The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell (Scandalous House of Calydon 2)

“Ach, to be out in this weather, milord.”

“Prepare warm milk and food. Send it up to my room. A decanter of brandy, as well.”

The housekeeper did not falter at his growled command as she handed him a towel and threw a blanket over Phillipa’s trembling body.

“Thank you,” she said, though it did not ward off the chill.

Anthony strode through the foyer, and she hurried after him. He made a sharp right into an open doorway. A gas lamp glowed in the room, illuminating a sizeable library. She felt numb as he sat behind a desk and scrawled a note with furious haste, then stamped his seal.

“See that this is delivered to Lady Radcliffe tonight,” he ordered, and she spun to see a butler she had not realized followed them in.

“Very good, milord.” The man cleared his throat. “My lord, about that other letter you bid me deliver…”

Anthony looked blank for a moment, then frowned. “Yes? What about it?”

“You asked me to give it to”—he glanced at Phillipa then back to Anthony—“the person in question myself.”

“Yes, yes, and did you?”

“No, my lord. The…family has been away visiting relatives, and I—”

Anthony slashed a hand in the air dismissively. “Just see it’s done. Meanwhile, get moving with the note to Lady Radcliffe. That is far more urgent.”

“Very good, my lord.” The butler’s gaze scanned over Phillipa with curiosity before he took the missive, bowed, and exited the library.

Phillipa knew the Viscountess Lady Radcliffe was Anthony’s mother, but why had he sent a note to her? He was in such a temper she didn’t dare ask. Nor about the other mysterious letter—though it hadn’t seemed overly important to him.

“Come with me,” he said, and Phillipa’s heart beat faster as her trepidation returned and her situation closed in on her. She should not stay overnight at his house. The consequences would be untenable.

Questions and dread swirled in her mind as she followed him down the hallway. Thunder rumbled, and lightning speared through the rooms they walked, mocking her. She struggled to keep up with his rapid strides up the elegant staircase. He led her down a long hall, finally stopping in front of a large oak panel door. He wrenched it open, making it crash against the wall.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked.

He darted a disbelieving look at her, tugged off his dripping jacket, and snapped, “Undress.”

She stepped back warily.

His jaw clenched. “You are wet and shaking. You need to get warm and dry. I do not want you catching influenza.”

Lightning lit up the room again, and the thunder rattled the windowpane. She looked to where he pointed, and saw it was a bath chamber. It did look awfully inviting. And she was, in truth, shivering with cold.

A maid bustled in and lit a gas flame under a copper water tank. The chamber held a large tub with two spigots pouring into it, one with heated water from the tank and the other for cold. In the tub, she sprinkled salts with the most delicious scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and soon hot water was filling it.

She relented, and another maid helped Phillipa remove her wet garments. “I will see they are washed and ironed, milady,” she said as she finished unlacing her corset.

Phillipa did not have the energy to correct her use of a title. She wearily sank into the soothing heat of the fragrant bath, easing the tension in her body. She yearned to sink into its comforting embrace and stay there forever.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d not eaten since her afternoon tea with Elisabeth. Hunger and uncertainty had Phillipa hurrying her bath. She dried off and pulled on a gown the maid had left for her. It was simple and of an old fashion, but clean and dry. A wobbly chuckle escaped her lips at the size of the voluminous garment. It swallowed her slender frame and trailed around her on the floor. With a sigh, she gripped the skirts to keep from tripping, and went into the bedchamber.

She froze. “Anthony.”

He was still dressed, only his coat and boots had been removed. Was he not cold?

The fire from the hearth blazed, providing much-needed warmth. When he didn’t respond, she flicked her gaze around her.

The bedroom was stunningly elegant, with masculine decor. A large canopied bed graced the center of the space, and in the far left corner stood a rather impressive oak armoire. Thick, jade-green curtains were drawn back with golden cords. The drapes and the Oriental carpets were bold colors of green, red, and silver. The blandest colors were the soft peach curtains that surrounded the canopied bed.

Clearly not a guest chamber.

Her cheeks burned. Now she understood the furtive glances the maids had given her. She really should not stay in this house.

She met his gaze as she stepped deeper into the room, faltering when his voice snapped at her, sharp as a whip.

“What is it between you and Orwell?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she caught a towel he threw at her. “I—”

“Dry your hair,” he ordered roughly. “Orwell?”

“Nothing. There is nothing between us.” She clutched the lapels of the dressing gown tighter, ignoring her hair.

His eyes silted and the anger flared anew. “Phillipa—”

“I can see you are angry, though I do not understand why. I want to thank you for saving me from—” She stumbled backward as he surged to his feet and in two strides stood before her.

“You do not know why I am angry?” His voice was dangerously low, and he was frightening her.

Her eyes skidded to the bed and then back to his. “No.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Surely, you must comprehend the situation you placed yourself in,” he said more calmly.

“Me?” She gaped at him and her own anger flared. “I was abducted and attacked! How is that my fault?”

“I do not blame you, Phillipa, for Orwell’s atrocious conduct. However, all this could have been prevented if only you had confided in me when I asked,” he said with visible frustration. “What do you think he planned to do to you?”

She trembled at the memory of her fear and revulsion. The pain of Orwell’s fondling pummeled into her anew and a tear slipped down her cheek.

“So help me God, if you cry I will tan your backside,” Anthony whispered.

Her eyes widened.

“He

would have raped you. Beaten you bloody when you resisted. Broken you in unimaginable ways. And no one would ever have known, because Orwell would have likely ended your life afterward,” he said, his teeth grinding. He was clearly more than upset. “I gave you every opportunity to seek my aid, but you chose to withhold the truth. So now we must deal with the consequences together. We will marry, whether or not you wish it.”

She recoiled. “Marry?”

He gave her an incredulous glare. “What did you think would happen? I would rescue you, and everything would simply go back to the way they were yesterday? It will be a miracle if this debacle has escaped society’s notice!”

“Please say no more about Orwell!” she cried, and stuffed a fist in her mouth to contain her sobs.

“We will wait out the storm. I will obtain a special license, and my mother will arrive in the morning. I asked her to send a note to your family so they won’t worry.”

“Thank you; I am eased considerably knowing they won’t be anxious over me, but I will not marry,” she insisted.

His eyes gleamed dangerously. “I do not think you fully understand the situation.” The lethal softness of his voice slapped her more than his snarls.

“I understand perfectly,” she declared, fighting to stay calm. “A cad tried to kidnap and defile me, and instead of society condemning him, judgment will be levied on me, and I will be forced to marry, just so society does not cut me from its ranks.”

They glared at each other in a bristling silence.

“I should leave,” she said.

“You shall do no such thing,” he stated firmly. “The weather is fierce, and enough damage has been done for one day.”

Her eyes swam. “You are being cruel.”

“Phillipa…”

“Do not.” She jerked from the hands that reached for her, her tears running unchecked. “I have never been so afraid in all my life. I am eternally grateful that you rescued me. I do not want to fight with you. I do not want you railing at me. I do not want to consider the consequences of my naïveté. Oh, Anthony, I only want to be held in your arms, with your touch wiping away his.”