Page 16 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
Chapter 8
Philip's mother had finally made him see sense.
After much deliberation—her arguments steady, unrelenting—Philip had truly listened. He had resisted, stubborn in his own convictions, but in the end, the weight of her words had settled upon him with undeniable force.
The burden of guilt had grown too heavy to carry indefinitely. And while this decision was not one he would have chosen for himself, it was not himself he thought of most—but Miss Ipswich, whose name had been dragged through the mire alongside his own.
The scandal sheets had been merciless, their lurid headlines a constant refrain in his mind, each one a fresh indictment. The thought of her—bearing the brunt of society’s scorn for what had been, in truth, an innocent encounter—was intolerable. This was not a matter of personal preference but of duty. A wrong had been done, and there was but one way to set it right.
With a grim sense of resolve, Philip dressed with newfound purpose. There was no escaping the consequences of his actions, however unintentional they had been.
And so, with the weight of obligation pressing upon him, he set out for the Ipswich residence—his fate, it seemed, already decided.
The Morning Room of Lady Wicksford’s residence felt stifling, the air heavy with tension as Philip sat rigidly, flanked by Miss Ipswich and her mother. The usually detached, handsome features that adorned his face now bore the etchings of deep regret. His solemn expression mirrored the weight of the moment, a scene that played out in stark contrast to the genteel surroundings.
Blanche sat beside him, her once lively eyes now quietly distressed. Her mother, Lady Wicksford, observed the unfolding drama with a mix of concern and expectation. The societal whispers had forced them into this unwanted corner, a place where honour demanded action, but the heart rebelled against the imposition.
Philip took a deep breath before he finally said what he needed to say; the sooner he got this done, the better for everyone involved.
"I must confess," Philip finally began, his voice gruff and solemn, "this is hardly the manner in which any gentleman would wish to propose marriage to a lady of good breeding."
The words hung between them, a stark acknowledgement of the chasm between duty and desire, between society’s decree and the truth they alone knew.
Miss Ipswich remained unmoving, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed on the delicate embroidery of the carpet as though it held the answers she sought. Lady Wicksford, however, was not so silent—her sharp, expectant eyes bore into Philip, demanding an explanation for this most unorthodox turn of events.
"The vicious, uninformed tongues of London's gossip mongers have seemingly forced my hand," Philip continued, the frustration evident in his tone. "When only we know—with clear conscience and righteous certainty—that our discourse was wholly unplanned and utterly without impropriety."
The room seemed to shrink as the weight of the situation pressed upon them. Philip's sense of duty clashed with the knowledge that their connection had been genuine, a meeting of minds that transcended the confines of societal norms. The code of honour demanded amends, but the heart rebelled against the artifice of a proposal born from coercion.
It was a horrible feeling.
One he could hardly stomach.
Blanche finally looked up, her eyes meeting Philip's with a mixture of resignation and understanding. Lady Wicksford remained silent, her gaze shifting between the two, waiting for a resolution to emerge from this uncomfortable tableau.
"I offer my sincere apologies, Miss Ipswich," Philip continued, his voice softer now, filled with a regret that reached beyond the confines of this room. "In making this proposal, my intent is not to bind you to an unwanted fate, but to shield you from the cruel judgment of a society that thrives on half-truths and scandalous whispers. I do believe that this is the best way that we can move forward."
As he spoke, Philip couldn’t ignore the bitter weight of the compromise he was making. The rules of society demanded a partner in this dance, and Miss Ipswich had been pulled into it, whether she wanted to be or not.
Honour had always been his guiding principle, the thing that set a man apart. But right now, it felt less like a virtue and more like a cage, trapping them both in something neither of them had truly chosen.
As the echoes of Philip's words reverberated in the room, he witnessed Blanche's world as it seemed to tilt on its axis. The realisation dawned on her with sinking despair. Refusing this marriage proposition, no matter how lacking in affection, would almost certainly seal her fate — a rapid descent into the abyss of bitter spinsterhood and eventual social exile, a fate normally reserved for women guilty of the worst moral laxity and ruin.
"Miss Ipswich," Philip spoke, his voice softer now, laden with a sympathy born of shared adversity, "I understand the gravity of this decision. It is not a path I wished for either of us, but the unforgiving nature of society demands we make these sacrifices."
Blanche's uncertain eyes darted anxiously, reflecting the distress and hesitation that gripped her as she sat beside her tense mother. Philip, observing her turmoil, conceded gravely to the palpable tension that lingered in the room. He recognised the inadequacy of his proposal, understanding how it fell exceedingly short of any gently raised young lady's dreams of romance and happily ever afters.
"I can well imagine," he began, his voice heavy with resignation, "that my offer does not align with the fireside dreams of romance you may have held. This is hardly the future any lady envisions for herself, and for that, I am truly sorry."
The viscountess, a silent but keen observer, watched the exchange with a mix of concern and expectation.
Philip continued, "But we find ourselves in a sharp predicament, and choices are limited if we harbour any hope of salvaging your family's reputation. It is not the union either of us would have chosen willingly, yet the unforgiving eyes of society demand a sacrifice."
Blanche’s eyes held a pained, weary look, as if the weight of it all was slowly crushing her spirit. The sight unsettled Philip more than he cared to admit. He hated seeing her like this, but what choice did they have?
Philip's gaze held a mixture of empathy and determination as he spoke again, "Should you accept becoming my duchess, I vow to be a properly protective and dutiful husband. Your comfort will be my priority—you shall want for nothing that wealth can provide. It is not a promise of love, but it is a pledge to shield you from a world too often lacking in compassion. I can only hope that will be enough for you."
Philip's gaze remained fixed on Blanche, gauging her reaction as he offered the pragmatic assurance of material security—one of England's highest peerages held such promises. He could see the turmoil in her eyes, the conflict betweenprobable dreams of romance and the stark reality of societal expectations. It was a compromise he had reluctantly proposed, understanding the weight it carried for both of them.
