Page 3 of Miss Dashing
“Very. Also pertinent.”
“I’m happy to pay you.”
Holy angels defend him.“I will not accept coin for spending time with an agreeable social connection.”
Lord Phillip again swung his gaze in her direction. “You should be compensated. Your time is precious, and I’m a quick study, but I have much to learn, and agreeable comes close to a falsehood, Miss Brompton.”
He was sure of his strengths and honest about his weaknesses. That lack of prevarication left Hecate at a loss for how to respond. Lord Phillip was also the first person to inform her that her time was precious.
She should say no. She should politely decline. She should recommend him to some agency that specialized in deportment instructors, though none immediately came to mind.
“Very well.” Phillip rose and bowed. “I’ll wish you a pleasant rest of your day. I can see myself to the door. My thanks for hearing me out.”
He’d saidplease. He’d been respectful. He was facing a pack of wolves and had sense enough to know it.
He was about to leave the room without offering her a bow, for pity’s sake. “Coin of the realm is of no interest to a lady, but if I’m to take on your education, I need an idea of your means.”
Lord Phillip sent a longing glance at the French doors. “I’m not in your league, but I’m well fixed. I own Lark’s Nest thanks to Tavistock’s generosity, and the estate prospers. I’ve invested a bit here and there, and I’m patient. I patented a plow design a few years back and some wool shears for use in the left hand. My tastes are modest, my needs few.”
Hecate considered that recitation. “Ten thousand a year?”
“And a bit more, most years.”
What had Tavistock been thinking to leave his brother tethered in Town like a goat set out to tempt the matchmakers?
But then, Tavistock hadn’t been thinking. He’d been dreaming of wedded bliss with his Amaryllis.
“You’ll need funds,” Hecate said. “Funds for a wardrobe, cattle, a curricle or phaeton. We have time for that, but if you want to make a good showing this autumn, we’ll need to get started.”
“You’ll take on my education, then? Break me to harness?”
Still not the right analogy. “You are on probation, my lord. Try my patience too far, exceed my tolerance in any way, and I will toss you to the penny press.”
“I am duly warned.”
“Then do stop looming over me. I have more questions, and I have it on good authority that my time is precious.”
“So it is.” He resumed his place on the sofa and poured himself a third cup of tea.
Phillip had put off calling on Miss Hecate Brompton for a week, until it was almost too late, until most of the best families had left the sweltering confines of London for the green and restful shires. He would have decamped for Lark’s Nest with them, except that home was Crosspatch Corners, where Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock, and his darling Amaryllis were embarking on their honey month.
“I suppose I should not have served myself. Is a third cup of tea beyond the pale?” Phillip asked. He knew it was, but he liked hearing Hecate Brompton talk. Her words trickled past his ear like a bright, splashing brook. Full of light, purpose, and energy, but never hurried.
“A third cup is occasionally permissible. Appropriating the pot is generally not done. If you are among true friends, rather than mere acquaintances, and nobody has an eye on the clock, the rules are relaxed. The worst sin a guest can commit is overstaying his welcome. Perhaps you’d care for a tea cake?”
He’d like a cold tankard of Pevinger’s best ale, served by a smiling Tansy Pevinger in the common of the Crosspatch Arms with a side of steaming cheese toast.
“No, thank you, but neither am I ready to leave. Give me some assignments. Let me embark on a curriculum of manners, and I will be less inclined to pace.”
The pacing had been about getting free of her scent, which was light, rosy, and brisk. Probably blended specially for her, a failed attempt at convention. The little spicy note—nutmeg and pepper—turned the fragrance intriguing instead.
The severe bun piqued his curiosity as well. How long was that lovely chestnut hair? Did it ripple to her hips, or swing in a soft curtain halfway down her back? When had she adopted the style of governess, and why?
“Can you dance?” she asked, eyeing him critically.
“Not well. I’ve seen the country dances enough times to stumble through them, but the fancier ballroom dances haven’t made it to the local assembly in Crosspatch.”
“You’ll need a dancing master, then. I can recommend several. Can you ride?”
