Her Unsuitable Match by Sally Britton

Three

Philippa and Elaine were the only two in the retiring room the hotel had set aside for ladies attending the Gillensford ball. The guests would begin arriving shortly, and Elaine needed a moment to herself. Philippa, dressed in soft rose-colored silks, sat on the padded bench next to her sister-in-law, admiring the older woman’s subtle beauty while Elaine stared into the gilded mirror on the wall, smoothing her ivory-and-gold skirts.

Red hair hadn’t been admired in Society for some time, if ever, but Elaine wore her natural color with grace. Her maid had piled the red hair loosely atop Elaine’s head, held everything in place with pearl-tipped pins and golden thread, and finished off the whole with a broad satin ribbon that looked like liquid gold.

Sometimes, when Philippa saw Elaine looking like that, she wished to exchange her own dark-brown locks for something more unique. Something more auburn. Or gold. Many a man said they admired women with yellow-gold hair. Dark hair wasn’t quite the fashion, though it was certainly a widespread hue among the ton.

“I am terrified.” Elaine’s abrupt statement, coupled with her meeting Philippa’s gaze in the mirror, broke through the younger woman’s thoughts. “This affair is so much grander than the dinner we hosted to raise money for the orphanage.”

Covering her sister-in-law’s hand with her own, Philippa gazed back into her eyes with an upward tilt of her chin. “You are doing something incredible, Elaine. Of course you are nervous. But Adam will be by your side, and so will I. Everyone who attends here this evening is doing so because they want to make a difference, too. They merely lack the imagination to do so on their own. You are pointing them in the right direction and allowing them to dance while they learn how to do and be better.”

Elaine’s cheeks pinked beneath her freckles, and she released a wavering laugh. “You have a lot of faith in me.”

“Of course I do. I know you have a good heart.” Philippa squeezed Elaine’s hand, then turned to look at her directly. Elaine did the same. “And what is the worst thing that could happen? Last week, the Earl of Coventry fell into a bowl of dark red punch at Baroness Gower’s private ball. Everyone laughed about it for a few days, and then it was forgotten.”

That brought a truer grin to Elaine’s face, though she tempered it with a shake of her head. “The poor earl. And baroness.”

“And last Season,” Philippa went on with perhaps too much glee, “everyone was scandalized when Lord Dudley’s mistress arrived at a ball, on the arm of her husband, and still flirted with Lord Dudley all evening. That made the papers, but everyone thought that particular ball a success.”

Elaine wrinkled her nose and gave Philippa a gentle shove with her shoulder. “I think you ought not to enjoy such stories so much. Do you read anything in papers and magazines other than gossip?”

“I find people interesting.” Philippa rose from her seat and tugged a bit at the slight wrinkles in her dress. “It isn’t that I delight in the unfortunate things that happen, but that I’d rather read about my peers bumbling through life as I do than about less pleasant things—like tariffs and trade proposals.” She shuddered dramatically, knowing full well that Elaine and Adam both pored over those articles in order to manage their funds and stocks.

Elaine did not rise to Philippa’s bait. Instead, she rose from the cushioned seat and put her arms around her sister-in-law. “Thank you for being here this evening, Pippa. I know I can trust you to tell me when I don’t behave correctly.”

At this, Philippa snorted. “You are twice as polite as people who are born to the upper classes and peerage. You do not need me to help you at all.”

“Except to remind me whom people are sometimes.” Elaine winced. “I still don’t think that baroness has forgiven me for confusing her as a baronetess.”

“A minor mistake.” Philippa looked Elaine over carefully once more. “At least she wasn’t a duchess. That may have been awkward.”

The former seamstress, now dressed finer than any of her clients had ever been, took both of Philippa’s hands in hers. “Will you look after the soldiers coming this evening? It cannot be easy for them to be here, to speak of their needs to strangers. Adam thought it would be a good idea to have them, but I worry it might be insulting in some way.”

“They wouldn’t have agreed to attend if it bothered them.” Philippa narrowed her eyes at Elaine. “How many said they would come?”

“A dozen, nearly right away. The last one agreed to be here only a few hours ago.”

“Thirteen.” Philippa raised her eyebrows and affected a concerned expression. She dropped her voice an octave. “An unlucky number.”

Elaine tossed her head with a dramatic sniff. “I am not the least bit superstitious. And one might argue those who bring wives with them negate that, anyway.”

