“Charles got his mitts on a considerable fortune when he married his Eggy, Flave. The fortune is gone in less than ten years. She might resent that, and she has presented Charles with an heir and spare, despite the heir’s lineage being somewhat irregular.”
“In true aristocratic fashion, though.”
“In true aristocratic fashion. We also know Charles has a wandering eye.”
“A wandering pizzle, you mean. He’s a hound, Porry. If he wasn’t in line for the earldom, hostesses wouldn’t bother with him.”
Portia began to pace as her theory acquired supporting principles and corollaries. “Yes, they would, because he is a witty and charming hound. All the male cousins know how to open doors, including bedroom doors. They dance well, and they are handsome.”
“We dance well and are very pretty.”
“Just so, but if Eglantine has grown tired of Charles’s philandering, then she might embark on a little adventure of her own.”
“To make him jealous?”
“And to pass the time, now that the heir and spare are in the nursery. And there’s Mr. DeWitt, all handsome and friendly and immediately to hand. One could not blame her for indulging in a private moment or two.”
Flavia rose and shook out her skirts. “Yes, one could. Let’s find Eglantine if we can’t find Mr. DeWitt. We need her expert opinion on dresses for tonight’s supper.”
“You find her,” Portia said, opening the garden gate. “All this hiking about has left me with aching feet. I will search for Mama.”
“Will you tell her that Hecate has accosted Lord Phillip in a most shocking manner?”
Portia considered strategy and options. “I think we’d best keep Lord Phillip’s foolishness to ourselves, Flave, for the sake of his dignity. Then too, if Mama gets her oar in, she might inform Hecate that we are on to her scheme. I’d prefer to handle matters without Mama’s flair for complications.”
Flavia trailed a hand along the lavender border. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard, Porry. I think we are supposed to make our curtsey at court, stand up with dozens of handsome eligibles who are charmed by our many accomplishments, and then we have three offers by the end of our first Season. Maybe we’re doing something wrong.”
Flavia was so sentimental. “Letting Lord Phillip and Mr. DeWitt out of our sight was wrong. Older ladies lose all sense of decorum, and Eglantine and Hecate are both getting on.”
Flavia’s gaze was on the balcony running along the back of the gallery wing. “I don’t think that’s the problem. Why can Mama disport with all the rogues she pleases, but Hecate’s mother did likewise, and it was an endless family scandal? Doesn’t seem fair, Porry.”
“Mama had Charles, and that makes all the difference. Go find Eggy. I’ll tell Mama we’ve enjoyed our constitutional very much.”
“Tell her we won sixpence at whist.”
They’d cheated, of course. An elaborate series of signals—a twist to a ring, a finger tapped on the table—made plain what cards were held by a partnering sister. Needs must, and even sixpence could bribe a maid or footman.
“I will make sure she knows. Away with you.”
Flavia grabbed Portia in a hug, then scampered off, intent on thwarting Eglantine’s wayward overtures.
Eggy would never cheat on Charles, of course, but Portia had a marquess’s heir to accost, and for that delicate undertaking, she had no need of Flavia’s assistance.
Hecate prattled on about whose dowery had brought how much acreage, or what architect had been hired by which earl. Phillip let the words course around him as a boulder in a stream was bathed and more firmly anchored by the flowing water.
He settled into the joy of her scent, her hand on his arm, the lush pleasure of her breast pressed momentarily to his biceps when she leaned over to rub her thumb over a dusty signature.
“You are clearly not of the same ilk as these Bromptons,” Phillip said when they’d toured the lot. No portrait of Hecate or her mother had been included, though her Brompton father had been immortalized as a dashing young blade.
“Why do you say that? They aren’t all blond. Some of them are a bit more generously rounded.”
The defensive note was well hidden between proper elocution and feminine dignity, but Phillip heard it.
“That one,”—he gestured down the room—“married four times and inherited a fortune from each wife. The only way wives three and four could have been talked into accepting his proposal is if he’d been a charming bounder.”
“He was.”
“That one,”—Phillip nodded at a be-ruffed fellow across the room—“had thirteen bastards with twelve women. Was he trying to out-fornicate Charles II? This old rip,”—he indicated the present earl’s grandfather—“played Jacobite skittles with the title, selling guns to all comers and somehow avoiding accusations of treason. You describe a true rogue’s gallery. A regiment of selfish ne’er-do-wells dressed up as peers. Their fellow aristocrats might consider them shrewd, lucky, or colorful, but to you, they are more than a little embarrassing.”
Hecate leaned closer, a sort of arm-hug. “Nary a gentleman in the lot, which raises the present earl in my estimation. He’s a decent fellow, for all he’s impressed with his own consequence.”
“Consequence does not bring in the hay before the rain comes down.”
“You know you cannot say such things in Mayfair?” Hecate peered up at him with real concern. “They will mimic your words, your walk, your mannerisms. The average formal ball can become nastier than any schoolyard.”
Phillip wanted to take her into his arms, to whisper to her that she’d never have to endure the taunting and insults again, but at any moment, Gavin DeWitt, the earl, or one of the magpies might charge through the doors.
“You had nobody,” he said. “You made your come out without a single ally. I’m sorry for that. Take us somewhere we can talk.”
“I should be checking on the kitchen. We’re having an informal supper tonight, and that’s a bit more complicated than a buffet.”
Even an informal supper would not be laid for another three hours. “Give me one hour, Hecate. I promise I will maunder on about marling and fall calves and all manner of riveting topics that you can use to your advantage with Nunn’s stewards.”
He simply wanted to be with her. To revel in the knowledge that she’d welcomed his kisses and—his elation touched the heavens—kissed him back. Held him, caressed and petted and damned near cuddled up to him.
Hecate dropped his arm. “I feel as if I’ve had too much punch,” she said, “and I need time for the spirits to wear off before I can face the dance floor.”
“Precisely. Inebriated, awash in bliss and hope. If I promise not to kiss you again, will you spare me a little more of your time?”
Hecate was incapable of rudeness, but she could make a point. She let her gaze rove boldly over Phillip’s person, with a lingering focus on his mouth.
“I want to be very foolish with you, Phillip. Very foolish.”
“I want to be brave with you,” Phillip countered. “To lay my dreams and aspirations at your feet and hear what you think of them. I want to keep my hand in yours, to sit too close to you, to hear what longings you’ve never shared with another.”