15
“A wedding…” Philippa echoed. The word bounced around in her head until her skull began to throb. Everyone was staring at her, expecting some kind of answer. It was too much.
She was the daughter of a long dead woman she would never know. She had a father who tried to kill her—twice. And the parents who raised her weren’t her parents at all.
“No,” she whispered. When she saw their confused faces, she repeated herself. “I’m sorry, my lord, but no.” Then what she’d said sunk in and she was mortified. Philippa surged to her feet and fled the room. For a second she stood in the hall, unsure of what to do.
Leave. That’s what she needed to do.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard booted steps following behind her. She increased her pace, but a pair of arms banded around her waist
