Page 54 of Miss Dashing
Nunn snorted. “He cannot refuse you permission. You are heir to a marquessate, of sound mind, and in obnoxiously good health.”
“He can refuse me his blessing,” Phillip said, “and all the etiquette manuals say I’m to then slink away and nurse my broken heart in solitude, like the gentleman I never aspired to be.”
Nunn smiled, and the charm he’d possessed as a younger man glimmered past the dignity he wore like armor. “Fortunately for Hecate, you are not much given to elevating etiquette over a worthy objective, are you?”
“One ought to be able to pursue such objectives without losing sight of his manners.” Phillip would have parted from Nunn then—a bath was imperative before changing for supper—but Nunn lingered at the top of the steps.
“I wish you the best of luck with your courtship. Hecate is long overdue for a worthy suitor, but I thought you should know that Johnny Brompton cantered up the drive today shortly after noon. At one time, he and Hecate were fond of each other.”
One time, ten years ago, before Johnny had left a schoolgirl to defend herself from a mob of jackals. Though, of course the fellow would have sense enough torideup the driveway, and probably on a white horse too.
“I hope Hecate and her cousin are still fond of each other,” Phillip said. “Hecate will no doubt be pleased to see him, and I will be delighted to make his acquaintance.”
Phillip told the lie as convincingly as any London swell had ever offered a false compliment to his Mayfair hostess, and that bothered him all the way to supper.
ChapterTwelve
From the place at Edna’s right hand, Johnny held forth like the returning hero he was, and Hecate was relieved to allow him the floor. A house party in its second week should offer more in the way of entertainment than the scavenger hunts, pall-mall matches, and whist parties of the first week.
She’d thought up nothing more interesting than tomorrow’s horse race, along with the grand ball at week’s end. Johnny bid fair to be the main attraction at that event, and for good reason.
“He’s magnificent,” Flavia murmured. “Canadian air must be very healthful.”
Johnny had become what Charlie should have been: tall, robust, golden, and charming. He had the gift of laughing at himself, recounting stories of falling into rivers, felling an enormous tree only to have it land across his logging trail, and losing his fishing pole through a hole cut in the frozen surface of a lake.
“He has apparently prospered,” Hecate replied quietly. Such was Johnny’s gift with a story that even Portia appeared to have temporarily misplaced her sulks. His attire was exquisite without being ostentatious, his hair queued back in the old-fashioned manner that nonetheless looked dashing on him.
Hecate would not have known him, so kind had ten years in the wilderness been to the gangling young fellow who’d gone off with his regiment a decade past. The older Johnny had poise, self-possession, and muscles that the youth could only have dreamed of.
The differences time had wrought were subtle and pervasive. Johnny’s hair had darkened from flaxen to gold and had more curl. His laugh was heartier. He wore only the gold jewelry suitable for evening, though like any gracious Englishman, he flirted equally with Eglantine and Edna.
He flirted with the entire female half of the table, truth be told, another skill apparently learned in Canada.
“Johnnyhasprospered,” Flavia muttered from her place at Hecate’s side. “But can you never see past the money? Johnny has grown beautiful. He has bloomed in the wilderness. He was never this much fun before.”
“You were a child when he was last home.” So, technically, had Hecate been a child. Children noticed far more than adults gave them credit for.
“I had eyes. I had ears. Johnny was more serious before he went for a soldier, more…” Flavia speared a section of orange from the compote before her. “More subdued. I like this Johnny better.”
Because he’d made good his escape.He’d returned as a sort of anti-Brompton. Self-made, hardworking, adventurous, good-humored, unpretentious, solvent, friendly… His list of apparent virtues was dizzying, and Flavia was right: Johnny Brompton was also easy on the eyes.
Hecate slanted a glance down the table in Phillip’s direction. He was easy on the eyes, too, in an entirely different sense. No flash or dash, just bone-deep honor and quiet competence in any number of pursuits a gentleman never turned his hand to.
Phillip saluted subtly with his wineglass, and Hecate nodded. When she looked up, Johnny was smiling at her, and the glint in his eyes said he’d noted the exchange.
“Maybe Johnny hopes you’ve waited for him,” Flavia said. “Maybe he’s come home to court you, Hecate. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“More like absurd. Did he expect me to wait ten years for him without so much as a letter sending his kind regards?” She sipped her wine and began counting in German, though, in part, fatigue—not Johnny, not Portia, not feuding housemaids, or Edna’s daily dramas—was making her testy.
“Ten years is a long time,” Flavia said, collecting a spoonful of cream and fruit juice. “Maybe he was waiting for Porry to grow up. She was always quite fond of Johnny.”
Rather than comment on Portia’s talent for revisionist recollections—she’d been fond of playing duchess-and-lady’s-maid when Johnny had decamped—Hecate finished her compote.
Nunn had deigned to join supper in honor of Johnny’s arrival—and thus thrown the seating arrangements into disarray at the last minute. He gave Hecate a nod, and she contrived to brush Edna’s arm when refilling her wineglass.
“Off we go,” Hecate murmured.
“When Johnny has finished his tale,” Edna retorted. “Really, Hecate. Have you no sense of timing?”
