Jilting the Duke by Rachael Miles Read Free Book Online Page A

you’ll wound yourself as much as her ladyship.”
    â€œMy enemies would say that sympathy is no longer part of my nature and that I have no heart to wound.”
    â€œA man who judges his own character by the opinions of his enemies is a fool,” Barlow countered.
    Aidan pretended not to hear. If he lacked sympathy, it was Sophia’s doing. And if she suffered for his hardness of heart, then she deserved no better. He could hear his father’s admonition as if it were yesterday: “Never trust a woman, lad. Their affections are only as deep as your pockets.”

Chapter Six
    Aidan arrived at the Wilmot house promptly at two. A solid Georgian, with three floors above the ground level, and one below, the house faced north into the last block of Queen Anne Street, abutting the lower estates of Portland Place. At the corner there, Chandos Street led south to Cavendish Square, to the park—and to his house. After receiving Tom’s letter, Aidan had waited until night, then he had traced his path from the now spent flowers in the Cavendish Square garden, out the iron gate, up the block, and around the corner, until he’d found the Wilmot home, several houses in. The ghostly Sophia in the garden had been no ghost.
    Lady Wilmot—as he reminded himself to call her—had instructed her staff to expect him. Her butler opened the door at the first knock, then disappeared to deliver Aidan’s card. A lithe Italian wearing secondhand gentleman’s clothes took Aidan’s cloak and gloves. Likely Tom’s clothes, Aidan realized with a pang.
    Waiting, Aidan felt unexpectedly unsettled. To calm himself, he assumed the posture of an officer at ease. Hands folded behind his back, he turned his attention to a mental inventory of the house. Pocket doors on either side of the entry led to public drawing rooms, but the butler had disappeared instead through a third doorway, leading to the back of the house. A large open stairway curved on his right, up to a second-floor landing, where a large Palladian window filled the whole space with light. On a sunny day, the window could light the front of the house, an efficient floor plan, given King George’s regressive tax on windows.
    Aidan paid little attention to the hall furniture; it had most likely come with the property. The paintings on the walls offered precise architectural scenes of Italian cities. Tom’s choices, Aidan assessed. Rational, intellectual.
    No hint of Sophia, her taste, or her preferences. Oddly, he relaxed. In the larger scheme of his life’s experiences, this was not so significant a meeting. His own life, the lives of thousands of British soldiers, did not depend on the outcome of his and Sophia’s discussions, and he doubted Lady Wilmot would kill him with her penknife if he made a misstep. No, he thought, and breathed deeply, this was simply another diplomatic mission. He would set her at ease, so that he could discover what she held valuable and what she deemed expendable. And when he knew what she hoped to gain and what she was willing to lose, he would know how to proceed. Until then, he would give nothing away.
    When Dodsley returned, Aidan followed the silver-haired butler to the back of the house.
    * * *
    Competent, serious, responsible . Sophia repeated the words, as she waited for Dodsley to escort Aidan to the library. A woman who could be trusted with the care of her own child. A woman who can command, she heard Phee’s voice correct her.
    Even in cerulean blue, the dress Tom had sent her was subtle and reserved. She would not greet Aidan in frothy silks and remind him of those silly, ill-educated society beauties he knew best. “Hothouse flowers,” Mary Wollstonecraft had called them, arguing that such women should be educated, if nothing else, to become fine mothers. I am, if nothing else, a fine mother. In Sophia’s hair, black brocaded velvet twisted through the bun above the