by Amanda Scott
When he had said nothing for several minutes, however, her curiosity got the better of her and she turned her head to look up at him, only to discover to her consternation that he was regarding her with measuring intent. She found she had become more accustomed to his nearness and rather liked looking at him, however, so when his gaze did not shift, she lifted that mobile eyebrow again.
Rochford seemed to recollect himself, but when he spoke he said nothing about Wellington. Instead, he said, “I have neglected to express my sympathies on your recent loss, ma’am.”
She blinked, then gave herself a little shake and answered calmly, “Thank you, sir, but you need not reproach yourself. My loss took place nearly two years ago.”
He nodded as though she had answered some question or other, and Philippa told herself there could be no difficulty in deducing what that question must be. She had seen that look on a number of masculine faces in the past months. No doubt Rochford was like the rest and had made it his business to discover during the time since she had been introduced to him that Lord Wakefield’s widow, besides being well-favored and unattached, was quite amazingly wealthy.
She had not the least notion of how the Drake fortunes stood, but few men on the lookout for a wife would wish to pass up a young woman in her circumstances. Not only had Wakefield left her nearly every scrap of his unentailed property, but she had her dowry as well, a not inconsiderable amount, since she was Toddleigh’s only daughter and the earl was a man of relatively deep pockets. That searching look and the remark about his sympathies could only mean that Rochford wished to discover whether she still pined for her late lord before considering what strategy to use to win her hand. Philippa had seen the signs all too often, but never before had they so much disappointed her.
“You look grave, ma’am,” he said gently. “I ought not to have mentioned your loss. Even after two years—”
“It was not that,” she said impatiently.
“Well, then, it must be the children, but I trust you have not allowed yourself to be too disturbed by their mischief. I am persuaded that the duchess has chosen to look upon the matter in a flattering light—that they took such effort to attend her birthday celebration, you know.”
Finding it easier to accept his interpretation of her feelings than to explain precisely what he had done to bring that grave look to her face, she managed a little smile and said, “You do not regard the matter so lightly as that, I believe.”
“Certainly not. I informed my repellent sister that I should send a letter directly to Miss Blandamore instructing her to punish Lucinda as severely as she might.”
Philippa could not help herself. She laughed outright, and when he looked down at her in bewilderment, she laughed harder until tears formed in her dark eyes.
Rochford smiled doubtfully. “Have I said something so funny, then?”
She shook her head. “Only it is clear that you have never met Miss Blandamore,” she said, controlling her mirth with an effort.
“No, of course I have not. How should I?”
“Well, she reminds me of nothing so much as a cabbage, sir, with perhaps a little onion atop for the head. All ruffles and smiles and rippling flesh. She must have as many as four chins by now, like dewlaps.”
“Good Lord!”
“Indeed, sir. I am persuaded the worst punishment she is capable of giving is a frown and perhaps a shake of her head, which would merely set all the ruffles and ribbons of whatever cap she is wearing at the time to moving in such a way as to distract a wrongdoer from all thought of her displeasure.”
“How on earth does she manage to run a school for young ladies?” His eyes narrowed, and Philippa discovered within herself a sudden wish to defend the absent Miss Blandamore.
“Her breeding is excellent, I promise you,” she said, “and the girls like her very much. Indeed, I am certain that had Lady Lucinda or Jessalyn thought for a moment that she might come to learn of their deceit and be saddened by it, they would have had second thoughts altogether.”
“Then I wish they had thought of it,” he said grimly. “Lucinda, for one, is certainly wishing now that she had thought more carefully before she acted.”
“Oh, dear, were you very harsh with her?” Philippa asked anxiously, remembering her earlier thoughts upon the subject with some misgiving.
“She was treated to the rough edge of my tongue, certainly. She deserved no less.”
“But you did not … that is, you—”
“I didn’t beat the chit, if that is what you are trying to ask.” It was he who looked away over the vale this time, and his next words came in a near-mutter. “Not that it mightn’t have done us both some good if I had.”
