Her unsuitable match, p.1
Her Unsuitable Match, page 1
Her Unsuitable Match © 2021 by Sally Britton. All Rights Reserved.
*
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Published by Pink Citrus Books
Edited by Jenny Proctor of Midnight Owl Editors
Updated cover design by Blue Water books
Original cover design by Ashtyn Newbold
Cover photo licensed through Arcangel
*
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
*
Sally Britton
www.authorsallybritton.com
*
First Printing: October 2021
For the Broken in Heart or Spirit,
May this Story of Love Offer a Small Respite
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Notes & Acknowledgements
Also by Sally Britton
About the Author
One
The stifling heat of the ballroom combined with a heavy fog of perfume pressed in around Philippa until her head ached and her vision swam. Three hours. She had danced, deflected flirtatious comments, and feigned interest in the small talk of her partners for three incessant hours.
All the while, her mother—Fredericka, Dowager Countess of Montecliff—stood near an open window, fanning herself. Her unrelenting gaze kept Philippa where she belonged, in the center of the room with no hope for escape.
“You are the epitome of grace, my lady,” Philippa’s partner simpered, bowing as the second dance in their set at last came to an end. Though Philippa knew it wasn’t his fault, his voice had a distinctly nasal quality to it, and she had to fight a wince every time he spoke to her. “I do hope you will favor me with your partnership again, my lady. It has been a great honor.”
“You are too kind, my lord.” She forced a smile as her temples pulsed, as though twin miners had taken up residence in her head and pounded her skull with their pickaxes in perfect sync.
He frowned when her polite words did not offer a ready agreement to his proposal, though he still offered her escort to her mother’s side. Perhaps he would take Philippa’s disinterest as a hint and not bother calling on her the next day. That might upset her mother, given the man held a title and estates in both England and Jamaica. The dowager countess would certainly blame Philippa for not encouraging him to call the next day. But then, Mother blamed many things on Philippa of late.
Especially Philippa’s unmarried state.
The inducement to wed that most unmarried daughters of the ton felt with keenness eluded Lady Philippa Gillensford. As the daughter and now sister of an earl, she made a tempting target for many gentlemen and nobles. They saw her for her position and the connections it would give to them, not as a person. Thus she had shocked several of her formerly enthusiastic callers when she proved she had a functioning mind and strong opinions that differed from theirs.
Yes, Mother had reason for frustration.
But so did Philippa.
When it was just the two of them standing near the window, Philippa flicked open her fan and did her best to cool her face and neck with the inadequate bursts of air the lace-and-paper accessory afforded her.
“The duke’s grandson did not appear happy,” Mother said from behind her own fan. “You did not share your opinions on the sugar tariffs again, did you?”
Philippa beat the air faster with her fan. “No, Mother. You made it very clear that I cannot discuss political topics at balls.”
“Then why did he look so cross?”
“Perhaps he always looks that way,” Philippa ventured. She looked to the window near them, cracked open only a few inches. “Do you think we might step out for a moment, Mother? A little fresh air might be just the thing to perk both of us up.”
“I am not a flower in need of perking up.” The dowager snorted. “And Baron Bramber is approaching. You will dance with him, but do not encourage his attentions overmuch, dear. He is only a baron, after all.” Her nose wrinkled as though dancing with barons was as distasteful as stepping in horse droppings.
Philippa smiled politely when the baron asked her to dance, and she treated him with the same distant respect that she had all her other partners that evening. While her feet took her through the motions, and her face remained a mask of appropriate enthusiasm, her mind dwelled on the ball she would attend the next evening. A much happier affair, and something she had looked forward to for more than a month.
Her brother, Adam, and his wife, Elaine, were hosting a charity ball at one of London’s newest and most luxurious hotels.
Nothing delighted Philippa as much as the memory of her mother’s face when she received the invitation. Everyone in London wanted to see the inside of the hotel’s ballroom, the foyer, and the gardens rumored to be as fine as those at Kensington Palace. That Adam and Elaine had secured the hotel to host a charitable event had made Mother turn the unbecoming shade of puce.
“Is something amusing, Lady Philippa?”
When the baron’s question interrupted her thoughts, Philippa swiftly schooled her features into an indifferently pleasant expression once more. “Do forgive me, my lord. I am afraid my thoughts were already on tomorrow evening. Perhaps you have heard that my brother and his wife, Mr. Gillensford and Mrs. Gillensford, are hosting a ball at Bell’s Hotel?”
“Ah, yes. From what I understand, it is to be one of the finest events of the Season.” That the baron said such made her more kindly disposed toward him. Until he added, “If one can even classify a charity event as such a thing. Given that they sent invitations out to common soldiers, it lacks the exclusivity of the private balls and assemblies.”
