Miss Dashing, page 10
Chapter Seven
“If they aren’t out riding, and they aren’t in the library, and they aren’t strolling the garden,” Portia asked, “where could they have got off to?” She’d been worrying that question for the better part of an hour, and she was growing both hot and cross.
“This is so like a pair of eligible bachelors,” Flavia groused, marching at her side. “To be invited to a lovely house party full of congenial and attractive company and then to simply disappear. I had thought better of Mr. DeWitt. Truly, I had.”
“Lord Phillip is a marquess’s brother and heir,” Portia fumed as the arched bridge came into view. “He ought to be more au fait regarding such matters. I love you dearly, Flave, but a handsome, masculine escort on this little constitutional would have been ever so agreeable.”
“One takes your point, sister dearest, and my slippers will be ruined for all this trekking through the wilds. I wore my favorite pair for everyday too.”
Flavia’s favorite pair bore a suspicious resemblance to Mama’s favorite pair. Darling Flavia was prone to creatively borrowing whatever caught her eye, but she’d better not think to borrow Lord Phillip.
“Unconscionable rogues,” Portia grumbled, “to force us to hike over hill and dale in pursuit. This is what comes from Mama allowing Hecate to make up the guest list. Poor Hecate’s on the shelf, as is known to all, and she can hardly—ouch!”
Flavia had stopped halfway across the bridge and smacked Portia in the ribs. “Give me your field glasses, Portia.”
“Why?” As soon as Portia posed the question, she caught sight of the figures on the distant gallery balcony. A man and a woman, both bare-headed. The fellow was tall, while the lady…
“Is that Hecate?” Portia whispered, using her field glasses to confirm the unthinkable. “That is Hecate, and she is in a most inappropriate embrace with a man.”
Flavia snatched the field glasses. “With Lord Phillip Vincent. I don’t know whether to be appalled at his poor taste or aghast at her lack of decorum.”
“They don’t appear to be kissing.”
“They are kissing now.”
Portia snatched back her field glasses and halfway wished she hadn’t. Lord Phillip was a leisurely kisser, and before her very eyes, Hecate Brompton, pattern card of probity, pence, and quid, became a siren in his arms. She kissed him back with the same sumptuous languor, her hands trailing over his broad shoulders and long back.
“We ought not to be watching,” Flavia said, gaze riveted on the balcony. “This is private.”
“This is a disaster. Hecate is working her wiles on the unsuspecting, Flave. How dare she?”
“Hecate hasn’t any wiles, and Lord Phillip knows what he’s about.”
Did he ever. His hand glossed gently down Hecate’s back, inviting her closer without exerting a hint of force.
“Hecate knows what she’s about too,” Portia said, feeling a sense of bitter, bitter betrayal. “She’s her mother’s daughter. Mama says so at least once a week.”
“Mama says a lot of things. Nobody has ever kissed me like that.”
Me either. Portia remained silent rather than risk sounding as forlorn as Flavia had. The kissing went on, interspersed with long moments of quiet embracing. Lord Phillip kissed Hecate’s fingers—drat him to the devil and back—and murmured something into her ear.
She nodded, and they passed into the gallery, arms around each other’s waists.
“We were not supposed to see that,” Flavia said. “Hecate must be top over tail for his lordship to so far forget herself.”
“Hecate does not fall top over tail. Not for his lordship. Not for any man. She’s been enthralled with her ledgers ever since Cousin Johnny broke her heart.”
“According to Mama.” A hint of disloyalty colored Flavia’s observation as she left the bridge for the path through the park. “Mama is all but cooing at Mr. DeGrange. We have been out for two Seasons, Portia, and Mama has failed to secure so much as a request to court either one of us. I fear she’s decided to pursue her own interests at our expense.”
“Mama wouldn’t.” Portia trailed behind Flavia, still much preoccupied with that business on the balcony. “Hecate never forgets herself. She must be toying with Lord Phillip’s affections. He’s been ruralizing for ages and isn’t accustomed to polite society’s ways.”