“Surely not, sir. Surely it is enough that she knows she has displeased you.”
“Oh, she knows that much,” he said. “I hope never to be the victim of such a flood of weeping again, I can tell you. I don’t know where she found so many tears, but I am persuaded that anyone setting eyes upon her after she left the room must certainly think she had been mercilessly ill-used.”
Though she hid a smile, Philippa was grateful that Jessalyn had not subjected her to such an appalling scene. Tears were not Jessalyn’s way, however. That young lady was much more likely to indulge in coaxing and cajolery. Philippa felt a surge of compassion for Rochford, but it was very brief, lasting only until he gave it as his opinion in his very next breath that she had no doubt found it even more difficult dealing with her stepdaughter.
“Indeed,” she said haughtily, “and why should I, sir?”
“Well, you must admit you are rather young for such a charge, my lady.”
“I admit nothing of the sort. I have had charge of Jessalyn since her eighth year, and in the general way of things, she and I get along very well. And I tell you, sir, that I bear also the responsibility for a young man in his first year at Oxford, and I do not find Edward to be any more cumbersome a burden than his sister.”
“No doubt I misread the situation,” he returned suavely. “Are you fixed in Leicestershire for some time, ma’am?”
“I do not know,” she replied, looking away so that he would not read in her eyes the contempt she was feeling. Clearly his lordship had no wish to dispute any matter with her. No doubt, like so many of her would-be suitors, he would agree that the best horses were green if she were to express such an opinion. Truly, a gentleman intent upon pursuit could be a boring creature.
“You have no notion at all?” he persisted.
“I fear I have become something of a Gypsy over the past months,” she told him honestly. “I suppose that having remained in Sussex for so long after Wakefield’s death, I simply become bored now when I remain too long in one place. I came here seeking peace and quiet after the racket of Brighton and London, but so far peace is the last thing I have found.”
“I see,” he said slowly, “but surely you must have realized that Leicestershire during the hunting season is not known as a peaceful county.”
Philippa shrugged. “I did not consider the sporting men,” she said. “They cannot have reason to seek out my company when they are intent upon the fox.”
“That is true, certainly, but they do not seek the fox at all hours of every day.”
“Do they not?” She chuckled. “I well remember when my mama asked Lord Honeycutt about the hunting box he had hired for the season, whether it had a nice garden. His reply was that he hadn’t got the slightest notion, since having never seen the place by daylight, he had never seen the garden.”
Rochford smiled appreciatively. “ ’Tis true enough, I suppose, that many men leave their houses before daylight to attend distant hunt meetings and don’t return from their carousing before dark, but those must be the most dedicated, certainly, men who ride with more than one master.”
“No doubt you know best, sir,” Philippa agreed cordially, gathering her skirts as she prepared to take her leave. “You must forgive me if I leave you now, but I see that the
sun is nearly sitting upon yonder hill, which must mean it is time and more to be dressing for dinner. I should not like to keep anyone awaiting my presence.”
He bowed. “Yours would be a presence worth waiting for, I am certain, my lady.”
She granted him a stiff smile to show him clearly that she had no liking for such broad compliments, and turned away. But even before she reached the door leading inside, she had a strange, tingling compulsion to look back at him, perhaps even to smile more warmly or to say something civil to show that she had not really disliked his words so much. Though she attempted to ignore the compulsion, thinking that any such action must give the viscount a false notion of her feelings toward him, the need to look back grew stronger until finally, unable to resist, she turned to discover a fine view of his back and those broad, muscular shoulders. The viscount had returned to his thoughtful contemplation of the vale.
—4—
TILLY WAS WAITING FOR HER when she reached her bedchamber, and Philippa quickly changed to the green-and-gold evening dress she had brought to wear to dinner. The gown, cut low in the bodice to show off her high, well-rounded breasts, and short in the sleeves, was trimmed with gold lace that brought out golden flecks in her dark brown eyes. The skirt, though slim and straight in the front, was gored in the back, falling away to a demitrain from the high waist.
