Page 8 of Her Unsuitable Match

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.