Page 73 of Miss Determined
“But you and his lordship… You don’t seem upset, Lissa, and the bank drafts in my reticule are not the reason for your calm.”
Lissa inventoried her feelings, which were many and varied. A touch of glee, to have argued funds out of Purvis’s undeserving grasp. Relief, because if he’d wanted to be difficult, the meeting might have gone very differently.
“You might well be right, Mama. We have served our purpose for Mr. Purvis and his greedy schemes. I was prepared to call in reinforcements from the bankers, and Mr. Purvis made a tactical retreat after offering barely any resistance. He has larger geese to pluck, or so he believes.”
“What do you believe?”
They came to another corner, and Lissa considered Mama’s question. “Trevor has no intention of marrying Miss Brompton, and I daresay he’s not her cup of tea either.” Miss Brompton could be a bit of a stickler where the male of the species was concerned.
She would never ride astride.
She would never yield liberties to a prospective suitor and know the pleasure of passions fulfilled out of sheer joy rather than duty.
She would never know the delight of a neck-or-nothing gallop along the Twid, or a victory kiss claimed at the conclusion of such a match.
“You aren’t in the least bit concerned that Tavistock has once again exercised a bit of, um…” Mama waited for a dog cart to rattle by, a pair of dowagers aboard.
“I am curious,” Lissa said, “regarding Purvis’s schemes, but Trevor told me Purvis is trying to marry him off to some well-heeled bride of Purvis’s choosing. Trevor had reasons for his deceptions in Crosspatch Corners, but he would not dissemble about his intentions toward Miss Brompton.”
The dog cart was followed by a pair of high-perch phaetons, ridiculously unsteady vanities, one with yellow wheels, the other with red.
“You’re sure of that?” Mama asked as they started across the street.
“I am, oddly enough.” A comforting realization.
As Mama chattered about new frocks, an evening at Vauxhall, and the outlandish pleasure of having received invitations from two duchesses—two! In one day!—Lissa thought about Trevor.
She’d trusted him enough to follow his advice where Purvis was concerned, and the meeting had gone splendidly. Trevor had fibbed about his name, for understandable reasons. He was also a marquess and in need of funds.
That did not make him a habitual liar or a fortune hunter. Lissa trusted him that far, at least, and was relieved to reach that conclusion.
He still wanted to marry her, and he’d been the soul of patience with her family. He’d been kind to Phillip. He’d been both patient and kind with Roland, and the horse’s future was much brighter for it.
But I am not a flatulent horse who lacks confidence.
Even in Crosspatch, Lissa would not have spoken that observation aloud, nor would she have voiced the real question that followed:
I was prepared to be Mrs. Trevor Dorning, but can I possibly be Lord Tavistock’s marchioness?
That she could ask the question was progress, though toward what, she still wasn’t certain.
Trevor’s four weeks of mourning were slipping by, the reprieve from socializing a parting gift from Jerome more precious than Trevor could have anticipated.
“I’m consolidating my forces,” he said as he and Sycamore gave their horses a chance to blow at the crest of a rise overlooking the Thames. “Marshaling resources.”
The day was lovely as only a spring day could be. All of the earth rejoicing, the river a sparkling expanse, the heavens a perfect blue canvas dotted with puffy white clouds. Sheep and cattle cropped lush grass, and the road was in that splendid condition that allowed of neither dust nor mud.
“You are marshaling resources for the Great Courtship?” Sycamore replied. “I thought a fellow had to rely on native wit and courage for that undertaking, not minions and vassals.”
“Marriage has made you slow-witted. Of course I will court Amaryllis myself. I was referring to my campaign to rid the marquessate of Purvis’s embezzling influence. I have a meeting with him next week, and I intend to sack him. He sent me Hecate Brompton’s social schedule, which is the outside of too much and a violation of the lady’s privacy.”
“Unless she herself urged that measure upon him. Who would name a child Hecate?”
Trevor liked Hecate Brompton, the same way he appreciated a Canova sculpture—from a respectful distance. “She probably wonders who would name a child Sycamore.”
“Could have been worse,” Sycamore said, patting his horse. “I could have been Nettle or Henbane. I’d rather be Sycamore than, say, Worth.”
“Kettering will be at this gathering?”
