A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

P hilip met Ruth’s eyes over the chess board.

“A bold move,” she said, and the smile in her eyes resonated somewhere inside him.

It also made him question his move.

She lowered her eyes to the board again, searching the remaining figures. Her hair was still styled in the male fashion, but she had shed her masculine garb immediately after their return to Upper Brook Street. Philip half-smiled at the conflicting sight.

The entire situation was incredible—passing a Sunday afternoon alone with a woman. The thought would have scandalized him and struck fear into his heart a few weeks ago.

But he had never felt uneasy in Ruth’s company. Was it because he had met her as a man? Had skipped over the initial and most difficult parts of acquaintance?

She moved a knight three spaces and looked up at him with a cocked brow.

He blinked, refocusing on the board to determine what his next move should be. His eyebrows drew together, and he looked up again. She was biting her lip, and he found himself momentarily distracted again, reminded of how it had felt under his thumb.

“That isn’t possible,” he said, forcing his eyes back to the game. “I was certain I had you.”

“ Certainty is absurd , Voltaire once said.” Ruth flicked over Philip’s king and sat back, arms folded across her chest. She had acquired some masculine mannerisms, and Philip found them amusing.

“Another game, then,” he said. “I was distracted.”

She clucked her tongue. “Always with the excuses.”

He sent her a glare, and they set to arranging the pieces for another game. “It is not an excuse. I am sorely regretting that card party the other day, as Alice took it as carte blanche to take charge of my life.”

“What has she done now?”

“As good as offered for Miss Devenish on my behalf.”

Ruth’s head snapped up, and Philip’s smile wavered. The intent look in Ruth’s eyes pinned him in place, and he could have sworn he saw a flash of hurt, but it was followed by a little laugh. “You move too slowly for her.”

“There is no doubt of that. I think she might take to speaking to Mr. Devenish herself if I don’t do it soon. I shall have to ensure she has no time alone with him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Ruth slowed as she set the final piece in place.

“Yes.” Philip sighed. “A dinner party at Alice’s—the invitation extended without any approval from me.”

“Your move first,” Ruth said. “Well, we have this afternoon for a lesson if you feel you need any further preparation. And I shall engage to keep Mr. Devenish occupied tomorrow evening if you are truly concerned about what your sister might do. I’ve not spoken to the man, but I have no doubt I can find a topic that will keep his attention for some time.”

Philip opened his mouth only to shut it again. Ruth assumed she was invited.

At his silence, she looked up, her smile becoming less certain. “What?”

He grimaced. “Alice insists that the dinner be a small, intimate affair. I believe the Devenishes are the only ones she intends to invite.” Philip nearly reached out a hand to take Ruth’s as he watched embarrassment appear on her face. “I want you to come, believe me, but—”

Ruth waved a hand and laughed, applying herself to the chess game again. “No, no, that is wise of your sister. I am completely unnecessary at this point. It will be a good opportunity, I think. Perhaps the last step in the journey.”

And then it hit Philip, square in the chest. The sum of it all—of his thoughts and feelings. He didn’t want to spend an evening with Miss Devenish. He didn’t want time alone with her. The only person he wanted more time with was sitting across from him, the pawn in her hand hovering over a black square.

“Ruth.” Her name came out without his permission.

She looked up, the flush of embarrassment still fading from her cheeks, and he stared at her, like seeing her for the first time. Was this what it felt like to be in love? Never tiring of someone’s company? Feeling able to talk about everything or nothing?

It was. He knew it in that moment as well as he knew anything. It was just as Ruth had said: the sort of connection that is inexplicable and yet undeniable .

His breathing quickened, and he felt the call of the unplucked string stretch between them again.

“What is it?” Ruth asked.

He looked at her wondering eyes, so expressive without the distraction of the spectacles she had worn at church. A small crease still ran across the bridge of her nose, fading evidence of the fact that she had been wearing them—a reminder of who Ruth was. And who she wasn’t.

She was everything Philip was forbidden from wanting: poor, unknown, unimportant, with a reputation that hung upon the thin thread of her disguise—a thread that could be snapped at any moment, heaping condemnation upon her—and him. And he was falling in love with her.

He was already in love with her.

And still she looked at him. He glanced down at the signet ring on his right hand, worn by his father and grandfather and great grandfather. A reminder of the sacrifices the Trent men have made , his father had said when he had given it to Philip on his deathbed. Now it is your turn to wear it—to remind you of the duty you owe your forebears.

Philip twisted it on his finger then looked up at Ruth. “Do you ever tire of doing your duty? Of putting your family’s needs and wishes above your own?”

She held his gaze, and he watched the hesitancy in her eyes and the emotion in her throat. She said nothing.

“You have cut your hair, dressed up as a gentleman, fought in a duel, courted danger and condemnation for weeks—all for your family. Do you never tire of it? Of making decisions that will please everyone else but you? Or are you simply so pure-hearted that such things never trouble you?”

She clasped her hands in her lap, lowering her eyes. “I am far from being pure-hearted. And duty is certainly a heavy burden at times.”

“At what point, then, does it become too heavy? At what point does duty become tyranny?”

Ruth sighed and met his eyes again. “I don’t know.”