Tilly parted Philippa’s hair neatly in the middle, then combed it smoothly into two clusters of curls above her ears. When she had finished, she stood back to await comment.
“Very nice, Tilly,” Philippa said, regarding herself approvingly in the looking glass over the dressing table.
“Ye’ll be wanting a touch of Sergis rouge, I’m thinkin’, m’lady. Ye could do with a spot o’ color in yer cheeks.”
Philippa agreed. She had been out of the sun for a good many months, and her cheeks were pale. Warning the girl to go lightly, she watched anxiously to be sure she didn’t end with two bright red spots on her cheeks. But Tilly was sparing with the stuff, and the results were acceptable. Indeed, it was difficult to tell that she had given nature any aid at all.
“I do hope the dowager doesn’t disapprove,” she said, smiling at the girl.
“That one? Not a chance, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. The old duchess likes a bit o’ paint ’erself. Says it livens up a dull complexion. She be gettin’ on, though, ’n that’s a fact. Some o’ the younger gennulmen as should know better calls ’er ‘Was-a-Bella.’ Me, I’d like t’ clap their ’eads t’gether, I would.”
Philippa’s smile widened. She was beginning to like Tilly. At that moment the door opened and Miss Pellerin entered.
“Oh, my dear, how splendid you look,” said that lady. “That gown becomes you wondrous well. Do get up and let me look at you.”
Philippa obeyed, turning to give the full effect. “Well, ma’am? You have seen this dress before, after all.”
“Yes, indeed, but where are your jewels, Philippa?”
“Here.” Philippa moved to open the case on the dressing table, removed a gold chain with a pendant emerald and matching earbobs. “No bracelets tonight, I think,” she said, examining the rest of the contents. “ ’Tis only a simple dinner, after all.”
Miss Pellerin nodded, then moved to help her fasten her chain. Philippa picked up her gloves, pulled them on and smoothed them at elbows and wrists, and pronounced herself ready to go downstairs.
“And what of Jessalyn? Do we call for her?”
“We do not,” Philippa said firmly. “If she goes supper-less to bed, it will be no more than she deserves.”
“Mercy me, then you have spoken with her. Was the discussion prodigiously uncomfortable?”
“Indeed, it was, ma’am, but no more so than his lordship’s conversation with the Lady Lucinda, I’m told. I met him out on the terrace afterward. At least Jessalyn had the goodness not to subject me to a fit of the vapors such as that to which he said his sister subjected him.”
“Well, no one has ever, with all her faults, accused Jessalyn of being vaporish,” said Miss Pellerin with a smile, before adding more seriously, “You ought not to wander about by yourself, my dear. Had someone seen you with his lordship, an assignation might have been suspected.”
“Oh, pooh,” replied Philippa, grimacing. “Not but what his lordship mightn’t have liked it to be an assignation. I fear he is like so many others, ma’am.”
“Mercy me, on the catch for a wife, is he?”
“I don’t doubt it. As you said before, he must be in his mid-thirties, and he’s been away for several years. He is not getting any younger, and there’s the succession to be secured. Anyway, I recognized the look,” she added a little sadly.
Miss Pellerin wisely said nothing more to the purpose than that she was sure they ought to be getting downstairs if they were not to keep the others waiting, and Philippa, with a guilty glance at the hovering Tilly, agreed. It took them some time to reach the pink-and-gold saloon where the household gathered before dinner, and when they entered they discovered that the others were indeed before them.
Philippa’s appreciative gaze fell first upon the viscount, who was looking as much like a soldier as it was possible to look in proper evening attire. His light-colored breeches and dark coat were cut in such a fashion as to show his excellent figure to admiration, and his linen was so white it seemed to sparkle. He smiled at her, and she returned a tiny smile of her own that widened when her hostess spoke to her.
“Dear Philippa, you do remember Rutland, do you not?”
