Page 47 of Miss Dashing
“Merry and not bad-looking doesn’t go far when a man has only two thousand a year and the one property. His brother is in the same lamentable posture. Once their papa dies, their situations might improve, but they are younger sons.”
Besides, if Portia married the one brother, Flavia would likely wed the other, and as dear as Flavia was, Portia didn’t want her underfoot in perpetuity. A woman sought to preside over her own household and not have to listen to a younger sibling’s vapid chatter for the rest of her life.
“You have plans for Cousin Johnny?” Flavia asked.
“Plans that will remove Hecate from Lord Phillip’s consideration and leave him free to appreciate my own vast charms.” Or at least buy some time to get locked into a linen closet with his lordship.
Portia was honest with herself. Lord Phillip wasn’t in love with her and never would be. Before his first real Season, he’d realize that polite society made strategic alliances rather than sentimental matches. Tavistock’s own marchioness had considered a connection with the Bromptons desirable, or she had back when she’d been plain Miss Amaryllis DeWitt of Greater Bog Trot, Berkshire.
“My plans will not directly involve you,” Portia said, “though your support will be invaluable, as usual. I’m hungry. Let’s have at the buffet before the bachelors eat all the desserts.” She slipped her arm through Flavia’s and donned her most agreeable smile.
“I’m glad you have a use for me,” Flavia said. “I’m not sure anybody else does.”
“Nonsense.” Portia patted her sister’s hand. “I’d be lost without you, dearest, and you know it.”
Phillip could see no light shining from beneath Hecate’s bedroom door, and his heart sank. Her benighted family had exhausted her, and the house party wasn’t half over. He didn’t risk even a soft tap, but rather, let himself into her bedroom, because she’d denied herself one of the apartments that included a sitting room.
“You came.” She rose from the wing chair before the hearth—no fire—and crossed to him in shadows. “I was afraid you’d fall asleep.”
“Not likely.” He enfolded her in a hug, taking a moment to revel in something as simple as an embrace. Simple and precious. “DeWitt deliberately drew out our chess game. He’s a good player too.”
Hecate bussed Phillip’s cheek and stepped back. “But you contrived to lose with good grace and not too much haste. You’re wearing boots. Good. Come along.”
Phillip normally eschewed even a nightshirt and would have felt ridiculous wafting along the corridors in dressing gown and slippers. He was thus attired in his farmer’s garb.
“Where are we going?” The conservatory called to him, a contrived replication of the out of doors and, in the middle of the night, reliably deserted.
“It’s a surprise. I hope you like it.” Hecate took up a dark blue merino shawl and swirled it about her shoulders.
Phillip offered his hand. “Lead on. I am your willing accomplice in all adventures.” Nonsense, though he meant every word.
Hecate led him down the maids’ stairs, through the conservatory, and onto the terrace where they’d first shared a meal. From there, she skirted the garden, crossed the arched bridge, and five minutes later, Phillip realized their destination was the newly scythed hayfield.
He realized a few other things too: Hecate had worn a pale blue ensemble at supper, but she’d changed into darker attire. Not so much as a golden earbob glinted in the light of the three-quarter moon. She was surefooted in the darkness, and though she wasn’t hurrying, she was covering ground.
Eager, then. Or nervous.
He was both. “I love that the robins sing even at night,” Phillip said, slipping his signet ring into his empty watch pocket. “Even in winter. They are tireless in their song, and I find that comforting.”
“A pretty song too.” Hecate struck out across the newly scythed grass. “Confident and clear. I will miss you when this house party is over.”
“I’ve no intention of becoming a stranger. Will you return to London?”
They topped a slight rise, and in the shallow depression below, Phillip could just make out the shapes of a dark blanket, a pair of pillows, and a wicker hamper.
“I thought I might break my journey in Berkshire,” Hecate said. “Pay a call on my good friend, the new Marchioness of Tavistock, and see how married life agrees with her.”
A bit of moonglow seeped into Phillip’s heart, silvery, soft, and wonderful. He enfolded Hecate in another hug. “You did, did you? Have you any other friends in the vicinity of Crosspatch Corners you’d like to call on?”
“I do, as it happens. What of you? Any acquaintances in Town you’d look in on as you prepare for the Little Season?”
She tucked close, Phillip rested his cheek against her temple, and life became a sweet progression of possibilities that could turn into sweeter memories.
“I want to court you properly,” he said, “to out-gentleman the fanciest gentlemen in Town so all of polite society knows that Miss Hecate Brompton has a very dedicated suitor.” For her, he’d make that effort and enjoy it.
“You needn’t.”
She was wrong. Mayfair’s dandies and matchmakers had lessons to learn when it came to their treatment of her, but Phillip would make that point some other time.
