Page 21 of A Love to Remember
Portia gave a most unladylikehumph. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for my brother. He’s an idiot, and idiots deserve all they get.”
Which was true. But as Rose prepared for their outing, she prayed that Philip didn’t turn out to be astubbornidiot.
—
Philip Flagstaff, you are an idiot.
He knew he should not have had that extra bottle of brandy, but he’d dined with Arend and Isobel and they were so damned happy. Watching them together, excited at the approaching birth of their first child, he’d been tempted to leave them to their excitement, race to Rose, tell her he’d made a mistake, and beg her to marry him.
But he hadn’t. The last thing he remembered was Arend shoving him—none too gently—into his carriage. He’d have to send a huge bunch of flowers to Isobel as an apology for such boorish behavior.
And he’d lied to them. When Isobel had wanted to know where Rose was he’d told her she was tired and wanted a night in. Neither of them believed him.
Soon his friends would start asking why they were no longer seen together. Why he let a woman like Rose slip away.
Slowly, he sat up and his head began to pound as if a rampaging bull was running through it.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he reached for the decanter by his bed. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, as dry as stable straw. He took a long slug of spirits, swirled it round his mouth, and then spat it into the privy basin.
His friends would not be his only problem. His mother would take the end of his affair with Rose as a declaration that he was ready to take a wife. How the hell would he stop her parading young debutantes in front of him?
His worst problem, however, would be Portia. His sister would be furious, and she of all of them was unlikely to be fobbed off with high-sounding fustian. She knew how he felt about Rose.
Cursing his sister, his headache, and his life in general, Philip pushed back the covers and rang for his valet. He needed a bath before he escaped to his club for the afternoon. The following week he was expected at Serena’s for dinner and he’d better have a plausible reason for the break with Rose by then. At least Rose would not be attending—a prior engagement with Lord Kirkwood concerning Drake’s schooling.
Another blow for Rose. Drake was her life, and when Kirkwood took the boy off to school she’d be heartbroken. He wished he could be there to help her through it. But there was nothing now that he could do. Their relationship was over.
An hour later, bathed, groomed, and dressed, Philip spent an hour in his study to clear up correspondence before heading for the club. It was safe enough. His mother was out shopping, and at that time of day Portia would be at home with Jackson, his nine-month-old nephew. He loved the boy even though he reminded him so painfully of Robert. The child had inherited Robert’s and Portia’s eyes and mouth.
So it was a surprise when, not long after he’d settled in, Portia strode into his study without being announced and without knocking.
“My lord.” Merton peered over Portia’s shoulder. “Lady Blackwood has come to call.”
“I see that,” he said. “Thank you, Merton.” He waited for his amused butler to close the door before he frowned at Portia. “Your manners have not improved as you have aged.”
“Are you calling me old, brother dear?” She took a seat. “Because let me tell you, I have a great number of names I’d like to callyou.For example.” She began counting off on her fingers. “One, stupid. Two, idiot—”
“I hate to be pedantic but they mean the same thing.”
“Three, fool.” She sighed and her little fists clenched in her lap. “Oooh,I’m so angry with you. How could you hurt Rose by telling her such a whisker? Of course you’ll marry. You’re the earl, for goodness’ sake. There’s such a thing as responsibility to the name and the title.”
His humor fled and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Goddamn interfering sisters. Of course Portia would rise to the defense of her friend. But he shouldn’t have to explain himself to anyone. “My activities are none of your business. Please just leave it alone.” He made his tone cold and hard. “As head of this household I deserve the right to some privacy. I never once poked my nose into your affairs.”
“I didn’t have affairs.”
“Not those sorts of affairs,” he conceded. “But I did not try and meddle in your cider business. I did not try to stop you doing what you wished. What makes you think you have the right to interfere in mine?”
Portia drooped in her chair, all the fight gone out of her. “Because since Robert died and you became the earl, I’ve never seen you as happy as when you’re with Rose.” She gazed pleadingly at him. “I just want you to be happy, Philip. Rose makes you happy.”
He gave her a wan smile. “I love that you care but please respect my—and Rose’s—privacy. What is done has been done for the best, and I don’t intend to explain my actions to you or anyone. If you love me, then you’ll let me be.”
“But you’re my brother.” Her mouth trembled. “And she’s my best friend. I was so hoping you’d propose.” She sniffed. “Now it’s going to be awkward. But I amnotavoiding her at functions just because you might be there.”
God, no. He’d hate that. “I do not expect you to. We have parted friends and I have no intention of cutting Rose, either. We are adults, are we not?”
Portia nodded and perked up. “Speaking of functions, there’s a dinner soon at Serena’s. Grayson said to tell you he has learned of a new wool market and will share the details then.”
Portia had stopped scolding far too quickly. Something was up. “Will Rose be there?”
