Page 41 of Miss Dashing
“Right. Or they will make a jest of that, too, though without fodder in winter, their handsome cattle will starve. Such hilarity. Do me a favor, DeWitt.”
“Another favor.” The tone was so aggrieved that Phillip realized DeWitt was even more uncomfortable at this house party than Phillip himself.
“Keep an eye on Portia and Flavia,” Phillip said. “A discreet eye. DeGrange might assist with the task, and Mrs. Roberts strikes me as sensible too. Portia is working up to a tantrum of some sort.”
“How can you know that?”
“Broodmares,” Phillip said, starting for the house. “I watch them by the hour, and pay particular attention to the eyes. Portia has the look of a junior mare contemplating the unthinkable folly of challenging the herd’s reigning duchess. Portia cannot abide life at the bottom of the pecking order, and despair will make her foolish.”
DeWitt fell in step beside him. “And encouraging Hecate Brompton to twine about you as if you’re her personal maypole is wise?”
“If I’m her personal maypole, then I will enjoy the privilege. Miss Brompton twines herself where and how she pleases.”
DeWitt stopped on the threshold. “Be careful, Phillip. You might enjoy the lady’s attentions, but she is not well liked, and you could too easily give the gossips enough ammunition to ruin her. If I saw you two on the bridge, somebody else might have as well.”
Every sensible particle of Phillip’s being wanted to argue: Hecate Brompton was of age and of sound mind. If she found pleasure in Phillip’s company, that was nobody’s business but hers. Her generosity had made the whole gathering possible, and surely her guests owed her discretion and respect?
Except that DeWitt was right, and Phillip had best mind his step. “I appreciate the warning. We aren’t leaving, but I will be careful in future.”
“And accept the pranking with good grace. Smile, laugh it off, be a good sport who takes a birching in stride.”
A good sport in the stupidest of games. “I understand. If I’m to be up early, I’d best seek my bed.”
“To have Tavistock summon you back to Berkshire wouldn’t be difficult. I can get a message to him in a few hours.”
DeWitt had run from his responsibilities two years ago, and increasingly, Phillip understood why, if those responsibilities consisted largely of fribbling.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m here to learn precisely the curriculum in which you now instruct me,” Phillip said. “I will prepare to show all toads and frogs my best good humor. Good night.”
Hecate spent three days in a fog of wonderment. On two of those days, she’d gone riding directly after an early breakfast and lurked on the bridle path adjoining the hayfield. Phillip without his shirt was too great a temptation to resist, though by the end of the second afternoon, the field was cut.
She and Phillip finished their days with a placid round of cribbage in the library, though what that man could do with a passing glance or a brush of hands defied decent description. They talked about everything—Hecate’s investments, Phillip’s inventions, the first time he’d seen Tavistock as an adult. He’d lurked among the birches and simply stared at his brother for nearly an hour, torn between curiosity, fear, and amazement.
That much honesty emboldened Hecate to talk about her mother, whom she never mentioned to anybody. The conversation and fleeting touches were delightful, also… maddening.
Phillip had promised to come to Hecate’s room that night, and thus minutes had turned to eons and hours to eternities.
“Haying has wrapped up?” Mrs. Roberts asked, taking the seat next to Hecate on the back terrace.
“The hay is cut. The raking can proceed with less urgency, apparently.”
Mrs. Roberts, like Hecate, had eschewed a bonnet. She turned a pretty profile to the late afternoon sun and closed her eyes.
“I had to have it all explained to me,” she said. “The haying. The cut, rake, rake again if the crop isn’t dry, and then stack. I had a vague idea that horses eat dried grasses through winter, but there’s art to it, and I knew nothing of the art despite owning thousands of acres.”
They had wealth in common, which might have been part of the reason Hecate liked Rose Roberts. Yes, the widow had spared Charles more than a passing glance, but not much more. A lady was entitled to her discreet pleasures, and if Charles had one talent…
“I have tried inquiring of the steward,” Hecate said, “but I fear he’ll tattle to Uncle Nunn that I’d been prying, and Uncle has his pride.”
Mrs. Roberts peered over at her, while out in the park, the loud crack of a mallet whacking a ball split the afternoon’s quiet. A few shouts followed, along with some laughter.
“Your uncle is half the reason I survived second mourning. He is at heart an exceedingly decent fellow.”
Uncle Nunn was nearly twice Mrs. Roberts’s age, and while Hecate would agree—Uncle was a decent fellow—that’s not precisely what Mrs. Roberts had meant.
“He is a gentleman,” Hecate said, “and thus he would not like me prying into how he manages his land.”
“Have Lord Phillip do the prying. That one clearly knows his way around farm equipment.”
