Page 37 of Miss Dashing
Edna gave her a puzzled look. “Whyever would I do that? You of all people know how marriage impinges on a lady’s freedom. My late husband, God rest his soul, was a prince among men, but he was stilla husband.”
As Hecate made her way abovestairs, she reflected that until recently, she would have echoed Edna’s sentiments, but there was Edna, compromising her dignity in an attempt to catch the eye of a baronet.
Edna, scheming endlessly to see her daughters launched.
Edna, trying to make a quarterly allowance do the work of a small fortune.
Edna, hoping to turn an evening of whist into a windfall.
A husband—the right husband—would have rendered all that effort and indignity unnecessary.
Hecate went straight to her room, took out a dark blue merino wool shawl, and traded house slippers for sturdier footwear.
Phillip would likely be half an hour over the port and cheroots. A more conscientious lady would review tomorrow’s menus, look in on the housekeeper, have a word with the butler…
Hecate changed into a morning dress of aubergine silk that was years out of fashion and completely unacceptable for evening wear. She undid the pair of braids coiled into her chignon and pinned the lot into a loose bun.
She removed her jewelry and dabbed a drop of scent on the inside of each wrist.
While one part of her mind watched these activities with growing consternation, another part—perhaps the part connected to her heart—wildly applauded. She used her toothpowder, blew out the bedroom candles, and slipped down the maids’ stairs.
A quick exit through the conservatory, and she was free in the luscious air of a summer night and preparing for her first assignation in years.
Phillip did not smoke.
He did not believe that after hours of sitting before a lavish feast and sipping a different wine with each course, a man also needed to imbibe several glasses of port. He was none too keen on the blatant and public use of the chamber pots when the ladies withdrew either. Several of the tipsier fellows had bad aim, and ye gods, what a thankless task the footman would have cleaning up in the morning.
The drinking and smoking he could have tolerated, but the next part—the snide innuendos aimed at the ladies—he found frankly disturbing. He waited out his indenture to masculinity by a pair of French doors that brought in a blessedly fresh breeze.
“I had no idea you favored ladies of a certain age, DeGrange,” a sandy-haired fellow remarked. His evening coat sported overly padded shoulders, and his cravat was the equivalent of a puzzle box wrought in linen. “Our hostess is a bit long in the tooth for frolicking. Perhaps you’d best trade in your monocle for a fine set of spectacles.”
DeGrange considered his port. “A lady is never too old to enjoy a mild flirtation, Winover, or to merit a little harmless flattery.”
“Were you flattering the Brompton antidote with all that bowing and bobbing at the parlor door?” Winover shot back. “Nobody has placed a bet in that direction in years. Wouldn’t want you to waste your firepower on a forlorn hope, as you soldierly fellows would say.”
The Earl of Nunn had declined to remain on hand for the port and piss pots, which meant the assemblage bore an unfortunate resemblance to a pack of spoiled boys sorting out their schoolyard politics. Phillip hadn’t been to public school, and he was glad of it.
DeWitt lounged in elegant splendor against the mantel. “I like Miss Hecate Brompton,” he said. “She has a wealth of good sense, is loyal to her family, and doesn’t suffer fools.”
“That lets you out, Winover,” somebody quipped.
“Why waste my time tilting at that windmill when the younger Misses Brompton are ever so much more amenable to a fellow’s overtures?” Winover drawled. “They are so nearly twins they conjure all manner of interesting fantasies.”
Phillip longed to pitch Winover into the roses, but alas, the dining room was on the first floor, and the drop would have been insufficient to see justice done.
“You only have the one prick,” the same wag observed, “and anybody can see that Portia and Flavia aren’t twins.”
“Right,” a third fellow said. “Portia is scheming, and Flavia hasn’t a brain in her head. Easy to tell them apart.”
Phillip sent DeWitt a hard stare, but DeWitt was looking bored and handsome at the hearth.
“Better scheming,” Phillip said, “which some might call shrewd, and stupid, which could more kindly be termed innocent, than insolent, arrogant, and a disgrace to one’s upbringing. The ladies deserve our respect, and I find this company beyond tedious. Excuse me.”
Somebody guffawed as Phillip headed for the door, and Winover offered a languid salute with his cigar, but the conversation had been halted, as well it should have been.
What a pack of fat-headed, yowling, tomcats. They even pissed indiscriminately like tomcats, and these were the fellows Hecate had invited after much thought. Phillip shuddered to consider the bachelors and baronets who had not made the list.
He stalked along the corridor, wishing he could spend an hour stacking hay, mucking stalls, or clearing some weed-choked drainage ditch.