“But you said he’s a marquess’s brother and ought to—”
Portia caught up with her sister. “I know what I said, but since when has Hecate ever taken notice of a fellow? Lord Phillip must be richer than Mama knows, Flave. Hecate must be after his money.” This theory made sense, given what Portia knew of Hecate and of Mama’s imperfect intelligence-gathering abilities. Mama was losing her touch, alas, and Eglantine was no help whatsoever, while Charles was utterly useless.
Portia and Flavia were on their own, and Portia forgot that at her peril.
“Lord Phillip is certainly well turned out,” Flavia allowed. “He doesn’t cut nearly the dash Mr. DeWitt does, and Mr. DeWitt is known to be wealthy, but you might have a point about Hecate’s motivations. Given her unfortunate antecedents, one must make allowances.”
Flavia’s signal virtue was her loyalty. As younger sisters went, she wasn’t that clever, and she often said the first thing to pop into her head, but she was unswervingly loyal.
“We must do something, Flave. Lord Phillip is new to Society, a lamb to be shorn by the first scheming spinster to whip out her shears. Hecate could have had no other purpose for putting his lordship on the guest list besides getting her hooks into him before the matchmakers have a go.”
“Unsporting of her, and there’s his lordship with all that money.”
“Thousands of acres of prime Berkshire land too,” Portia observed, for surely a marquess’s brother would have a largish estate. “And not bad-looking.”
“Mr. DeWitt is the handsomer of the two.”
“Where is Mr. DeWitt?”
Flavia stopped at the foot of the garden. “Where is Mrs. Roberts?”
Portia voiced a more intriguing possibility. “Where is Eglantine?”
“Porry, no!” Flavia sank onto the steps that led up to the formal parterres. “Eglantine is devoted to Charles. Dotes on him. Adores him for his Gallant Sacrifice.”
Portia would not risk getting her skirts dirty by taking an undignified seat on the steps, but neither would she allow Flavia to deceive herself about a real possibility.
“Charles got his mitts on a considerable fortune when he married his Eggy, Flave. The fortune is gone in less than ten years. She might resent that, and she has presented Charles with an heir and spare, despite the heir’s lineage being somewhat irregular.”
“In true aristocratic fashion, though.”
“In true aristocratic fashion. We also know Charles has a wandering eye.”
“A wandering pizzle, you mean. He’s a hound, Porry. If he wasn’t in line for the earldom, hostesses wouldn’t bother with him.”
Portia began to pace as her theory acquired supporting principles and corollaries. “Yes, they would, because he is a witty and charming hound. All the male cousins know how to open doors, including bedroom doors. They dance well, and they are handsome.”
“We dance well and are very pretty.”
“Just so, but if Eglantine has grown tired of Charles’s philandering, then she might embark on a little adventure of her own.”
“To make him jealous?”
“And to pass the time, now that the heir and spare are in the nursery. And there’s Mr. DeWitt, all handsome and friendly and immediately to hand. One could not blame her for indulging in a private moment or two.”
Flavia rose and shook out her skirts. “Yes, one could. Let’s find Eglantine if we can’t find Mr. DeWitt. We need her expert opinion on dresses for tonight’s supper.”
“You find her,” Portia said, opening the garden gate. “All this hiking about has left me with aching feet. I will search for Mama.”
“Will you tell her that Hecate has accosted Lord Phillip in a most shocking manner?”
Portia considered strategy and options. “I think we’d best keep Lord Phillip’s foolishness to ourselves, Flave, for the sake of his dignity. Then too, if Mama gets her oar in, she might inform Hecate that we are on to her scheme. I’d prefer to handle matters without Mama’s flair for complications.”
Flavia trailed a hand along the lavender border. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard, Porry. I think we are supposed to make our curtsey at court, stand up with dozens of handsome eligibles who are charmed by our many accomplishments, and then we have three offers by the end of our first Season. Maybe we’re doing something wrong.”
Flavia was so sentimental. “Letting Lord Phillip and Mr. DeWitt out of our sight was wrong. Older ladies lose all sense of decorum, and Eglantine and Hecate are both getting on.”
