finally, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. The moon was rising, and she could see indecision written there.
With a little grimace, he shifted so that she was forced to rise. Standing in front of her, his hands clutched hers as she held the book.
"Miss Beauchamp . . . Philippa, I. . . cannot betray my... I cannot."
He took a step away from her and dropped his hands to his sides. He might as well have crossed a desert, for
when next he spoke, his voice was dry and empty of all emotion.
"The hero of the book is Sir Milton. He is a capital sort of fellow, modeled after my brother Max, who is also a capital sort of fellow. He is not the sort who would trifle with someone else's ... I must go. I do hope: you will think of Max while you are reading this. He is the very best person I know, full of all sorts of noble j ideals and qualities. He would never dream of betraying a trust. Never."
"Mr. Darby ... Tristram?"
"I must go. I... I should never have come."
And then he was gone. Philippa sat down on the little chair and cried—small, tiny sobs that befitted a girl who was small and tiny. Inside, however, she was quite certain her heart was breaking, and she wished she were a complete ninnyhammer, because then she would not have understood what Tristram was saying.
It was his brother who was courting her, not sweet, gentle Tristram. Tristram might be attracted to her, but he was not interested in taking her as his wife.
At this realization, Philippa thought her heart really would break!
That night, at the invitation of the Marquess of Cravenwell, Max and Tristram set out for dinner at White's, one of the most fashionable men's clubs in London. Gambling was the main activity, especially in the evening, but neither Darby brother was inclined to join in the play.
As they entered the hallowed portals, Max said, "What the devil has you so peevish? You have been frowning ever since you came home this afternoon."
"Why shouldn't I be cross? What is the meaning of this summons? I mean, does the dirty marquess want to inspect us? I should think he knows what we look like by now."
"Perhaps he invited us to be polite," said Max, grinning unabashedly.
Tristram could not help but smile at his brother's nonsensical comment. Then he spied the marquess and his father.
"Devil take me! The old fool's playing cards with the marquess again!" exclaimed Tristram. "We will never see the light of day!"
"I wonder if there is a way for us to disown him?" quipped Max. "There, that's better. Might as well grin and bear it. Come on, Tris."
The viscount sat opposite the marquess, his nose in a hand of cards, a glass of brandy at his elbow, and a smile on his face.
"Sit down, lads," he said, motioning them forward.
"And be quiet," growled the marquess.
"Do not be offended by your host's incivility. He is not accustomed to losing, especially to me," said Viscount Tavistoke with a chuckle.
"Wouldn't be tonight except that he is having the most damnable run of luck," snapped the marquess.
"Piquet always was your game, Papa," said Max, taking a chair on his father's right side while Tristram still stood, gazing^round the club.
"Sit down, young chub. Hasn't anyone ever told you it ain't polite to stand over people when they're playing cards? Thought a son of Tavistoke here would know better."
"And so he does," said the viscount as Tristram slipped into the fourth chair at the table.
"Sorry. I wasn't looking at your cards, either of you. I just hadn't been here before, and..."
"Well, you mustn't even think of drawing this place," said the rude marquess, jabbing Tristram in the chest with one bony finger. "It would play havoc with the members!"
"I don't see why. It's nothing that isn't going on in a dozen other clubs at this very moment," said Tristram, glaring at the older man.
"Oh, so this one's decided to take the bit in his mouth and run with it, has he?" said the marquess. "It would be well for you to remember, my boy, who is
With a little grimace, he shifted so that she was forced to rise. Standing in front of her, his hands clutched hers as she held the book.
"Miss Beauchamp . . . Philippa, I. . . cannot betray my... I cannot."
He took a step away from her and dropped his hands to his sides. He might as well have crossed a desert, for
when next he spoke, his voice was dry and empty of all emotion.
"The hero of the book is Sir Milton. He is a capital sort of fellow, modeled after my brother Max, who is also a capital sort of fellow. He is not the sort who would trifle with someone else's ... I must go. I do hope: you will think of Max while you are reading this. He is the very best person I know, full of all sorts of noble j ideals and qualities. He would never dream of betraying a trust. Never."
"Mr. Darby ... Tristram?"
"I must go. I... I should never have come."
And then he was gone. Philippa sat down on the little chair and cried—small, tiny sobs that befitted a girl who was small and tiny. Inside, however, she was quite certain her heart was breaking, and she wished she were a complete ninnyhammer, because then she would not have understood what Tristram was saying.
It was his brother who was courting her, not sweet, gentle Tristram. Tristram might be attracted to her, but he was not interested in taking her as his wife.
At this realization, Philippa thought her heart really would break!
That night, at the invitation of the Marquess of Cravenwell, Max and Tristram set out for dinner at White's, one of the most fashionable men's clubs in London. Gambling was the main activity, especially in the evening, but neither Darby brother was inclined to join in the play.
As they entered the hallowed portals, Max said, "What the devil has you so peevish? You have been frowning ever since you came home this afternoon."
"Why shouldn't I be cross? What is the meaning of this summons? I mean, does the dirty marquess want to inspect us? I should think he knows what we look like by now."
"Perhaps he invited us to be polite," said Max, grinning unabashedly.
Tristram could not help but smile at his brother's nonsensical comment. Then he spied the marquess and his father.
"Devil take me! The old fool's playing cards with the marquess again!" exclaimed Tristram. "We will never see the light of day!"
"I wonder if there is a way for us to disown him?" quipped Max. "There, that's better. Might as well grin and bear it. Come on, Tris."
The viscount sat opposite the marquess, his nose in a hand of cards, a glass of brandy at his elbow, and a smile on his face.
"Sit down, lads," he said, motioning them forward.
"And be quiet," growled the marquess.
"Do not be offended by your host's incivility. He is not accustomed to losing, especially to me," said Viscount Tavistoke with a chuckle.
"Wouldn't be tonight except that he is having the most damnable run of luck," snapped the marquess.
"Piquet always was your game, Papa," said Max, taking a chair on his father's right side while Tristram still stood, gazing^round the club.
"Sit down, young chub. Hasn't anyone ever told you it ain't polite to stand over people when they're playing cards? Thought a son of Tavistoke here would know better."
"And so he does," said the viscount as Tristram slipped into the fourth chair at the table.
"Sorry. I wasn't looking at your cards, either of you. I just hadn't been here before, and..."
"Well, you mustn't even think of drawing this place," said the rude marquess, jabbing Tristram in the chest with one bony finger. "It would play havoc with the members!"
"I don't see why. It's nothing that isn't going on in a dozen other clubs at this very moment," said Tristram, glaring at the older man.
"Oh, so this one's decided to take the bit in his mouth and run with it, has he?" said the marquess. "It would be well for you to remember, my boy, who is
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