Page 52 of Miss Determined
He’d certainly thought about learning to dance. “Half of London watched me fall on mine.”
That apparently wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. A slow smile spread upward from his lips to his cheeks to his eyes, and for the first time in her life, Lissa saw Phillip not as her friend, not as a pleasant and reliable fixture in her life, but as a handsome fellow with depths she’d never guessed at.
“You did not fall on your… your backside, Lissa DeWitt. We would have heard about that, even out here.”
“Leave me some eggs. What Crosspatch heard was that I did nottake, I was not popular, I received no offers. At my age, and with my infamously generous settlements, that amounts to the same thing as going top over tail at Almack’s.”
They took their seats at the table, Lissa at Phillip’s right hand. Trevor would have somehow found a way to hold her chair, though Lissa managed easily enough.
“Why go back there again?” Phillip asked, sprinkling a pinch of salt on his eggs. “Why give them the satisfaction of an encore?”
“This year will be different.” Lissa shoved a bite of ham into her mouth rather than explain to Phillip why this year—why the rest of her life—would be different in the best possible way. She was kinder, happier, and more full of hope and joy for having become Trevor Dorning’s intended. They were not officially betrothed, which was even better than if she’d been sporting an engagement ring.
Trevor would propose at the perfect moment, after wooing her for the duration of the perfect courtship. The feelings he inspired, with his combination of private passion and public rectitude, were so different from what Lissa had felt with her near misses.
Titus buttoning up his falls, consulting his watch, and expecting Lissa to precede him from the library. “Ladies first.” Meaning she took the risk of discovery while he restored his hair to its coiffureà la Brutus.
Charles touching a mere finger to his hat brim in the park, while he urged his horse to all but gallop past her.
“That is an alarming smile, Lissa,” Phillip said, passing her the salt dish. “Determined and somewhat lupine.”
“I made a mistake thinking I had to deal with polite society as if a shopkeeper’s granddaughter had no place in Mayfair. I have as much right to turn down the room in my pretty frocks, or to sit up at night with a restless mare, or to while away an afternoon reading sonnets as the next woman. My home is here in Crosspatch, and it’s the opinions of our good neighbors that matter to me.”
Phillip paused in the midst of demolishing his eggs. “I’d say it’s your opinion of yourself that should matter most. I have found you magnificent, if a bit overwhelming, should you be planning to inquire. I’d rather have you for a friend than an enemy. Might you pass the butter?”
That comment was surprisingly personal, even for plainspoken Phillip. “Has something changed for you, Phillip?” Lissa buttered two slices of toast and passed over the dish.
He scraped butter onto his toast, then drizzled honey over the butter. Such was Phillip’s inherent sense of focus that when he was done, a perfect spiral of sweetness adorned the bread. He spread the honey evenly before taking a bite.
“Something has changed,” he said, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. “Perhaps I have changed. I offered you a loan, and you thanked me kindly, probably believing that I could spare the equivalent of a summer’s egg money.”
“You were very generous, regardless. Thank you for the gesture.”
He glowered at her over a forkful of eggs. “Not a gesture. Never that.” He downed the eggs and took a sip of tea. “Dorning and I got to talking, about hops and barley and the best cooperage and so forth, and I realized… I am a good farmer, Lissa.”
“You are a very good farmer. A walking almanac. You know farming better than Vicar knows his gospels, better than Dabney knows his farriery.”But not better than I know the feel of Trevor Dorning in my arms.
“I should be a good farmer. I’ve done little else, and the subject lends itself to endless study and experimentation. Dorning has set his cap for you. He’s taken Roland in hand. He dreams of possibilities at Miller’s Lament I never imagined. He toured this house, asking me about this deal table or that painting, and I realized I am not attending to my own life. I’m drifting, a rudderless skiff bobbing along on the tide of changing seasons, not a man pursuing worthy ambitions.”
The words were simple and honest and, from Phillip, profound. “Is that why your foyer smells of beeswax, lemon, and camphor? You see your dwelling with new eyes as well?”
“I’ve turned the housekeeper loose on the spring cleaning early, authorized her to hire as many village ladies as necessary to scrub the place from eaves to foundation. We’re going through the attics room by room, I’m considering adding a conservatory, and I might even have Mrs. Peeksgill make me up a new suit or two.”
“Have her make you a new wardrobe, Phillip. Tell Vicar you’d like his company on a jaunt into Reading. Visit a mercer’s and take your time choosing the fabric.”
Phillip grimaced. “Reading.” His tone implied a large cache of putrid eggs immediately upwind.
“I’m not suggesting you go on a market day,” Lissa went on, “but neither should you allow Crosspatch to hold you captive forever.” Why had she taken so long to tell him that?
But Lissa knew why: She’d liked having Phillip on the next property over, a dependable, if shy, knowledgeable neighbor. Phillip had been a comfort, in his way, and Lissa hoped he’d say the same about her.
He finished his toast. “Are you a captive here?”
“I felt more like a prisoner in London.” A prisoner to Papa’s ambitions, Society’s games, Gavin’s absence, Mama’s schemes… Did Trevor ever feel like that, as the illegitimate son of a lofty peer?
“But now you are free?” Phillip asked. “Do I conclude Mr. Dorning has been the agent of your liberation?”
“You conclude I don’t answer rude questions.” She spoiled her scold with a smile.