Flavia’s gaze was on the balcony running along the back of the gallery wing. “I don’t think that’s the problem. Why can Mama disport with all the rogues she pleases, but Hecate’s mother did likewise, and it was an endless family scandal? Doesn’t seem fair, Porry.”
“Mama had Charles, and that makes all the difference. Go find Eggy. I’ll tell Mama we’ve enjoyed our constitutional very much.”
“Tell her we won sixpence at whist.”
They’d cheated, of course. An elaborate series of signals—a twist to a ring, a finger tapped on the table—made plain what cards were held by a partnering sister. Needs must, and even sixpence could bribe a maid or footman.
“I will make sure she knows. Away with you.”
Flavia grabbed Portia in a hug, then scampered off, intent on thwarting Eglantine’s wayward overtures.
Eggy would never cheat on Charles, of course, but Portia had a marquess’s heir to accost, and for that delicate undertaking, she had no need of Flavia’s assistance.
Hecate prattled on about whose dowery had brought how much acreage, or what architect had been hired by which earl. Phillip let the words course around him as a boulder in a stream was bathed and more firmly anchored by the flowing water.
He settled into the joy of her scent, her hand on his arm, the lush pleasure of her breast pressed momentarily to his biceps when she leaned over to rub her thumb over a dusty signature.
“You are clearly not of the same ilk as these Bromptons,” Phillip said when they’d toured the lot. No portrait of Hecate or her mother had been included, though her Brompton father had been immortalized as a dashing young blade.
“Why do you say that? They aren’t all blond. Some of them are a bit more generously rounded.”
The defensive note was well hidden between proper elocution and feminine dignity, but Phillip heard it.
“That one,”—he gestured down the room—“married four times and inherited a fortune from each wife. The only way wives three and four could have been talked into accepting his proposal is if he’d been a charming bounder.”
“He was.”
“That one,”—Phillip nodded at a be-ruffed fellow across the room—“had thirteen bastards with twelve women. Was he trying to out-fornicate Charles II? This old rip,”—he indicated the present earl’s grandfather—“played Jacobite skittles with the title, selling guns to all comers and somehow avoiding accusations of treason. You describe a true rogue’s gallery. A regiment of selfish ne’er-do-wells dressed up as peers. Their fellow aristocrats might consider them shrewd, lucky, or colorful, but to you, they are more than a little embarrassing.”
Hecate leaned closer, a sort of arm-hug. “Nary a gentleman in the lot, which raises the present earl in my estimation. He’s a decent fellow, for all he’s impressed with his own consequence.”
“Consequence does not bring in the hay before the rain comes down.”
“You know you cannot say such things in Mayfair?” Hecate peered up at him with real concern. “They will mimic your words, your walk, your mannerisms. The average formal ball can become nastier than any schoolyard.”
Phillip wanted to take her into his arms, to whisper to her that she’d never have to endure the taunting and insults again, but at any moment, Gavin DeWitt, the earl, or one of the magpies might charge through the doors.
“You had nobody,” he said. “You made your come out without a single ally. I’m sorry for that. Take us somewhere we can talk.”
“I should be checking on the kitchen. We’re having an informal supper tonight, and that’s a bit more complicated than a buffet.”
Even an informal supper would not be laid for another three hours. “Give me one hour, Hecate. I promise I will maunder on about marling and fall calves and all manner of riveting topics that you can use to your advantage with Nunn’s stewards.”
He simply wanted to be with her. To revel in the knowledge that she’d welcomed his kisses and—his elation touched the heavens—kissed him back. Held him, caressed and petted and damned near cuddled up to him.
Hecate dropped his arm. “I feel as if I’ve had too much punch,” she said, “and I need time for the spirits to wear off before I can face the dance floor.”
“Precisely. Inebriated, awash in bliss and hope. If I promise not to kiss you again, will you spare me a little more of your time?”
Hecate was incapable of rudeness, but she could make a point. She let her gaze rove boldly over Phillip’s person, with a lingering focus on his mouth.
“I want to be very foolish with you, Phillip. Very foolish.”
