Page 19 of Miss Dashing
“No, we are not. Wait here. Help yourself to my drink.”
He kissed her forehead and marched off, and Hecate wanted to call him back. He’d make a cake of himself, snitching from the buffet without permission, but then, he should have made a cake of himself arriving early, sauntering up the drive on foot, tucking his horse into his stall, and insulting his host.
But he hadn’t.
Hecate tried to identify the emotions welling where her extensive lecture had been. She wanted to cry, but crying was an outward indulgence. Tears were nothing but bother. Not worth wrinkling a handkerchief over.
What had Phillip said…? Not the part about Nunn’s rudeness, or the family’s general selfishness, something meant to be casual and fleeting… mostly bluster, but not entirely.
I treasure my friends.
He’d said that before, but just now, he’d said it about Hecate. She brushed her thumb over her forehead, where the hopeless man had kissed her. The riot he caused inside her included consternation and gratitude, but also… admiration.
Lord Phillip was a social disaster on two sizable feet, but he’d meet his ruin on his own terms, honor bright. For that, she had to sincerely admire him, provided he didn’t involve her in his downfall.
“She’s taken you to the conservatory to give you a dressing down, hasn’t she?”
The question was put to Phillip by one of two nearly identical young females who appeared to be joined at the hip. They were blond, afflicted with masses of ringlets, and attired in dressing gowns doubtless intended to hint of Grecian sophistication.
Phillip tried to leaven his consternation with a hint of Gavin DeWitt’s friendliness. “Ladies, have we been introduced? Phillip Vincent at your service.”
“You forgot the lord part,” the one on the left said. “But weknow.You are heir to the Tavistock marquessate,for now, and Hecate somehow got you onto the guest list.”
“She does that,” the second one said. “Managesfeats, and we have no idea how. Charles claims Hecate communes with the dark arts, but he’s only teasing. I’m Portia Brompton, and this is my sister, Flavia.”
They bobbed a synchronized curtsey. Phillip remembered to bow. “A pleasure, ladies. Are you having punch?”
“We are supposed to limit ourselves to one glass before supper,” Portia said.
“Hecate’s orders,” Flavia added. “Lest we get tipsy. Tipsy is bad, but ever so diverting. One feels clever when tipsy, and Hecate’s punch recipe is delicious. One must concede the obvious.”
“The raspberries,” Portia said, nodding sagely. “They are in season, and Nunnsuch has pots of them. We’ll have raspberry crepes and raspberry punch and raspberry pie. I love a good raspberry pie with a dollop of cream. I’m also very fond of syllabub with—”
“Notnow,Portia. As for you, my lord. Don’t let Hecate go at you for too long,” Flavia said, lowering her voice. “She has a way with a scold. Makes one feel two inches tall and hopelessly stupid.”
“Reduces you to bumbling gudgeon status in about thirty seconds,” Portia said, requisitioning the glasses of punch Phillip had requested for himself and Hecate. “She’s had plenty of practice. We Bromptons arelively.”
She and Flavia touched glasses and sipped in unison.
“I was a bit less than mannerly with the earl,” Phillip said. “Miss Brompton is concerned that I make a good first impression on polite society. The earl is my host and my social superior.”
“Great-Uncle Nunn is superior to the archangel Gabriel,” Portia observed, with a confirming nod from Flavia. “Even Hecate only takes him on behind a closed door. You mustn’t blame her for being worried. Great-Uncle belongs to all the best clubs and sits in the Lords.”
“You know what that is, the House of Lords?” Flavia inquired.
“My brother sits in the Lords. I have a vague sense the job requires speechifying, robbing the nation blind, and assisting the monarchy to rob the nation blind.”
Portia’s eyes went round, and Flavia agitated the air with her fan.
“You’re a Whig!” she said, fluttering madly. “Is that why your papa hid you away?”
Phillip accepted two filled glasses from the footman. “I’m a farmer. You are both sworn to secrecy.” He’d just ensured they’d repeat the conversation word for word to any willing ears, of course, which was fine with him.
“Hecate means well,” Flavia said when Phillip would have made his escape. “Her heart was broken at a young age—younger than we are now—and she has never recovered.”
“And she has unfortunate antecedents,” Portia said. “We aren’t clear on the particulars, but Eglantine says we must make allowances. My antecedents are quite in order.” She batted her lashes at Phillip, and Flavia smacked her with the fan.
“Mine are too,” Flavia said. “And I don’t gossip half so much as Portia does.”
