Lord Phillip offered his arm. “A glass of punch would suit.”
Hecate wrapped her fingers around his elbow and all but dragged him past the punchbowl and into the relative shadows of the conservatory.
“What on earth were you doing?” she hissed when she’d hauled him among the potted lemons.
“Greeting my host. I thought it went rather well. The old bore must be lonely, racketing about this enormous place with nothing to do but fill in his oubliette and wait for his next quarterly allowance. One pities him.”
“Does one really?” Hecate felt a great lecture welling up, about decorum and civility and the duties of a guest and first impressions… and the list went on from there. A long, worthy, sanctimonious list, intended to prevent further disasters of the kind Lord Phillip had just visited upon himself.
“You are distressed,” Phillip said. “I do apologize, but somebody had to remind the old fellow of a host’s obligations. I don’t mind that he was uppish with me, but he had no excuse for his rudeness to you.”
Oh, that. “He’s rude to everybody. Gruff, rather, by nature.”
“Then the lesson was overdue. He has all this family—cousins and nephews and nieces—and he can’t spare a drop of gratitude for that abundance, much less for the coin you part with to keep him in gardeners and embroidered dressing gowns. I’d half a mind to deliver him a true tongue-lashing.”
Hecate’s imagination was seized by the image of Lord Phillip, fist on hip, shaking an admonitory finger at Nunn as the earl stood, shame-faced, in one of his many richly adorned silk dressing gowns.
“Does my lord have earls thick on the ground in Crosspatch Corners that he feels qualified to comment on Nunn’s deportment?”
“Oh, now I’ve done it. You are my-lording me. I will tell you this: In Crosspatch Corners, we have common decency by the hectare. The crop flourishes when all are dedicated to its care.”
“Don’t turn up Farmer Phillip on me when you’ve insulted your host. I will be blamed for your rudeness.”
“I wasn’t rude,” Phillip said gently. “I was polite. If Nunn chose to hear insults, then he did the damage to himself. You cannot continue to cosset these buffoons, Hecate Brompton. They forget to whom they owe the punch they drink and the pretty frocks they wear.”
He was lecturing her, and his reproach was all the more devasting for being brief and kindly.
“They are all I have.” She’d not put that into words before, though what pathetic, inadequate words they were.
Phillip peered down at her. “In their present condition, they are not worth having. Besides, you have me. Please recall that I treasure my friends, even if they are a bit misguided on topics such as loyalty, generosity, and self-respect. Are you hungry? I’m famished. At what point is it permissible to plunder the buffet? And might I fetch you another glass of punch? Haranguing me is thirsty work, and I can see you’re winding up for a grand peroration.”
Hecate’s grand peroration slipped from her grasp. “A glass of punch would be much appreciated. We’re a quarter hour away from the buffet opening.”
“No, we are not. Wait here. Help yourself to my drink.”
He kissed her forehead and marched off, and Hecate wanted to call him back. He’d make a cake of himself, snitching from the buffet without permission, but then, he should have made a cake of himself arriving early, sauntering up the drive on foot, tucking his horse into his stall, and insulting his host.
But he hadn’t.
Hecate tried to identify the emotions welling where her extensive lecture had been. She wanted to cry, but crying was an outward indulgence. Tears were nothing but bother. Not worth wrinkling a handkerchief over.
What had Phillip said…? Not the part about Nunn’s rudeness, or the family’s general selfishness, something meant to be casual and fleeting… mostly bluster, but not entirely.
I treasure my friends.
He’d said that before, but just now, he’d said it about Hecate. She brushed her thumb over her forehead, where the hopeless man had kissed her. The riot he caused inside her included consternation and gratitude, but also… admiration.
Lord Phillip was a social disaster on two sizable feet, but he’d meet his ruin on his own terms, honor bright. For that, she had to sincerely admire him, provided he didn’t involve her in his downfall.
“She’s taken you to the conservatory to give you a dressing down, hasn’t she?”
The question was put to Phillip by one of two nearly identical young females who appeared to be joined at the hip. They were blond, afflicted with masses of ringlets, and attired in dressing gowns doubtless intended to hint of Grecian sophistication.
Phillip tried to leaven his consternation with a hint of Gavin DeWitt’s friendliness. “Ladies, have we been introduced? Phillip Vincent at your service.”
“You forgot the lord part,” the one on the left said. “But we know. You are heir to the Tavistock marquessate, for now, and Hecate somehow got you onto the guest list.”
“She does that,” the second one said. “Manages feats, and we have no idea how. Charles claims Hecate communes with the dark arts, but he’s only teasing. I’m Portia Brompton, and this is my sister, Flavia.”
They bobbed a synchronized curtsey. Phillip remembered to bow. “A pleasure, ladies. Are you having punch?”
“We are supposed to limit ourselves to one glass before supper,” Portia said.
“Hecate’s orders,” Flavia added. “Lest we get tipsy. Tipsy is bad, but ever so diverting. One feels clever when tipsy, and Hecate’s punch recipe is delicious. One must concede the obvious.”
“The raspberries,” Portia said, nodding sagely. “They are in season, and Nunnsuch has pots of them. We’ll have raspberry crepes and raspberry punch and raspberry pie. I love a good raspberry pie with a dollop of cream. I’m also very fond of syllabub with—”
“Not now, Portia. As for you, my lord. Don’t let Hecate go at you for too long,” Flavia said, lowering her voice. “She has a way with a scold. Makes one feel two inches tall and hopelessly stupid.”
“Reduces you to bumbling gudgeon status in about thirty seconds,” Portia said, requisitioning the glasses of punch Phillip had requested for himself and Hecate. “She’s had plenty of practice. We Bromptons are lively.”
She and Flavia touched glasses and sipped in unison.
“I was a bit less than mannerly with the earl,” Phillip said. “Miss Brompton is concerned that I make a good first impression on polite society. The earl is my host and my social superior.”
“Great-Uncle Nunn is superior to the archangel Gabriel,” Portia observed, with a confirming nod from Flavia. “Even Hecate only takes him on behind a closed door. You mustn’t blame her for being worried. Great-Uncle belongs to all the best clubs and sits in the Lords.”
“You know what that is, the House of Lords?” Flavia inquired.
“My brother sits in the Lords. I have a vague sense the job requires speechifying, robbing the nation blind, and assisting the monarchy to rob the nation blind.”
Portia’s eyes went round, and Flavia agitated the air with her fan.