“And if the weather is obliging, I will indulge myself similarly tomorrow and the day after, until Travers waves me off. Nunnsuch is going ragged around the edges.”
He was understating the matter. Uncle Nunn’s steward had likely served an apprenticeship to Noah upon the landing of the ark and had long since given up on arguing with the earl. Mr. Jamison was a Bristol man by birth and spent as much time as possible with his family on the coast.
“One suspected the estate was in need of a steadying hand,” Hecate said, “but that hand cannot be mine. I have hopes that Mrs. Roberts might sidle into a more active role—she is nobody’s fool—but she’s doubtless reluctant to take on Edna, Charles, and the rest of them.”
“Then tell her to take on the hedgerows,” Phillip said. “They’ve spread, as hedgerows will do, and up to a point, that’s a fine thing for the birds and bunnies, but as the branches cast more and more shade, the adjoining arable land becomes less productive. The rain can’t reach the soil as easily, and what does fall is snatched up by the thicker vegetation of the hedgerows.
“The tallest of the oaks should come down,” he went on, “and something shorter planted, if Nunn must have his shady bridle paths. And as to that, the hogs can tidy up many an acorn and save the woodsman the bother of thinning saplings.”
“Hogs?”
“Pigs, swine. They can’t have a steady diet of acorns, and one doesn’t feed acorns to the young stock, but the larger specimens can and should be permitted their autumn pannage through the hedges and forests. Spares the cows and horses from snacking on a treat they ought not to have.”
Hecate did not want to discuss pigs or pannage, whatever that was. She wasn’t all that keen on introducing Lord Phillip to the ancestors either, truth be known. She unlatched a set of French doors and stepped out onto the balcony that ran the width of the gallery.
“Pretty view,” Phillip said, joining her. “One can say that for Nunn’s lackadaisical husbandry. His overgrown woods and park make a pleasing vista. I am comforted by big, healthy trees. If the land can grow such as that, then my sheep and corn are likely well situated too.”
“Your insights are appreciated, but I do not want to discuss the earl’s trees at the moment.”
“Do you want to lecture me?” The wretch sounded hopeful.
The breeze teased his dark locks, and the afternoon sun garnished it with dancing highlights. Hecate had touched that silky hair on the pretext of whisking the chaff from it, and no handy glass of punch had been available to blame for her forwardness.
Nor could she blame the punch for her current thoughts. She shaded her eyes against the sunshine and pretended to study the arched bridge in the distance.
“I want to kiss you.”
Lord Phillip led her to a bench that faced out over the rolling treetops. To the left, the garden stretched in tidy parterres, but this wing of the house did not face the busier view. The park, the home wood, the stone bridge, the roof of the distant stable-cum-carriage house stretched beneath them.
“Is this urge to sample my charms distasteful to you, Miss Brompton?”
“Distasteful? Why would…?”
He gestured for Hecate to take a seat, but did not offer his hand and did not take the place beside her.
She looked up at him—he was quite tall—and tried to fathom his thoughts. “I tried frolicking,” she said. “Years ago. When I’d made my bargain with Papa and realized that perpetual spinsterhood could be dull. Frolicking can be dull, too, a lowering discovery.” Why won’t you sit beside me?
“Mindless, you mean? Shallow and trivial? For some, that is part of its charm. A passing pleasure without weight or worry.”
“For you?” She patted the place beside her, and he appeared to ignore the invitation.
“For me, a bit complicated. In Crosspatch Corners, I was known as Mr. Phillip Heyward, a shy, somewhat backward, bookish, squire-ish sort of fellow. I was good at foaling, lambing, and calving and up to date on the latest pamphlets, but too retiring to attend the local assemblies. Some of the older folk knew my specific antecedents, or guessed them accurately, but I was generally believed to be some nob’s by-blow.”
“Did you believe that of yourself?”
“I knew the truth. My nanny, my mother—who visited me occasionally—and the household staff made certain I knew my own patrimony. Explaining the details to a young lady upon whom I had matrimonial designs would have been awkward, and yet, a fellow gets… lonely.”
She believed he meant that. Meant that he had been lonely for closeness and affection, for a cuddle and a romp, not merely for the romp itself.
“Spinsters get lonely, too, or some of us do. Why won’t you sit beside me, Phillip?”
“Because if I sit beside you, I will take your hand. If I take your hand, I will want to stroke your fingers and kiss your palm and catch a whiff of the particular spot on your wrist where you casually dab a drop of scent when you are dressing for the day. If such liberties are permitted, I will want to kiss your mouth, Hecate Brompton, and then I will want to do more than kiss you.”
He might have been discoursing on his preferred method of crop rotation as he stood at the railing, gaze on puffy summer clouds drifting across a blue sky.
Hecate rose and took his hand. “I have seen men unclothed, though my family would never believe me capable of such a lapse of propriety. If one is discreet, one can bend many rules. They were simply men without clothing, and pleased to be so. This morning…”
He brought her fingers to his lips. “Yes?”
“You were so joyous. You exuded such vitality and exuberance. To wield that scythe, to join in the songs, to sweat and toil and labor for a worthy goal… I was captivated by your jubilation. Exhilarated vicariously.” She rested her head against his shoulder, as if the recitation had exhausted her as much as haying could exhaust a fit, grown man.
“I heard the dog cart clattering up from behind me,” Phillip said, squeezing her fingers, “and I expected the vicar had come to bless the blades, or something equally innocuous. I turned, and there you were, but not as I’d seen you in London. You wore a straw hat with a ribbon that perfectly matches your eyes, and the bow was crooked, and the ends of the ribbons trailed so fetchingly. You eschewed your usual proper, mincing steps and marched about, skirts swinging, and that was fetching too. You have freckles. I noticed that you have freckles, and I adore your freckles. Somebody should kiss those freckles, and that somebody, I pray God, should be me.”
His arms came around her gently, and Hecate stood for a moment, reveling in a wonder that felt as mutual as any kiss. More mutual for being unlooked for and unhoped for.
“My mother was trying to conceive a son,” Hecate said. “She told me that, but she said instead she got the best possible gift in me, and in my father’s love. He was a sea captain, handsome, generous, kind, and he knew exactly what she was about and loved her anyway. I’ve never met him, but I want you to know my provenance.”
“Then your provenance is a loving, honest union, and nobody should ask for more than that.” He kissed her forehead again, a request for assurances, and Hecate kissed his cheek. Her arms slipped around his waist, and she rested against him as the urge to cry and the need to laugh waltzed in her heart.