Philippa nodded sagely. “I quite agree. I’ve heard that some people think thirteen is quite lucky. The French, for example.”

With that, her sister-in-law gave a merry laugh. “There you have it. I am emulating the French, as any seamstress must know how to do.”

After they checked each other’s hair and gowns, Elaine and Philippa linked arms and went out the door to the main hall. Philippa had offered to stand in the receiving line with Elaine, but her sister-in-law proclaimed that she needed Philippa to keep an eye on things in the ballroom once guests began arriving.

Adam waited at the top of the steps above the grand foyer. He gave Philippa the briefest greeting before taking his wife’s hand in his and kissing her, right there where anyone might see, with a brief press of his lips to hers. Had a man ever been so besotted by his wife?

“Are you ready, my darling?” he asked, his blue eyes focused upon Elaine. “The hotel manager said there are carriages lining up in the street.”

Elaine turned a little pale. “Is it too late for me to run back home to the nursery?” Her voice sounded strained, but Adam put his arm around her shoulders and Philippa saw her sister-in-law relax.

“Nancy and the nursemaid are quite happy looking after little Isabelle together. I promise they are well. You are needed here.”

Elaine tipped her chin up. “I am, aren’t I? You certainly couldn’t manage a ball yourself, could you?”

He chuckled and pressed another kiss to her temple. “I couldn’t manage anything without you, Elaine.”

Philippa stepped back as they spoke, watching as her brother helped Elaine find her courage once more. As the third son of an earl, Adam had been born to privilege, wealth, and the games of the ton. As husband to Elaine, he stood as her defender and partner in all things. Between the two of them, Society had no chance of ignoring the amount of good they would do.

If someone promised such a match to Philippa, she’d happily do as her mother insisted and wed. But she’d seen too many marriages, up close and from a distance, that lacked such care and respect.

As Philippa stepped into the ballroom, she put her shoulders back and offered a nod to the orchestra on the balcony above the dancefloor. They took that as their cue and played music meant for listening rather than dancing. The ballroom of the hotel was twice as long as it was wide, with white-marble columns and an array of chandeliers above—lit by the gasworks across the river. Quite modern, in many respects.

The room was grander than Almack’s ballroom, but no one would dare say it. The building still sparkled with fresh paint, and one could almost smell the new lumber used in its construction. A ball at a hotel, while not a new concept altogether, was certainly unique. And everyone wanted a glimpse of this particular ballroom.

The evening would be a success for Elaine and Adam. Their dream of a veteran’s hospital would come to fruition. Philippa had no doubt of that.

The doors to the ballroom opened, and the first of the guests came in, the hum of their conversation providing a gentle undertone to the music. Philippa glided toward the doors, ready with her most charming expression and words of welcome.

* * *

The dancing was wellunderway when Myles entered the ballroom a few steps behind Moreton and his wife. Emmeline cooed over the fine decor, the dresses, and everything else as though the whole spectacle had been created for her enjoyment alone. Moreton’s affection for his wife was evident in the way he introduced her to the first knot of people they came to.

“I have the honor of introducing this enchanting woman on my arm as my wife, Mrs. Moreton.” Moreton kept his eyes upon her through every word, his expression filled with adoration.

If the couple were not the closest friends Myles possessed, their display of affection would garner a cynical response rather than his reluctant admiration. Few men were as fortunate in their choice of a wife as Moreton. Then his friend introduced Myles, and the conversations became more focused.

“And this is my good friend, Mr. Myles Cobbett, a former captain in His Majesty’s army.”

Myles flexed his left hand within its glove, questioning again if it had been practicality or vanity that made him stuff the two empty fingers of the glove with scraps of fabric. He couldn’t hide his left cheek as easily, the scars from the shrapnel as apparent as the (mostly unharmed) nose on his face. Then there was the eyepatch.

“A captain in the army, were you?” A gentleman with a self-important tilt to his chin made a point of staring at the left side of Myles’s face. “Then you must have some idea of what the Gillensfords are trying to achieve, and an opinion on the matter. Tell me, do you think it really necessary that the men returning home from battle—hardened soldiers who have seen death and dealt it for king and country—need a place such as this hospital will be? A facility where they will be coddled?”

Myles hadn’t ever particularly enjoyed mingling in Society, and in less than five minutes, he deeply regretted being moved by Moreton’s pleas to step out into the world again. Myles narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him, noting the softness of his chin, the puffiness beneath his eyes, and the expensive material of his clothing.