“I want to be brave with you,” Phillip countered. “To lay my dreams and aspirations at your feet and hear what you think of them. I want to keep my hand in yours, to sit too close to you, to hear what longings you’ve never shared with another.”
“The recitation would be brief and boring.” She moved toward the door, and Phillip let her go.
The entire Brompton family crowded her, put demands on her, took her for granted, and relied on her. He would not add to her burdens.
“The recitation of your hopes and dreams would be precious and surprising,” Phillip said. “You’d like to take Nunnsuch in hand, I’m guessing, but keeping your cousins out of debtors’ prison and free of scandal is an ongoing battle that leaves you no time or energy for farming.”
Hecate paused to straighten a portrait of the fourth countess. “The Brompton cousins and in-laws are legion, all pockets to let and all convinced of their own cleverness. I fear Eglantine will soon develop a wandering eye, and Charles could so easily be blackmailed over his numerous dalliances. It’s a wonder I’m not blackmailing him, except I myself would have to pay any sum I attempted to extort from him.”
“Charles’s mother doesn’t wander,” Phillip said. “She mounts an armed charge into forbidden territory, and those daughters of hers…”
Hecate nodded. “Charles says the betting books mention Portia and Flavia: Which one will misstep first and with whom? Will it be somebody else’s spouse? A known rake? A charming roué? Edna made an effort the year they came out and again this year, but Edna has a taste for slippers and parasols that would beggar the national exchequer.”
Hecate closed the distance between them and looped her arms around him. “Those two think they are so sophisticated, so worldly, but they have no idea the havoc a man with indecent objectives can wreak on a young lady’s plans.”
Phillip’s ideas were not indecent. They were tender and wonderful and erotic, but never indecent.
“You worry,” he said, stroking her hair. How lovely simply to hold her. “You worry endlessly, and they resent you, and I promise you, Hecate Brompton, they do not deserve you.”
She relaxed against him. “Tell them that. Please. They have it in their heads that because my mother’s husband didn’t set her and me aside, I am eternally in their debt.”
“They would say that, when the boot is so clearly on the other foot, but you are not orphaned, sixteen, and ignorant of the world. They know that, too, and it drives them barmy.”
Hecate pulled back far enough to consider him. “I won’t leave my family penniless on the street corner.”
You might have to, if they are ever to amount to anything. “I would rather not spend our time discussing the dodgy antics of your Brompton relations.” Though, in truth, not a drop of Brompton blood ran in Hecate’s veins. “I would rather be strolling the woods with you, riding the bridle paths, or reading you poetry on some shady stream bank.”
She took his hand. “Tell me about the hogs and the acorns, about fall calves and marling.”
Phillip’s heart, usually a private and quiet place, felt as if it could encompass all of the Home Counties plus half the Channel.
“You will tell me about informal suppers in the country and proper topics for breakfast conversation.”
They sat, arms around each other, among all the Brompton rakes and rapscallions, and talked and talked and talked. About cousins and calves, clearing ditches and escorting debutantes. Phillip had never strung together so many words in his life, nor listened half so intently.
To Hecate’s words, to her pauses and silences, to her tone, to her delicate inferences.
And all the while, they sat close enough to breathe in unison, to become as one, contented, happy creatures on an afternoon touched with the particular stillness known only to high summer.
This is courtship. The truth landed in Phillip’s mind and heart at the same time, a seed falling upon rich soil. Driving in Hyde Park, waltzing beneath the chandeliers, sipping punch at Almack’s had nothing whatsoever to do with courting Hecate Brompton, but listening to her, confiding in her, sharing affection with her did.
They eventually fell silent, content simply to be together, and that was courtship too.
The dressing gong sounded, and Hecate started. “Oh dear heavens, the time. The kitchen will be in chaos, when I promised Cook I’d stop by. I haven’t told my maid what ensemble to lay out, and I ought to catch up with Portia and Flavia. They were playing whist very late last night. A tactic to elude supervision because they know I am an early riser.”
And yet, Hecate did not leave Phillip’s side.
