“Uncle, I had good reason for being here,” Philippa said shakily.
“Apart from brazen stupidity, I can’t think what,” her uncle retorted.
In silent pleading, Philippa’s eyes fastened on Amelia. Erskine wasn’t remotely surprised when Amelia failed to come to the rescue. Philippa, of course, was too honorable to tell tales. Odd how well he knew her, but he believed to his bones that she wouldn’t betray her sister.
Although, to give Amelia the little credit she deserved, what was the point of confessing to the letter? Her lapse would only compound the scandal of her sister caught in a rake’s bedroom.
Sir Theodore looked ready to explode. “I’m the closest thing that the brainless chit has to a father. I can’t let this insult go unchallenged.”
God above, could this get any worse? With every moment, Erskine found less room for maneuver. He had no intention of shooting Sir Theodore. The man was at least thirty years his senior. And if Erskine was any judge of men, the plump baronet had devoted most of those thirty years to drinking. The fellow couldn’t hit a bull elephant at five paces.
With a horror that this time looked genuine, Mrs. Sanders abruptly ceased bawling and stared aghast at her brother. “Theodore, don’t be a fool. In a duel, Erskine will make mincemeat of you.”
The wrong thing to say. Tact apparently didn’t run in Philippa’s family. Tact or good sense. Which was a sodding pity, considering Erskine’s likely future.
Sir Theodore puffed up. “This is all your fault. You’ve let these girls run wild, Barbara. Although I always thought Philippa had a scrap of sense, unlike that twit Amelia.”
“Uncle!” Amelia spluttered. “At least nobody’s ever found me in a man’s room after midnight.”
Only for want of opportunity, Erskine felt like saying, remembering her letter. The problem was that hardened, selfish little flirts like Amelia kept an eye to their own advantage and rarely faced the consequences of their behavior. It was innocents like Philippa who were always caught out.
This had gone far enough. He drew himself up to his full height and shot a speaking glance at Mills. “We’ve provided enough Yuletide entertainment for your guests, Sir Theodore.”
Erskine raised supercilious eyebrows at the louts in the doorway. He’d perfected the look years ago to squash the pretensions of social-climbing mushrooms. As usual, it succeeded. The boisterous young bucks shuffled back, muttering.
At a nod from Erskine, Mills closed the door and stood at the entrance like a tall, thin gatekeeper.
That left Philippa, Amelia, Mrs. Sanders and Sir Theodore. A more manageable group, although Erskine wasn’t deceived about his cronies’ discretion. The events of this Christmas Eve would be general gossip in London before the day was out.
“Much better,” he said calmly. There had been quite enough theatricals. “Sir Theodore, may I get you a brandy?”
The older man nodded, then frowned as though disappointed that the high drama descended into something resembling a family meeting. Even Mrs. Sanders seemed less inclined to histrionics, although her eyes retained their beady, acquisitive light.
“Just what do you intend to do about my little girl?” she asked, her show of concern for Philippa too late to convince. “She’s ruined.”
Mills shifted from the door—Erskine’s dismissal had succeeded, the threat of invasion faded. The valet moved to the sideboard and poured generous brandies for Sir Theodore and his master. Then after a considering glance at Mrs. Sanders, one for that lady.
Erskine stepped next to Philippa and once more took her small, cold hand in his. His deliberately ostentatious gesture wouldn’t be lost on her mother and uncle. Or her sister.
Ignoring Philippa’s frantic attempts to pull away, he straightened and spoke words that yesterday hadn’t been on hi
s horizon. “Sir Theodore, would you honor me with your niece’s hand in marriage?”
Chapter 5
FOR PHILIPPA, THE next four days became a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. She felt like a ghost in her uncle’s house. Or like a prisoner in a dungeon. Again and again, she protested that under no circumstances would she marry Lord Erskine, yet still arrangements proceeded for the hurried wedding.
Why should her mother change a lifetime’s habit and listen to her now? The triumph of capturing the elusive Scottish earl for her daughter made her mother deafer than usual to common sense.
Not that her triumph was untrammeled joy. Even as she prodded at Philippa to show some enthusiasm for this ill-judged match, she bewailed the fact that Lord Erskine had chosen the wrong daughter. How it irked her that the beautiful older sister would become a mere Mrs., while plain little Philippa joined the ranks of the aristocracy.
Amelia’s reaction to the engagement wasn’t a surprise either, which made it no more pleasant to endure. Like their mother, she was convinced that Philippa had engineered this awful mess. In Amelia’s mind, Lord Erskine had been ready to steal her away from her betrothed. Only Philippa’s spite had stymied that glorious outcome.
As a result, Amelia retreated into a seething silence that Philippa correctly diagnosed as a first-class sulk. Even Mr. Fox noticed that his chosen bride had been elated on Christmas Eve and noticeably downcast and snappish since—and nobody would describe him as the most perceptive of men.
The only blessing in the whole miserable situation was that, thanks to the almighty scandal, all guests not directly linked to the family had departed the house by Christmas night. Unfortunately that left Philippa with her betrothed, her nasty cousin Caroline, her sullen sister, a mother who ignored her every plea, and an aunt and uncle never much interested in her, who now treated her like she carried a contagious disease. Mr. Fox was kind, but a stranger, and he’d taken to retreating into the smoking room to avoid his grumpy fiancée.
Philippa tried to warn her sister about her behavior toward Mr. Fox and got no thanks for her trouble. After that, she decided to let Amelia stew. Philippa had problems of her own.