“I think you ask the wrong question, sir.” Myles couldn’t be bothered to remember the man’s name. “Here is what you should consider. Men without fortune, rather than remain home in London taking up positions in respectable places of employment, decide to place themselves in the line of fire between England’s citizens and their enemies. With little pay, less gratitude, and the genuine chance of dying a slow death alone on a battle field, bleeding from wounds too painful to describe, these men do indeed see death. They deal it in order to delay their own.” Myles took no pleasure in the way the man turned pale, or how he swallowed. “So the question you ought to ask, sir, is this: What are the people of England willing to do to show these men that their sacrifices are valued? How will England prove it doesn’t hold the lives of its sons upon the battlefield as cheap?”

The question hung in the air; the people encircling Myles and the man he spoke to were absolutely silent, and he realized how impassioned his speech likely seemed. Emotion—strong emotion—was not permitted in Society. He didn’t care. Much. He’d answered honestly enough.

A new voice spoke from Myles’s blind side—a woman’s voice, cultured and low. “Is establishing a hospital for the men to recover an appropriate answer to that question?”

Myles turned, drawing himself up and collecting his thoughts. The crowd around them had grown while he spoke, and this woman had not stood among them when he first arrived with Moreton and Emmeline. She stood with a regal tilt to her head, dark curls sparkling like the night sky, with jewels tucked into their folds.

He gave a slight bow to the woman, the only concession to their lack of proper introduction he could give in the midst of a conversation. “I think it is a step in the right direction.”

The blue of her eyes reminded him of indigo ink, swirling and dark. Those eyes glittered with interest, but her lips remained pressed closed as she considered him and his non-answer.

A gentleman appeared at her elbow, oblivious to the fact he interrupted the silent stare between Myles and the woman. “Lady Philippa, this is our dance. Do come quickly.”

Lady Philippa.

She turned away from Myles and the conversation, allowing her partner to lead her to the row of dancers already assembling.

“Mr. Cobbett, what more do you think we could do for our fighting men?” one of the matronly women asked, drawing his attention back to the people he’d already been introduced to. The woman had more pearls around her neck than a single oyster bed could produce in a decade, but her expression indicated her question was in earnest.

The man who had been smug only minutes before had stepped back, his shoulder tucked just behind the lady who now addressed Myles.

“Many a man returns from war to uncertainty, madam. They do not know where to go to gain new employment. Even if they find a place to work, the adjustment from the life of a soldier to a civilian is difficult. I think what we might need most is more compassion from those who have remained at home. More patience and understanding.”

Nearly an hour later, after fervent conversations with men and women introduced by Moreton, Myles needed a moment away. Desperately. Though he maintained a composed expression, his head pounded as though a gunner resided within, firing shots off at a steady pace. Myles wanted nothing more than to slip out a door at the back of the ballroom and make his way to the gardens. The cool night air might clear his head sufficiently, making it possible to last another hour among the perfumed upper classes.

A deep voice intercepted Myles before he took more than two steps in the direction of his escape. “Ah, Mr. Cobbett. Here you are.”

Myles turned to greet this new social assault—but immediately relaxed. The host and hostess of the evening had found him. They’d only had a brief introduction in the hotel’s entry, and in those few seconds, Myles had felt they were earnest in their cause.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gillensford.” He bowed. “I hope the evening is proving successful for you both.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cobbett. I do think we are headed in the direction of success.” Mrs. Gillensford’s gentle smile turned more enthusiastic as she spoke. “The conversations we have heard are most encouraging. Several of our guests are thinking on the fates of our nation’s soldiers for the first time. I am exceedingly pleased.”

Her husband watched her speak with open admiration before adding, “We are receiving promises and pledges of patronage for our hospital from a few surprising sources, too. With members of Society finally addressing this issue, we hope to help many former soldiers find their way.”

The lady stepped closer to Myles, clasping her hands before her. “Thank you for coming tonight, Mr. Cobbett. I know that speaking to you, and our other former soldiers present, has made all the difference.”

“It is an honor to be of service, madam.” His headache abated somewhat under the praise. If his presence had helped even the slightest, the evening’s discomfort had been worth it.

“Mr. Cobbett, would you ever consider taking a more active role in an endeavor such as ours?” Mr. Gillensford asked the question with raised eyebrows and a thoughtful glint in his eye. “We are, of course, looking for people with experience as well as interest in what we hope to accomplish.”

