After dinner, however, Lady Sarah had made an appearance. Following several minutes of small talk, he’d suggested she show him the gallery, and she’d obliged. And he’d taken the opportunity to tell her… warn her. She’d listened to his tale with what appeared to be merely polite interest, and at the end of his recitation had murmured, “How… interesting. I shall think upon it,” then had excused herself, claiming the headache. When he’d called upon her yesterday he’d been informed by the butler that she still suffered the headache and was not receiving visitors. He’d tried to speak to her father, but the duke was not at home. Philip had left a note for his grace, but had not received a reply, indicating he’d obviously arrived home too late to respond. And Philip had spent the remainder of his time at the warehouse, searching through the numerous crates for the one item that could bring salvation. He’d been unsuccessful, which meant that one way or another, this day was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Surely someone would send word to him soon, or Lady Sarah would herself arrive. Or not arrive. He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on his confining cravat. Either way, he was damned. Honor demanded that he marry Lady Sarah. But honor also demanded that he not. Her image rose in his mind’s eye. Such a lovely young woman. The thought of taking her for his wife should have pleased him enormously. Instead the very idea cramped his insides with dread.

A knock sounded, and he quickly strode to the door and opened it. His father entered the room, and Philip closed the door behind him with a soft click. Turning, he met his father’s gaze and waited for him to speak. The signs of Father’s illness were starkly visible in the ribbon of sunlight streaming through the window. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and his complexion was sallow and pale. He was considerably thinner than when Philip had left England, his face bordering on gaunt, the shadow of circles staining dark gray beneath his eyes.