He sat back in his chair, letting his head fall back. “My entire life, I have been told that my duty lies here”—he raised his hand, and the signet ring glinted in the sunlight that streamed through the window—“with my family, my ancestors, the men who wore this ring—men I never knew, apart from my father. Time and again, my father told me of the sacrifices made by each of the men who came before me—from my fifth great grandfather, awarded a barony for services to the crown; to his son, who was granted the viscountcy. The question was always what I would do, what my contribution would be. I thought that, if I could answer that question and prove myself, perhaps I would be worthy.” He interlaced his fingers, letting them rest on the table.

“Worthy of what?”

He exhaled on a shrug. “Of the title I bear? Of the power I hold? Of the respect and admiration people regard me with, which I have done nothing to merit?”

Of love. The last word stuck in his throat, refusing to be spoken, and he looked away.

Her hand came to rest on his, and she looked at him intently, leaning forward onto the table. “Duty certainly has its place. But I believe that it is most effective when it is driven by love, not wielded as a threat or a weapon. Indeed, what good is a title or an estate or a fortune if all they afford their keepers is a crushing burden of responsibility?” She touched the signet ring thoughtfully. “They are tools to be used with wisdom and not to be taken for granted or squandered carelessly, but surely they should grant as much freedom as they do obligation.”

He stared at her hand on his. As much freedom as obligation . He had never considered the freedoms that his position afforded. But where did the obligation end and the freedoms begin?

She leaned in closer, and their gazes met. “I cannot imagine that you will be the most effective Viscount Oxley you can be if you are living under a shadow all your life—unsure if you measure up to some impossible standard, or believing that your worth depends upon meeting that standard. The title was created for you , not you for the title. It is largely imaginary—a simple piece of paper, is it not? But you”—her mouth turned up with the hint of a tender smile—“you are real. Flesh”—she squeezed his hand—“blood, a beating heart, a lively mind. And you alone determine how much that piece of paper defines you, for better or for worse.”

He cupped his other hand over hers. He wanted Ruth, wanted her hand in his as it was now, her smile always in his sights and her laughter ringing in his ears. He wanted to finish what they had started in the drawing room.

He leaned in, eyes trained on hers, ever-aware of the soft lips through which Ruth’s breath warmed his face. Her gaze remained fixed on his, the same intensity reflected in her eyes as he felt coursing through him. He reached a hand to her cheek, and her eyes shut, dark lashes fluttering lightly, telling him that she wanted the same thing he did. He narrowed the gap between them, and a chess piece clunked onto the board as footsteps sounded outside the door.

Ruth drew back, and the door opened.

“I think we might simply take the stage back to Marsbrooke on Thursday morn—oh! Oxley. Didn’t know you were here. Chess again, is it?” Topher came over and looked at the board, his brows coming together. Philip’s king lay sprawled upon it, knocked over by accident. “Can’t say I see how Ruth won that game, but I have never been very good at chess, you know.”

Philip rose from the table, heart still puttering wildly. “I shall leave you to discuss the details of your return—I have some business with my sister I should attend to.” He shrugged on his coat. “I hope you know that you are welcome to use my uncle’s carriage or my own. It is quite needless for you to travel on the stagecoach.”

Ruth rose slowly from the table, uncertainty in her eyes and color slightly heightened. Why was it so difficult to leave her?

He gave a slight bow and left the room.

T he door shut behind Philip, and Ruth swallowed down the hurt rising like the lump in her throat and the tears making her eyes burn. It was like reliving the day before—yet more bitter and more sweet.

“I must say,” said Topher, “it is good of Oxley to offer his carriage. I would much rather that than going by stagecoach.”

Ruth gathered up the pieces on the chess board. The thought of leaving Philip behind—and being left behind….

“You seem almost as anxious to leave as you were to come,” said Ruth.

“I am.”

Ruth looked at him.

“There is nothing for me here,” he said. “I should have known that before I came.”

They both should have known it. “If you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you have come in the first place?”

Topher tapped his hat against his leg, brows drawn together then shook his head. “No. I don’t belong here—I probably didn’t then, and I certainly don’t now. London has everything to offer those with enough money and consequence to afford it. We have neither.” He looked up at her. “Would you have come?”

Ruth set the final piece in the chess box and shut the lid softly. She had no answer for that question. If she had not come, she would not be hurting as she now was. Was two or three hundred pounds worth having tasted the sweetness of something that could never be? And what of her friendship with Philip? Could she truly say she would forgo that association, even with the pain it had brought?

She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Topher nodded once. “Is he going to offer for her?”

Another question Ruth didn’t know the answer to—hardly wished to know the answer to. When they had nearly kissed the day before, Ruth had easily convinced herself that it had been because Philip was picturing Miss Devenish in her place. And when Ruth had reminded him who actually stood before him—whose lips were nearly close enough to taste, he had apologized and left immediately.

But today…today he hadn’t been thinking of Miss Devenish. And Ruth didn’t know if she wanted to strangle or embrace Topher for his inconvenient entrance. For it was clear by Philip’s abrupt departure that he had been carried away, on the cusp of doing something he didn’t wish to do—not truly.

He might feel something for Ruth, but he did so against his better judgment. He could no more neglect his duty than Ruth could abandon her family. It was ingrained in him, and one conversation—one wishful conversation—could not undo a lifetime of training.

“I believe so.”

Topher nodded once, but Ruth saw the way his jaw and throat worked against the emotion. “And what if he does so after our departure? Shall he send the money to us in Marsbrooke?”

Ruth shrugged. She knew they needed the money. That was what all this had been about. But she never wanted to see it or touch it.

Topher looked at her for a moment then walked over and wrapped his arms around her.