Mrs. Gillensford nodded along with her husband’s words, then added her soft entreaty. “Yes, it’s true. We need all manner of advisors, committees, and eventually a full staff for the hospital once it’s built.”

Myles shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His mind swam with doubts too numerous to name. “That is a most interesting prospect, madam. I am not sure what help I could be.”

“Think on it,” Mr. Gillensford urged him. “And if you ever wish to discuss the possibility, come and speak to me. Our London house is always open to those who support such causes.”

Nothing need be decided, or discussed further, at present. Myles relaxed somewhat. “Thank you, Mr. Gillensford. I will take that under consideration.”

The music changed, and couples drifted away from the center of the ballroom. Myles noted Mrs. Gillensford’s gaze dart in that direction, and he suddenly wondered if anyone had asked the hostess of the evening to dance.

Her husband could not, of course, in such a public setting.

“Mrs. Gillensford, do you dance this evening?” He gestured toward the orchestra. “I would be honored to stand up for a set with you.” The woman had done much for his fellow soldiers. He could happily escort her down a row of couples.

Her lovely features showed surprise, but then immediately changed to express pleasure. “I would like that, if my husband will excuse me.”

“Of course, my dear. Perhaps I’ll find a lady in want of some exercise and join you.” Mr. Gillensford bowed and swept away in search of his own partner.

Myles took Mrs. Gillensford by the hand and led her to the head of the dancers. The handsome lady he had seen earlier that evening, Lady Philippa, was in the principal location and had already called out the next dance. His gaze lingered upon her for a moment, though she did not glance in his direction. Despite the lateness of the hour, she appeared as vibrant and energetic as when he’d first cast his eye upon her.

“Have you met my sister-in-law?” his dance partner asked.

Myles turned his attention back to Mrs. Gillensford. “The lady in pink?”

Mrs. Gillensford nodded.

“I heard her name in passing. We have not been formally introduced.”

“I will remedy that after our dance, if you like.” Mrs. Gillensford arched her strawberry-colored eyebrows at him, and a gleam of speculation came into her eyes.

Any desire she had toward matchmaking would die the moment she knew how little his life was worth. Myles forced himself to sound neutral. Uninterested. “You needn’t go to the trouble, madam. I am certain your evening is taken up with a great deal of work already. Would you tell me, Mrs. Gillensford, where you propose to place the hospital?”

She allowed him to switch topics, though a small tilt to her smile told Myles that Mrs. Gillensford was well aware of the abrupt change. She spoke at length of their plans, whenever the steps of the dance allowed them near enough to converse.

When the first of the set ended, a few of the couples left the floor to make room for others to join in the entertainment. On Myles’s right, Mr. Gillensford appeared with a woman Myles hadn’t met. On his left came another gentleman. Lady Philippa Gillensford partnered the stranger for the dance.

Mrs. Gillensford’s eyes sparkled at Myles. “Perhaps we’ll have time for that introduction after all.”

He winced, and then he hoped the lady hadn’t noticed. Though he had met over a dozen new acquaintances that evening, he sensed a proper introduction to Lady Philippa would be different. Young, beautiful, and noble. She could want nothing to do with him. He’d already subjected himself to the curious and disgusted stares of too many people that night, and every day since his return from battle.

Young women stared at him from behind their fans, taking in the half of his face covered in scars with mingled disgust and pity. They whispered about him. About what was behind the eyepatch, or beneath the crisp folds of his cravat. He hated it.

He’d stopped moving about in Society ages ago for precisely that reason.

The steps of the dance required him to come face to face with Lady Philippa before Mrs. Gillensford could introduce them. The young woman’s dark blue eyes met his, and Myles nearly stumbled at the collision. Her gaze, bright and cold, was as the sun reflected upon ice. What had Myles done to merit such a sharp glare?

She cut her glance away from him and to her partner, and only then did Myles realize her frosty anger was directed at another.

The gentleman wasn’t anyone Myles knew, which was unsurprising, but he immediately took the fellow under dislike. The man couldn’t be older than five and twenty, but he wore an absurd smirk filled with all the arrogance of an emperor. His clothing marked him as a man of fortune and living at the height of fashion. The size of the emerald stickpin in the man’s cravat was obscene—something more suitable to the former French court than an English charity ball. Then the man’s hair—bright as burnished gold and likely curled with hot-tongs—fell about his ears and eyes like a sheepdog’s.

