Page 46 of Miss Dashing
Papa was nothing if not predictable. After criticizing Hecate’s best efforts and setting monumental challenges before her—move the highest-ranking guest to the most humble accommodations, while finding another spacious apartment for Papa himself—he’d dangled the possibility of a moment’s approval: Get Edna’s daughters engaged to the two most impressive eligibles at the gathering, neither of whom would be caught dead offering advances to Portia or Flavia, and Papamightcount himself amazed.
Not pleased or impressed, but amazed. Maybe.
Not for the first time, Hecate permitted herself a silent, traitorous thought: I am glad you are not my father.On the heels of that notion came the usual disclaimers. Papa had not had an easy life, by his standards, and he’d been bitterly disappointed in his marriage and in the financial arrangements resulting therefrom.
He was pathetic, viewed in a certain light, and Hecate struggled to respect him.
“I heard most of that,” Phillip said, emerging from the shadows at the bottom of the garden. “Speaking as one who appreciates thriving flocks, a mere lout dressed up as a lord, I will beat him to flinders if you allow it. We louts take exception to any who treat a lady ill, and that man… My dear, how do you stand him?”
The usual defenses were beyond Hecate. He’s not that bad. His bark is worse than his bite,which was a way of acknowledging that all of Papa’s blows were verbal rather than physical. Lord Nunn, Mrs. Roberts, Phillip, any number of people had weathered bitter disappointments in life and not turned to cruelty as their consolation.
Phillip settled on the bench beside her, his arm coming around her shoulders. Hecate leaned into his warmth and wished the whole blazing house party to perdition.
“Papa wants to be on hand to welcome Cousin Johnny home. He probably hopes Johnny has become wealthy in Canada—many do—and to ingratiate himself with our dear cousin if that’s the case. A gentleman doesn’t eavesdrop.”
“And thus I once again fail to make the ranks, because as your devoted admirer, I won’t leave you to do solo combat with a bitter, aging fribble. Have you ever met your real father?”
Hecate shook her head. “What if he’s worse than the one I have?”
“The imagination trembles to conceive of such a notion.”
Phillip rested his cheek against her temple, and though the conversation with Papa hadn’t been terrible, it had still left Hecate off-balance. She’d come right soon enough—she’d been on the receiving end of enough paternal criticism to know that—but still, that he’d insult Phillip…
Phillip brushed her hair back from her shoulder and stroked her earlobe. The caress was oddly soothing, just as Phillip’s simple, quiet presence, his lavender scent, and the rhythm of his breathing were soothing.
Hecate’s spirit calmed, her mind quieted, and her heart seized upon a truth: She struggled to respect her Papa, and someday she might lose that struggle altogether, but she loved Phillip Vincent, and she always would.
“Well, well, well,” Portia murmured as she and Flavia followed Isaac Brompton into the house at a discreet distance. “Cousin Johnny’s coming home. This is perfect.”
Flavia stopped to shake out her slipper, which Portia suspected was a tad loose because Sister Dear had been foraging in Mama’s wardrobe again.
“I always felt,” Flavia said, “that Johnny was being agreeable for show, while considering the lot of us rather silly.”
“You were still in the nursery when he left. Of course he thought you were silly.” He would still think her silly, because darling Flave was no great intellect and never would be. “Johnny’s arrival creates possibilities.”
Flavia got her slipper back on by virtue of undignified hopping. “I was in the schoolroom by the time he left. I don’t like how Cousin Isaac spoke to Hecate. Hecate doestry.He declined his invitation, and now here he is, expecting the staterooms. He didn’t have to be so unkind.”
“Nunnsuch doesn’t have staterooms.” Portia paused at the bottom of the terrace steps, mind whirling with plans only possible because dear, dear Cousin Johnny was on his way home. He’d always been up for a lark, as best she recalled, and he’d certainly been handsome enough—though not quite as handsome as Cousin Emeril or as charming as Charlie.
Nor was Johnny as dashing as Uncle Frank, who was gorgeous, adorable, and wicked. He was Portia’s favorite uncle, and Hecate had all but banished him.
Hecate would be much better off as the wife of a handsome fur trader in Canada.
“Porry, what are you thinking? The last time you got that look on your face, I ended up locked in a linen closet with a viscount’s heir whose breath would have knocked a regiment flat.”
“And his purse would have financed the regimental wardrobe, but Hecate had to ruin that too.” Hecate had come upon the couple before Portia and Eglantine could be properly horrified to find the gentleman in a compromising—blackmail-able—position.
Hecate was always wrecking everything, but surely married to Cousin Johnny and whisked away to Canada…
“We’ve failed to get me compromised with Lord Phillip,” Portia said, “though there’s another week to accomplish that goal.”
“Mr. DeWitt sticks to him like a barnacle,” Flavia said, shaking out the other slipper. “And Hecate plays cribbage with him in plain view of other guests. It’s most vexing.”
“He is smitten with Hecate, but Cousin Johnny can retire her from the lists, as it were.” Portia had been considering Mr. DeWitt for that role—sorry, Flave—but Mr. DeWitt was protected by Lord Phillip and conversely.
Rubbishing bachelors and their male loyalties.
“I think Boots Corviser likes you.” Flavia got her slipper back on and smoothed down her skirts. “He’s merry and not bad-looking.”
