Page 2 of Miss Dashing
Lord Phillip was determined, and he wasn’t arrogant. “A gentleman never sits close enough to a lady to risk inadvertently touching her person, unless the relationship is one of friendly familiarity.”
Lord Phillip wrinkled his nose—a good, lordly beak—gave Hecate an inscrutable look, and moved a foot away on the sofa. “Don’t stop there. We’re just getting started, I’m sure.”
Hecate sipped her tea and pointedly did not glance at muscular calves lovingly encased in gleaming leather. “A gentleman removes his spurs before entering a dwelling.”
“I vaguely recall that one too. No sense in it, though, when the mud is on his boots rather than his spurs. But then, I rarely wear spurs at home. A horse should go when you tell him to without needing a jab in the ribs to remind him. These are for show, and a ridiculous show it is.”
Hecate grasped only too well the sense of bafflement that Mayfair Society could cause in those new to its peculiarities. Lord Phillip was right to trouble himself to learn this dark forest and find all the hidden snares and mantraps.
She wanted to spare him those mocking smiles and smirking silences before they escalated to pranks, wagers, and worse. And yet, he was not her debutante to launch.
“Wearing a fancy uniform into battle is thought by some to be ridiculous,” Hecate said. “On campaign, that fancy uniform will get dusty, dirty, bloody, and torn.”
Phillip passed her his empty cup and saucer. “But that uniform tells all and sundry to which regiment the fellow belongs. It proclaims him to be a soldier, a hero, rather than a bandit, though he’s engaged in many of the same activities bandits are prone to. You are saying I need to learn to wear the uniform, and I agree. Will you teach me?”
Hecate refilled his cup with a steady hand, though the blunt request took her aback. Nobody asked Hecate Brompton for anything anymore, except to prevail on her to dance an opening quadrille with a spotty, bumbling nephew.
She had worked for years to make it so. “Why me? Why not ask Tavistock to appoint you a finishing governess? I’m sure among his army of step-relations and acquaintances, he knows somebody who could see to your Town education in due time.”
Lord Phillip wanted to pace again. She could feel the restlessness in him, even from a foot away. Instead, he accepted his refilled cup, took one sip, and set his drink aside.
“Anybody Tavistock chose would jolly me along, overlook three-quarters of my bungling, and pronounce me fit for Almack’s. I’m not stupid, Miss Brompton, but I’m ignorant. I’m the slow top younger brother kept out of Society’s view by decree of the late marquess. He’s dead—thank the Deity—my brother acknowledges me, and now everybody is entitled to have a gawk at the bumpkin spare. For the sake of my brother and for the sake of my own pride, I need to make a good showing.”
Family loyalty was a trap Hecate understood only too well, and pride was both her besetting sin and her saving virtue. “Did you pay me a compliment when you implied that I’d call out your bungling?”
He retrieved his tea for another sip. No slurping, no gulping. “A drill sergeant bellows at his recruits because he wants them to survive battle, not because he’s an overbearing, foul-mouthed brute by nature. Bellow at me, Miss Brompton. Whip me into shape. Please help me survive the battles I’ll face in Mayfair’s ballrooms.”
Lord Phillip wasn’t begging, but rather, asking for help. He was also issuing Hecate a challenge. She hadn’t had a challenge in ages—other than how to manage her family—and the Little Season was still weeks away. She had time to make a silk purse out of…
Wrong analogy. Lord Phillip was intelligent, shrewd, physically impressive, and willing to apply himself to his studies.
With the right tailoring…
But no. Hecate had enough on her plate dealing with her rackety family. “I am not well liked,” she said. “If you are looking for somebody to show you the basics of charm and flirtation, I am the wrong resource.”
“You are respected. You are formidable. A woman who does not suffer fools and who hasn’t succumbed to the blandishments of the fortune hunters. You are my first and last choice of finishing governess.”
How she would have rejoiced to hear herself described thus ten years ago—respected, formidable—and the words were still some comfort, though the finishing governess part…
Nobody had warned her that not suffering fools left a woman with little company in polite society.
“A lady doesn’t raise her voice or use profanity,” Hecate said. “My drill sergeant qualifications are sadly lacking.”
Lord Phillip saluted with his tea cup. “A gentleman is doubtless such crushingly dull company that he ensures a lady is never inspired to colorful language. I have excellent hearing, however, so we can hope you won’t have to raise your voice to me in truth. Putting the manners on me should be nigh boring for one of your accomplishments.”
His eyes were dancing, though his expression remained otherwise solemn, and Hecate realized what about this man had drawn her notice.
Lord Phillip seldom looked anybody in the eye. His gaze was invariably on his surroundings, on his hands, his boots, the nearest painting, but not on the people in his ambit. The same tendency in another man might have come across as furtive or shifty. Lord Phillip was neither—far from it—and she was sure in her bones that he wasn’t arrogant either.
But quite possibly, he wasshy.
He’d be torn to pieces and tossed to the tattlers.
Until Tavistock and his new marchioness were blessed with sons, Lord Phillip was the heir presumptive to a marquessate. He was a landed gentleman in his own right, young, attractive… The matchmakers would make a meal of him if the gossips left enough to snack on.
“Mayfair will undoubtedly bore you witless,” Hecate said, “if it hasn’t already. I don’t suppose you’re wealthy?”
Lord Phillip took up a visual inspection of the great harp. “Is that question rude?”