Good manners meant Myles could not address Lady Philippa or her partner, having not been formally introduced, but nothing kept him from overhearing their conversation.

“You needn’t rage at me, my lady.” The golden-haired man spoke with the purr of a large cat. “Everyone knows your eldest brother wants you to marry, and he will not release your purse strings until you do. He’s made no secret of your dowry’s size, either. I merely suggest that if you would like your freedom—”

“That is quite enough,” the lady protested, her voice almost too soft for Myles to hear. “This is not the time nor the place to discuss such things. Truly, I’d rather not speak to you on the topic ever again.”

“Temper, temper.” The man chuckled as he brushed by Myles to take a turn bowing and stepping about with Mrs. Gillensford, leaving Myles to take the lead with Lady Philippa, whose cheeks burned a bright shade of pink.

Myles fixed his expression to give away nothing of his thoughts. The conversation he’d overheard had nothing to do with him. Yet, seeing a woman distressed—angry, of course, but certainly also distressed—pulled at a latent piece of his character. The desire to set her at ease, if not set things to right, prompted his words.

“If you need to escape that popinjay after this dance, you might use me as excuse, my lady.”

She blinked at him, confusion replacing displeasure. “Mr. Cobbett.” That she remembered his name didn’t surprise him. He didn’t have a face one was likely to forget.

“Your servant, my lady.” He bowed his head, the most courteous signal he could give in the midst of a dance.

The steps took them apart again, restoring him to Mrs. Gillensford, who didn’t appear as upset by her time in the arrogant man’s company as her sister-in-law had. It seemed the fellow didn’t make everyone immediately dislike him. Though Myles kept his attention on his partner well enough to exchange the occasional pleasant comment, he made certain to look Lady Philippa’s way from time to time, too.

No woman deserved to have her evening spoiled by a pretentious lout.

* * *

Slipping awayfrom the ballroom and attempting to avoid Lord Walter Ruthersby at the same time proved difficult. Philippa kept glancing over her shoulder as she made her way behind columns and potted ferns, then out the large doors to the hotel’s expansive gardens. The steps leading from the veranda to the ground were well lit, as were the pathways through elaborately shaped hedges.

There were others walking along the gravel footpaths, mostly in twos and threes, enjoying the night air. Ballrooms, even in the spring, were stifling places. Elaine had partly chosen the hotel for her ball due to its promise of gardens filled with fountains and night breezes. “Guests shouldn’t be expected to brave the heat and still be generous,” she had said during one of their many planning sessions for the evening.

Philippa nodded greetings to the people she passed, ignoring the few who raised eyebrows at her unchaperoned state. Doubtless, someone would tell her mother they had spied her walking through the gardens alone. Mother would lecture Philippa on decorum later.

Philippa passed two women near her mothers’ age, noting the way they bent their heads together and whispered the moment her back was to them. She glowered upward at the night sky, too filled with clouds and light from London for the stars to appear, and muttered to herself.

“Oh, Pippa, how dare you take five minutes for yourself? How could you go walking through public gardens all alone? Especially when those gardens are full of people who will notice just how alone you are.” She snorted, then grinned. Her mother couldn’t abide Philippa’s unladylike noises. Everything from a burst of laughter to a sneeze was deemed “most unladylike.”

The path turned as it neared an outer wall, and Philippa turned with it.

“Drat Lord Walter,” she said, kicking a pebble somewhat viciously with her slippered foot. “And all second sons who think I owe them my hand.” A common enough practice among noble sons not poised to inherit titles and estates was to find a woman such as herself, of similar lineage, with money of her own so her husband could keep the lifestyle to which he’d grown accustomed.

Just see if she didn’t convince Richard to give over her inheritance the next time she saw him. Then she’d hire a companion and declare her intention to remain a spinster. Then she’d finally have freedom to do as she pleased, when she pleased. No more asking Mother to see the newest play or attend art exhibitions—she would never ask anyone permission for anything again.

Drat Society, too. She wouldn’t care a penny’s worth for what anyone said about her. She’d gallop through Hyde Park if she wished and visit Adam and Elaine as often as they would have her.

Philippa didn’t realize she’d started to cry until the shadows she walked through blurred. At the edges of the garden, trees hung overhead, and most of the light filtered through hedges. She stopped walking and looked about her, through her irritating tears.

