He knew he was behaving shamelessly lately, yet he didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing so.
Phillip had had every intention of coming home at a respectable hour last night. But then one glass of champagne had led to another and another, and he was having such a wonderful time. And he had been winning the game of faro he’d been playing.
Then there had been Lady Katherine . . .
She had worn the most daring red velvet gown he’d ever seen. Even for a woman out of mourning for her dead husband, it was quite scandalous. But that was part of Katherine’s allure. The seductive combination of her daring, carefree, and wanton behavior and her lush figure, ample bosom, and silky blond hair seemed to light an unquenchable fire in him, and only she could douse the flames she had set.
He had tried to end things with her once, but he simply couldn’t. Katherine’s mercurial moods made it too difficult. She was constantly pushing him away and pulling him back. He had believed she didn’t want him any longer, and then, God help him, last night!
Last night she had clearly made her desire for him known. She’d whispered the wickedest words in his ear while he sat at the gaming table. Last night, he would have followed her into the pits of hell if she had asked him to. Instead, he just followed her into her bedroom . . .
“Phillip? Did you hear what I just said?”
Phillip shook himself from his delicious recollections of being in Katherine’s bed and tried to focus his bleary eyes on his father.
“Yes, sir, I heard you.”
“I am serious about what I said to you. I shall cut off all your funds if I see you in this condition again. You will not get even another shilling.”
Surely his father was jesting? He wouldn’t really cut him off financially, just for having a little illicit fun? But one look at his father’s expression told Phillip otherwise.
“You’re past the age of youthful hijinks, Phillip. We’ve let this behavior go on far too long, and there’s no excuse for it. Your mother and I have been quite concerned about you for the last six months or so. And you’re more than fortunate that your mother didn’t see you in your current state. She’d be heartbroken. We’ve talked about this before. And you promised us you would show some self-control. You should be settling down, taking more than just a passing interest in the estate which will one day belong to you, perhaps even taking a wife.” He sighed heavily, almost wearily. “But you need to do something more productive with your days than sleeping off the liquor from the night before.”
Staring mutely at his father, Phillip had nothing to say.
His head was pounding so hard he could barely see straight. Exhausted beyond reason, he closed his eyes for one blessed second. It felt heavenly. Without meaning to, he slouched against the doorframe.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Go to bed, Phillip,” his father muttered with undisguised disgust. “This conversation is over. For now.”
Feeling like the lowest of the low, Phillip pried his eyes open and saw his father taking long strides down the corridor away from him.
He then forced himself to move, opening the door to his bedroom at last. Without waiting for his valet, he shrugged out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed among the down pillows on his wide, four-poster bed.
The last thing Phillip recalled before falling into a dreamless sleep was thinking that, yes, he would change. He was quite sorry for how he had been behaving. He would make his parents proud of him again. Soon. He’d change soon enough.
He would do all that he was supposed to do to be the perfect son . . . when he wasn’t so damned tired.
3
You Can’t Judge a Book by Its Cover
Meredith Rose Remington couldn’t believe her good fortune.
She had only been in London a few days when she stumbled upon the most charming little bookshop just a few blocks from her aunt’s house in Mayfair. The bells above the door jingled as she walked into Hamilton’s Book Shoppe.
Immediately, she felt at home in the light and airy store, which was so attractively and invitingly arranged it almost begged for browsers to come inside the shop and look around. Books had always held a special place in Meredith’s heart, and she had practically haunted one crowded and dusty bookshop back in New York.
But this one . . . this one!
Hamilton’s Book Shoppe was entirely different. There were comfortable chairs arranged in cozy corners and lovely displays of books artfully placed on polished tables, adorned with fresh flowers in crystal vases. There was even an area with refreshments, filled with baskets of fragrant muffins and scones and pots of hot tea. Elegant signs on the shelves marked each section of books by category.
As she contentedly wandered about the shop, Meredith breathed in deep, relaxing completely for the first moment since she left New York. It had been a whirlwind of a time, packing up and leaving the only home she had ever known to come to London.
The saddest part had been being forced to leave behind the beloved writing desk that had belonged to her mother.
The day before they left, her aunt Delilah found Meredith sobbing over the elegant, cherrywood desk. She did not wish to part with it.
“It’s all right, my dear. You won’t have to give up your mother’s desk,” Delilah had comforted her. “We shall leave it next door with Mrs. Deane. She’s holding on to a few of my treasured pieces in her attic too. We can send for our things once we’re settled in London and have you safely married. But everything else is being sold with the house as is.”
Grateful that she wouldn’t have to part with her treasured desk forever, Meredith breathed a little lighter. Vowing to herself that she would send for the desk just as soon as she could, she continued packing the rest of her things with a little less heavy heart.
Then Aunt Delilah had surprised Meredith by stripping away all of their black mourning clothes.
“We will not arrive in London in black, looking like a pair of sad old crows,” she announced with a fierceness that took Meredith aback. “Don’t pack a single black dress.”
“But Aunt Delilah . . . isn’t it disrespectful?” Meredith ventured to ask.
She was in shock at her aunt’s flouting of such strict societal conventions. Her father hadn’t been gone a month yet. Proper mourning for him required her to wear black for the remainder of the year, at the very least.
“It is not disrespectful at all. I did the same thing after my first husband died. I came to America without my black mourning clothes. Joseph Remington wouldn’t have given me a second glance back then if I’d been dressed in black, moping about in widow’s weeds. And I won’t wear them this time either. I think your father would agree with me where you’re concerned and your mother, too, for that matter, would agree. You’re far too young and beautiful to be buried alive in such awful black clothing. Since we are starting a new life, where no one knew your father or my husband, we shall not remain in mourning any longer. We are both being fitted for an entire new wardrobe as soon as we get to