Nothing made her so cross as people in Society disparaging what her brother and sister-in-law sought to do with their time and money. Thanks to an inheritance left to them by Philippa’s late great-uncle, Adam and Elaine had the ability to dedicate their lives and much of their fortune to helping others. The ton ought to have admired their decision to solicit funds for a hospital—a hospital meant to help soldiers recover from battle in a quiet, safe place. And meant to see to the needs of the soldiers’ families while the men were away fighting for their country.
With her chin raised, Philippa briefly joined hands with her dance partner as the steps called for and spoke with a haughty tone she had learned from her mother. “I have heard that Lord Nelson himself will be in attendance.”
The baron shrugged, unimpressed, and Philippa avoided speaking another word more than necessary for the remainder of their set.
Again and again, the situation repeated itself. Smiling, curtsying, dancing with strangers. Her mother whispered instructions before each dance, between sets, and while they walked around the humid, hot room.
“You cannot avoid marriage forever,” Mother said when the evening drew to a close. Her frustration rose to the surface, her whispers becoming hisses. “It is ungrateful to your brother, and to me, to withhold your hand from a prosperous match. You have a duty to our family to lift Society’s eyes to us—to strengthen our place amidst our peers.”
Philippa remained silent, though her mother’s words hurt. The dowager countess wanted things that her daughter had never wanted.
“You’re behaving selfishly,” her mother added. “It is a daughter’s duty to wed and wed well. Georgiana understood this responsibility—why don’t you?”
Much later that night—truly, in the early hours of the next day—Philippa collapsed into her bed with a weary groan. Her feet hurt. Her head ached. And in a few hours, she had to rise and dress to receive callers. More posturing. More pretending. She hated it.
During the carriage ride home, her mother had ceased talking but had commenced glaring. Despite Philippa knowing her own mind, her mother’s censure was no less irritating. Mothers were supposed to be sympathetic to their children, weren’t they?
Her sister-in-law, Elaine, was kind and compassionate with her two adopted children, and would certainly be so with the babe she had born a few short months before.
But then, Mother railed against Elaine’s place in the family every chance she had. Despite Elaine’s kindness. Despite the grandchild Elaine had provided. The dowager countess acted as though Elaine’s marriage into the family had created a scandal too great to live down. When, in fact, Society openly welcomed Elaine everywhere she went. Perhaps because of her money, initially, and her eye for fashion. But once people came to know Philippa’s sister-in-law, they couldn’t help but love her. No one kinder existed anywhere on earth.
Although happy for Adam and Elaine, there were moments when Ph ilippa wished there had been a scandal. At least enough of one to keep their family in the country for a single Season. Hiding away from spiteful gossips and scheming bachelors.
Philippa loved the Season. But she hated the marriage mart. She had heard from friends that—once married—the time spent in London held many delights. No one had to stay at a ball longer than they wished. They could come and go from other events without worrying overmuch about what the gossips observed and spoke about later. Married women were protected from snobbery and criticism in a way no single lady was ever afforded.
It might be worth it—to marry someone—if only to end the constant speculation of others.
Philippa laughed quietly to herself and pressed a cool cloth to her forehead.
At three and twenty, she no longer felt the eagerness of a girl fresh from the schoolroom. She had no desire to marry in order to please her family or anyone else. When she married, it would be to please herself.
The dark shadows of her room painted swaths of gray forests upon her ceiling. Her eyes traced the imaginary branches, despite how heavy with fatigue they remained. She blinked, then gave in and closed them.
According to her father’s will, upon her most recent birthday, she had won access to her full inheritance. Every pound meant as a dowry to tempt bachelors belonged to her, even if she never married. But her horrid eldest brother, Richard, kept finding reasons to delay the transfer of her funds into her name. More than once, she had thought about finding a solicitor to force the issue. But her family had already undergone a painful fracture with Adam’s marriage to Elaine, a former seamstress-turned-heiress.
Philippa didn’t particularly want to begin a new war with her mother, brothers, sisters-in-law, and sister. What harm did it do for her to spend one more Season doing her mother’s bidding? The money would still be there come summer, and then she would make Richard give it over to her.
And she would finally do as she pleased.
That thought made Philippa smile and think markedly happier thoughts as she finally slipped into peaceful slumber.
Two
The quiet hung heavily in the night air, thick as a fog. The lack of moonlight meant Myles couldn’t see much farther than the tip of his nose. He heard the shifting of the men around him, their whispered complaints, and someone snored despite the mounting anxiety felt by his fellows.
Myles gripped the butt of his pistol tighter and attempted to force back a rising sense of wrongness. He could practically smell it, like acrid smoke and gunpowder. He’d been ordered to keep his men here. Yet an itching sensation in his heart made him want to move. Did he dare go against orders?