Somehow, she’d left the main paths meant for the guests. This little track, hardly wide enough for a wheelbarrow, had to be one used by the gardeners to come and go with their tools, or a way for servants to cut through from one side of the property to another without being seen.

A scuffle nearby caused Philippa to jerk her head up.

Several yards ahead of her, Philippa spied a small break in the hedge. Not a true path, but enough of a gap—given the amount of light streaming through the branches—that she could slip through and find herself in a brighter, safer portion of the garden.

Picking up her skirts to allow for a longer stride, Philippa hurried to the gap without looking back. But she heard a step behind her, matching her speed.

Gaining speed.

Philippa slid sideways through the small gap, spying one of those infamous fountains in a square-shaped courtyard surrounded on all sides by rose bushes. She realized too late that she had tried to slip through the very same plants—thorns caught at the back of her gown.

Then a hand caught at her arm and pulled her sharply back into the shadows before she could cry out or even see anyone who might help her.

“There now, Lady Philippa,” a well-greased voice whispered in her ear. “Why rush off when we are finally alone?”

Anger burned in her chest, and Philippa whirled around to shove both hands into her captor’s chest. “Unhand me, Lord Walter! This very instant!”

Her shove made him stumble back a step, but his grip on her arm tightened. “Now, now. Calm down, my lady. I only wish to talk.” She could see the gleam of his cold eyes in the darkness, and she practically heard the calculations likely going through his head.

“You needn’t detain me in such a way if all you wish is to talk,” she hissed, jerking her arm away from him.

He released his hold but continued looming over her. “There is that temper I so enjoy.” His teeth flashed in the dim light, his grin predatory. “I think you and I can come to an understanding, my lady. You have something I desperately want—a fortune. And your brother, Montecliff, has already said he’d consent to our engagement.”

That Richard, her brother the earl, approved of someone like Lord Walter did not surprise Philippa, though it still struck her as sad.

“It is a pity I have more taste than my brother does,” she said aloud, stepping back to that break in the hedge. “While he might consent, I certainly never will.”

Lord Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Do reconsider, my dear. After all, several people saw you come into the gardens alone. More saw me follow, as I made certain to ask after you as I passed each one. The dowager countess, Lady Mary Fenchurch, certainly made note of it.”

Her chin came up, and the first prickle of concern ran along her spine. “Are you threatening my reputation?”

The man laughed, the sound somehow more threatening than words. “Making promises, more like. You see, my lady—”

A new hand closed around her arm, this time from the other side of the rose-bushes, and Philippa found herself pulled through leaves and thorns again. This time, into the light. She heard Lord Walter curse, and the sound of cloth ripping at least several inches, before she stumbled into the arms of her new captor.

Trying to catch her balance, she had no choice but to take hold of the man’s coat, and still her nose hit a horribly solid chin. Her eyes welled up with tears again, her nose stung terribly, as she looked up to see what new ogre had her in his clutches.

The sight that met her eyes might have made a lesser woman scream.

The man’s head turned, leaving her only the left side of his face to see while he glared back the way she had come—at Lord Walter?—and what a face it was. Scars had rippled the man’s face, puckering the skin along his cheek and jaw. A black leather patch covered his eye.

“Mr. Cobbett,” she gasped, and he looked down at her. Though his right side remained in shadow, she saw the handsome, unmarred shape of cheekbones and jaw, the long dark lashes of his single brown eye. She hadn’t taken such careful measure of him before, certain that staring at the juxtaposition of his uninjured face to the other side would be rude and perhaps hurtful if he noticed.

But now, as close as she was, she could not help but see all the details of both sides. Natural, masculine beauty on the one, and a terrible, frightening visage of war on the other.

He released her, and Philippa stumbled sideways.

“One moment, my lady.” His voice wasn’t gruff, but pleasant and deep. She’d noticed his voice before anything else about him, when she’d heard him addressing a group of peers on the matter of the hospital. It had made her turn from her own conversation to see who spoke with such unwavering certainty about the plight of returned soldiers.

Mr. Cobbett bent down, and she felt him take hold of the edge of her skirt. “The fabric is caught.”

Philippa stared down in the weak light, noting that his left hand held her gown while the right carefully untwisted fabric from thorn. When her dress came loose, it fluttered out of his grasp. A long, jagged tear of the fabric from hem to her knee made her gasp. Thankfully, the layers of underclothes beneath the chemise were intact.