Philippa looked up at the fifth Duke of Rutland. “Indeed, I do. How do you do, your grace?”
Rutland nodded, smiling at her. “Well, thank you, Lady Philippa.” He was a tall gentleman of a distinctly noble presence, but she stood in no awe of him, for he was a singularly courteous man who knew to a nicety how to put others at their ease. He talked with her for some moments more, then gestured toward the third and fourth gentlemen in the room, a short, plump, rather ugly young man dressed in the height of fashion, and another, handsomer man with a devil-may-care look about him. “You know Lord Alvanley, of course, ma’am,” the duke said, indicating the first gentleman, “but have you met my brother, Lord Robert Manners?”
Philippa had not had that pleasure before, and she was pleased to meet Lord Robert, who proved to be a merry gentleman in his early thirties. The duchess broke in just then to demand to know if they were all to stand about staring at one another or if her husband meant to ring for refreshments. The demand being seconded by the dowager, who said that for her part she could do nicely with a glass of Negus, thank you, the duke grinned at his brother, who went to pull the bell.
The fact that such action had not been necessary was proved by the immediate entrance of two footmen with silver trays laden with all manner of bottles and glasses. By the time each person had been served, Philippa discovered that Lord Rochford had maneuvered himself to a place by her side.
“I like that dress,” he said simply.
“Thank you, sir. Tis one of my favorites.”
“How refreshing that you do not claim it to be just whatever fell first to hand.”
“ ’Twould be most foolish to chance snatching up a gown that did not become one, would it not? I fear I have little interest in such games, sir.”
“I say, Lady Philippa,” Lord Robert broke in, moving to stand beside Rochford, “my mama tells me you have twice hunted with my brother’s pack. Do you mean to do so again, now that you are here?”
Philippa dimpled at him, her cheeks reddening as she darted a glance toward the duke and discovered that he had overheard the question. “As to that, my lord, I cannot say. I have not been invited.”
“Well, dash it, John, invite her,” commanded his lordship. “Mama says she rides dashed well for a woman. Can’t wish to sit by and watch if she can ride.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Rutland. “You must join us here at Belvoir whenever you like, Lady Philippa. We should be pleased to have you ri
de out with the family.”
“You permit women to ride with your pack?” Rochford inquired with a lazy smile. “You are more daring than most, duke.”
Rutland chuckled but avoided his mother’s eye. “I have been given little choice in the matter, Rochford. No more, in fact, than my father before me. Have your sisters never demanded the chance to ride with the Wyvern pack, then?”
“Much good it would have done them,” the viscount said, grinning. “Neither my father nor I would be like to permit such a thing. The company is scarcely suitable, and the country is a deal too rough.”
“You have your own pack, sir?” Philippa inquired, interested despite her determination to set him at a distance.
“My father’s pack, actually. But then, I daresay it comes to the same thing.”
“Alvanley has been kind enough to say that the Wyvern pack is as well-bred as our own,” said Rutland, smiling at that gentleman.
“Young Alvanley,” said the dowager in stern tones, “would like any pack of hounds that could run fast enough to avoid being run down by him. His lordship,” she added, shooting that gentleman a challenging look, as though she dared him to disagree with her, “is a crammer and heads his fox as often as not, if he don’t overrun him.”
“Alwayth did thay,” Lord Alvanley lisped, unabashed by these strictures, “hunting would be a dashed thight more fun were it not for the damned houndth alwayth getting in the way.”
“That means,” said Rochford near Philippa’s ear, “that he cares only for the hard riding and nothing much for the hunt itself. Alvanley rides neck-or-nothing, and if he doesn’t turn the fox away from the course, he rides past him, or did you follow that exchange without my translation?”
She smiled at him but stepped a little away. “I knew about overrunning, of course, and I daresay I knew that Duchess Isabella was expressing disapproval, but I am not fully alive to all the slang of the sport, I fear.”
“No reason any gently bred female ought to be,” he replied, but his tone was even and his smile took offense from the words.