He struggled with instinct, wary of trusting himself when those ranked above him could make his life more a misery than it was at present. Surely his men deserved more from him, though.
He hesitated too long.
From far away, he heard the boom of what he knew, despite his hopes, was not thunder. A cannon had fired. But where? From their side, or the enemy’s? And how? The enemy had to be as blind as Myles and his men.
Everyone woke. Flashes in the distance, coupled with the sound of rifle-rounds shot, brought everyone first to their feet and then their knees as they tried to duck down.
Who was foolish enough to begin a battle in the dead of night? Dawn was still hours away. Myles shouted for order, demanded his men pay attention to him—and then he fell forward, propelled by a force he couldn’t see. He put his hand out to catch himself, and another flash of light revealed why it hurt when his palm made contact with the ground. He crumpled, gasping and uncertain of what he’d seen. He heard a loud ringing in his ear, until sound came roaring back to him.
Confusion reigned as his men shouted and scrambled to fall back, and someone took his arm to help. A pain in his shoulder and the fire in his left arm nearly brought him down. More gunfire, scattered from behind and on all sides, made him stumble. But he kept moving. Kept trying to get to safety and make sense—
An explosion of air knocked him backward, a tree he hadn’t known was there shattered, and the pain was too much—too great. Then there was more screaming…
Myles sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, the screams still echoing in his head. He didn’t shout, though. He kept his lips pressed shut, as he had that night, too. That night so many years ago—he hated to think on it. Never did, if he could help it. And he had thought himself winning at last when it came to repressing the memories of battle.
He covered his face with both hands and took several deep, measured breaths. Then he reached for the curtains surrounding his bed and ripped them open, desperate for sunlight. He was in luck. He hadn’t woken from his nightmare in the dark hours; the faint yellow light of London’s morning sun came whisper-soft through the windows of his small, rented room.
He knew why he’d had the dream.
Myles strode with purpose to the small desk near the window and sat in the chair, not caring that he’d left his robe behind on a hook by the bed. No one was around to see him, half-unclothed, or to remark upon the twists of skin on shoulder and chest where a Frenchman’s round had passed through his body.
He picked up the letter, and its accompanying invitation, from one of his oldest friends. Truthfully, one of the only friends he had left. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to maintain the relationships that had been his before he went to war—merely that it had become too difficult.
The letter was brief. Written in Joshua Moreton’s usual cheery style. The letter encouraged Myles to accept an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Gillensford to their ball, as one of their honored guests, held that very evening. Moreton had sent his letter to Myles the week previous. Moreton had promised that Myles would enjoy himself. That the ball would be full of beautiful ladies. He insisted the host and hostess would need men like Myles present if they were to achieve their goal of raising funds for a veteran’s hospital. “A most worthy cause,” his friend had said.
“I am not a cause,” Myles muttered to his friend’s letter, narrowing his good eye at the paper. There wasn’t enough light yet to read the faintly inked words, but Myles knew every bit of it by now.
He also knew what Moreton would say. You aren’t a cause, but you can help with one that benefits men like you.
The truth of that thought, imagined as it was in his friend’s voice, had kept Myles from tossing the invitation into the fire.
How different might things have been for him if there had been some place, and people, dedicated to helping men like him? Men so scarred, physically and mentally, from war that they hardly knew how to exist in a world of peace.
Myles dropped the letter and pushed both hands through his wild hair. He put his elbows on the desk—and it tilted. Again.
Muttering to himself about poor accommodations, Myles lifted the piece of furniture and felt around with one foot until he found the slim volume of sonnets he kept beneath the short leg to even out the plane of the desk. He pushed it back to where it belonged, and the desk settled evenly again.
What right did a man like him have to attend balls? Even charitable ones. He couldn’t even afford a desk with even legs.
He left the invitation and letter both where they were and went about his preparations for the day. He scrubbed himself clean with the pitcher and basin of water in his room, grateful for the cool water that brought him more fully awake. He rubbed at the whiskers on his face and sighed. He needed to find a barber, or risk looking like a madman let loose upon London’s streets.
Myles dressed with military-efficiency, the missing fingers on his left hand not slowing him at all. Then he found his eyepatch on top of the small bureau that held all his worldly possessions. He covered his left eye and completely avoided his reflection in the mirror above that same chest of drawers.
He put a hat on his head—an unfashionable tricorn that had seen better days—and took himself out the door.
London’s streets were already alive with people. He made his way northward to the more fashionable streets and addresses in search of breakfast. Along the way, he dropped pennies into cups and the dirty hands of orphans, never making eye contact with any of them. He had precious little to give, but the thought that the children begging or the women with the hollow cheeks and dark eyes might have lost their breadwinner to battle kept him generous.