“I am sorry about the dress.”

She shook her head, then looked to the gap. “Lord Walter…?”

“The popinjay is gone, my lady. He disappeared the moment he saw me.” He sounded supremely confident. How nice for him.

Philippa rubbed at her temple, then delicately touched her nose. Everything except her dress seemed intact.

“I know we have not been properly introduced,” Mr. Cobbett said, bringing her attention to the solemn expression upon his face. “But I think it best we re-enter the ballroom together. I am happy to return you to your brother or sister-in-law.”

He was right. If the old cats of the ton had seen one man pursue her out into the night, another must take her inside again to cancel out that bit of gossip. How tired she grew of the games.

“Thank you, Mr. Cobbett.” Her shoulders relaxed, and she released a heavy sigh. “You are truly a gentleman to trouble yourself with a stranger like this.”

He bowed, then offered his right arm, putting her on his uninjured side. Philippa took it, and together they left the quietly burbling fountain for the main path—and nearly ran in to Lady Mary Fenchurch, Dowager Countess of Tinniswood. Arm-in-arm with her sister and another gossip, Mrs. Ufford.

Philippa composed herself with haste and bowed her head to both matrons. She exclaimed, with forced good cheer, “Lady Mary, Mrs. Ufford. How wonderful to see you both. Are you enjoying your evening?”

The women exchanged a knowing glance, then eyed Mr. Cobbett.

“A lovely evening, yes,” Lady Mary said.

“Absolutely marveling,” Mrs. Ufford agreed. “So many people to see.”

“People will be talking of nothing else for weeks.” Lady Mary snapped her fan open and raised her gray eyebrows all the way to the edge of her turban. “Your sister-in-law has outdone herself, Lady Philippa. Do pass on our compliments to her.”

“I will, of course. Thank you. Oh—forgive me. Ladies, might I present Mr. Cobbett? He is one of our special guests this evening, a former soldier in His Majesty’s army.” She met Mr. Cobbett’s eye, pleading with him to say nothing that might launch them both into trouble.

“A pleasure, Lady Mary. Mrs. Ufford.” He bowed as much as he could while keeping Philippa on his arm. “I find myself impressed with the evening, too. As well as the hotel itself. What think you of the gardens, my lady? I would venture to guess your opinion on such a subject is expert.”

Philippa blinked. She’d never heard that about Lady Mary in her life—and her mother was friends with the woman.

The compliment, though unearned, made Lady Mary preen. “It is delightful, to be sure, though the walks are a trifle too dark for my taste. More light is wanted for evening strolls, lest young people find themselves lost in the shadows.” She raised her eyebrows at Philippa, and Mrs. Ufford smirked.

“I quite agree,” Mr. Cobbett said. “Atmospheric it may be, but I am in want of light and company once more. Excuse us, please. I must return Lady Philippa to her brother.”

They were barely a dozen steps away when Philippa released a quiet groan. “Wait and see, those two are going directly to my mother tomorrow morning.” She shivered and looked up at her escort, whose face had returned to an unreadable mask of solemnity. “They will paint me as a hoyden in twenty different ways.”

“Your mother will certainly take your word over theirs,” he said, confidence in his tone. Obviously, he knew nothing about her family.

“Unlikely,” she muttered. They climbed the steps to the hotel, and in the brighter light of the ballroom, she examined her damaged dress again. “This will never do. I must away to the retiring room before I see Elaine, or she’ll fret.” She released Mr. Cobbett’s arm. “Thank you again, sir, for your valiant efforts on my behalf.”

He hesitated, and his lips parted as though he had something he wished to say, but then he tightened them in a smile and bowed to her instead. “I wish you the best, Lady Philippa. Good evening.”

As he walked away, Philippa watched him go. She admired the square set of his shoulders, the way he held his head high without appearing arrogant or prideful. Did all soldiers walk that way?

His clothing might not have been the best quality, or the latest fashion, but it had fit him perfectly. It looked sensible, though entirely appropriate for evening wear. And he had been kind—doing her a favor without seeking any reward in return. Philippa couldn’t think of many men who wouldn’t at least tease her about owing them a dance or introduction or some such thing the sister of an earl could provide.

Only when she had found a maid in the retiring room to help her, putting the concern over her ordeal out of the forefront of her mind, did it occur to her to be disappointed. Because Mr. Cobbett, her rescuer, hadn’t even asked her to dance.