own mess. I don’t blame my father. He had high expectations for me, and I failed him.”

Just as Philippa’s father had expectations of her. She appreciated his concern for her to marry, not just for her family’s reputation, but also for her future. At least, she hoped such thoughts motivated his actions. Still, Philippa was reluctant to marry Sir Mortimer when she didn’t love him and doubted she ever would. She looked at Miss Chandler. “Did you love Nigel?”

“Regrettably, no. He deserved so much better than I gave him. I needed to marry, or at least I thought I did.” Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Pardon me, I’d rather not speak of it. Some things are better left buried, especially my past behavior.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.” Philippa recognized their conversation had become overly personal, but Miss Chandler had been quite forthcoming. However, Philippa didn’t wish to cause her pain.

“It’s all right. I know you’re only trying to learn about what happened. It must matter to you since you’re trying to determine his suitability.”

It did matter, but not at the cost of Miss Chandler’s comfort. “Don’t feel as if you need to share anything further with me.”

“No, I think it’s good you understand Ambrose’s behavior at that time. Though, of course, I’ve no idea how he is now.”

Philippa couldn’t keep herself from asking, “How was he then?”

Miss Chandler glanced up at the sky with a wistful expression. “Wickedly charming, overwhelmingly attractive, incorrigibly flirtatious.” That sounded very like the Ambrose Philippa had met at Lockwood House. “I was smitten the moment I met him.”

Philippa suffered a wave of jealousy. Miss Chandler had fallen for Ambrose, and they’d engaged in a torrid affair. But he’d painstakingly kept himself from Philippa. Suddenly her goal to make him fall in love with her seemed insurmountable.

Miss Chandler looked down. “So smitten that I wouldn’t have noticed the tension between he and Nigel, except that Mrs. Oldham was quite vocal about it. Nigel returned from London intent on assuming a more managerial role at Beckwith. Ambrose didn’t like that. He’d been raised to expect Beckwith and the title would be his. Nigel told me their father had made it clear the future of Beckwith depended upon Ambrose.”

Philippa imagined a young man who’d felt entitled to a life that didn’t really belong to him. A young man who’d been encouraged to succeed, driven to do so, but had then been told he was no longer necessary. “Ambrose felt betrayed.”

“Yes, he felt as if his birthright was being stripped from him. At the same time, Nigel was bitter about Ambrose’s strengths and the way everyone admired him. They’d been pitted—through no fault of their own—against each other.”

“How awful for both of them. May I ask how Nigel died?”

Miss Chandler’s eyes darkened, and her lips tightened. “He fell from Ambrose’s horse.”

Which was why Ambrose didn’t ride. No wonder he’d seemed so unbearably apprehensive in the stables. It also explained his reaction to her touching the horse his brother had fallen from and probably his reaction earlier when she’d turned in the saddle. “Orpheus?”

Miss Chandler nodded.

That poor, magnificent animal. He clearly missed his master. And given Ambrose’s horsemanship, he had to have missed riding all this time, yet he’d denied himself anyway. What else did he deny himself for the sake of guilt?