Phillip stroked her hair and her shoulders. His thumb brushed lazy circles over her nape, and Hecate felt like a cat who’d found a warm patch of sunlight in deepest midwinter. She held very still, every particle attuned to Phillip’s touch. She breathed with him. She memorized the scent of him this close—lavender, a hint of starch, and meadow grass.
The rhythm of his heart matched the slow, graceful sweep of the curved blade that had so enthralled Hecate earlier, and when Phillip cupped her cheek and brushed his lips against hers, she fell into his kisses as gently as scythed grass came to rest upon the earth.
Chapter Seven
“If they aren’t out riding, and they aren’t in the library, and they aren’t strolling the garden,” Portia asked, “where could they have got off to?” She’d been worrying that question for the better part of an hour, and she was growing both hot and cross.
“This is so like a pair of eligible bachelors,” Flavia groused, marching at her side. “To be invited to a lovely house party full of congenial and attractive company and then to simply disappear. I had thought better of Mr. DeWitt. Truly, I had.”
“Lord Phillip is a marquess’s brother and heir,” Portia fumed as the arched bridge came into view. “He ought to be more au fait regarding such matters. I love you dearly, Flave, but a handsome, masculine escort on this little constitutional would have been ever so agreeable.”
“One takes your point, sister dearest, and my slippers will be ruined for all this trekking through the wilds. I wore my favorite pair for everyday too.”
Flavia’s favorite pair bore a suspicious resemblance to Mama’s favorite pair. Darling Flavia was prone to creatively borrowing whatever caught her eye, but she’d better not think to borrow Lord Phillip.
“Unconscionable rogues,” Portia grumbled, “to force us to hike over hill and dale in pursuit. This is what comes from Mama allowing Hecate to make up the guest list. Poor Hecate’s on the shelf, as is known to all, and she can hardly—ouch!”
Flavia had stopped halfway across the bridge and smacked Portia in the ribs. “Give me your field glasses, Portia.”
“Why?” As soon as Portia posed the question, she caught sight of the figures on the distant gallery balcony. A man and a woman, both bare-headed. The fellow was tall, while the lady…
“Is that Hecate?” Portia whispered, using her field glasses to confirm the unthinkable. “That is Hecate, and she is in a most inappropriate embrace with a man.”
Flavia snatched the field glasses. “With Lord Phillip Vincent. I don’t know whether to be appalled at his poor taste or aghast at her lack of decorum.”
“They don’t appear to be kissing.”
“They are kissing now.”
Portia snatched back her field glasses and halfway wished she hadn’t. Lord Phillip was a leisurely kisser, and before her very eyes, Hecate Brompton, pattern card of probity, pence, and quid, became a siren in his arms. She kissed him back with the same sumptuous languor, her hands trailing over his broad shoulders and long back.
“We ought not to be watching,” Flavia said, gaze riveted on the balcony. “This is private.”
“This is a disaster. Hecate is working her wiles on the unsuspecting, Flave. How dare she?”
“Hecate hasn’t any wiles, and Lord Phillip knows what he’s about.”
Did he ever. His hand glossed gently down Hecate’s back, inviting her closer without exerting a hint of force.
“Hecate knows what she’s about too,” Portia said, feeling a sense of bitter, bitter betrayal. “She’s her mother’s daughter. Mama says so at least once a week.”
“Mama says a lot of things. Nobody has ever kissed me like that.”
Me either. Portia remained silent rather than risk sounding as forlorn as Flavia had. The kissing went on, interspersed with long moments of quiet embracing. Lord Phillip kissed Hecate’s fingers—drat him to the devil and back—and murmured something into her ear.
She nodded, and they passed into the gallery, arms around each other’s waists.
“We were not supposed to see that,” Flavia said. “Hecate must be top over tail for his lordship to so far forget herself.”
“Hecate does not fall top over tail. Not for his lordship. Not for any man. She’s been enthralled with her ledgers ever since Cousin Johnny broke her heart.”
“According to Mama.” A hint of disloyalty colored Flavia’s observation as she left the bridge for the path through the park. “Mama is all but cooing at Mr. DeGrange. We have been out for two Seasons, Portia, and Mama has failed to secure so much as a request to court either one of us. I fear she’s decided to pursue her own interests at our expense.”
“Mama wouldn’t.” Portia trailed behind Flavia, still much preoccupied with that business on the balcony. “Hecate never forgets herself. She must be toying with Lord Phillip’s affections. He’s been ruralizing for ages and isn’t accustomed to polite society’s ways.”
“But you said he’s a marquess’s brother and ought to—”
Portia caught up with her sister. “I know what I said, but since when has Hecate ever taken notice of a fellow? Lord Phillip must be richer than Mama knows, Flave. Hecate must be after his money.” This theory made sense, given what Portia knew of Hecate and of Mama’s imperfect intelligence-gathering abilities. Mama was losing her touch, alas, and Eglantine was no help whatsoever, while Charles was utterly useless.
Portia and Flavia were on their own, and Portia forgot that at her peril.
“Lord Phillip is certainly well turned out,” Flavia allowed. “He doesn’t cut nearly the dash Mr. DeWitt does, and Mr. DeWitt is known to be wealthy, but you might have a point about Hecate’s motivations. Given her unfortunate antecedents, one must make allowances.”
Flavia’s signal virtue was her loyalty. As younger sisters went, she wasn’t that clever, and she often said the first thing to pop into her head, but she was unswervingly loyal.
“We must do something, Flave. Lord Phillip is new to Society, a lamb to be shorn by the first scheming spinster to whip out her shears. Hecate could have had no other purpose for putting his lordship on the guest list besides getting her hooks into him before the matchmakers have a go.”
“Unsporting of her, and there’s his lordship with all that money.”
“Thousands of acres of prime Berkshire land too,” Portia observed, for surely a marquess’s brother would have a largish estate. “And not bad-looking.”
“Mr. DeWitt is the handsomer of the two.”
“Where is Mr. DeWitt?”
Flavia stopped at the foot of the garden. “Where is Mrs. Roberts?”
Portia voiced a more intriguing possibility. “Where is Eglantine?”
“Porry, no!” Flavia sank onto the steps that led up to the formal parterres. “Eglantine is devoted to Charles. Dotes on him. Adores him for his Gallant Sacrifice.”
Portia would not risk getting her skirts dirty by taking an undignified seat on the steps, but neither would she allow Flavia to deceive herself about a real possibility.