Page 84 of Miss Dashing
Not well, at least.
How droll. Assignations everywhere. “I’m off to the earl’s study by way of the maids’ stairs. You’d best stop dawdling, Flavie. In thirty minutes or so, you must interrupt a torrid embrace between our cousins.”
“I can tell time, Porry. You need more pins in your hair, or that arrangement won’t last through the first set.”
“Do not, I beg you, scold me when all of my hard work and planning are about to bear fruit. You see before you the future Lady Phillip.”
Flavia curtseyed. “You see before you a woman in a hurry. Best of luck, Porry, but do be careful. I’ve not heard that Lord Phillip has returned, and that note could be from anybody.”
“You have no feminine intuition. Of course it’s from Lord Phillip. He’s learned that Hecate intends to accept Johnny’s suit, and thus he’s making the most sensible match available. He’s the logical sort, and he and I will get on splendidly. Besides, Berkshire has been terribly lonely for him.”
Flavia shed her dressing gown and took up her stays. “You are privy to gossip I haven’t heard.”
“I am, and if you were any sort of sister, you’d congratulate me on my impending success.”
Flavia gave her an odd look, one that revealed a certain resemblance between Flavia and Hecate. “Congratulations, Portia, on your impending success. When your enjoyable discussion has concluded, please do remember to secure your coiffeur with more pins.”
Portia gave her reflection one last inspection. “If all goes well, I will need to put my entire ensemble to rights after myconversationwith Lord Phillip.”
She swanned out of the room, leaving Flavia looking puzzled and forlorn in her shift. Poor, dear Flavie was doomed to frequent bewilderment and little adventure. Fortunately for her, she could wield a hairbrush competently and mend a hem in a trice. That was something.
Not much, but something.
Portia let herself into Uncle Nunn’s study without knocking. A gentleman stood by the window in formal evening attire, his back to her.
“You were expecting me?” she asked, trying not to sound nervous, though a little nervousness was to be expected. The fellow turned, and she found herself in unexpected company. “What on earth areyoudoing here?”
Johnny strode across the room, looking splendid and annoyed. “I might ask the same of you. Did you set this up?”
“I most certainly did not. How dare you accuse me of such an underhanded scheme? I have no need to lure gentlemen into assignations.”
He prowled closer, until he could look down his nose at her. “That’s not what the Corvisers say.”
“A pair of nattering ninnyhammers, and how dare you accuse me of scheming when you accosted Hecate in the garden, and she rejected your advances?”
Johnny’s gaze strayed where a gentleman’s ought not. Portia let him look and even took a deep breath because men were too stupid to know that was a ploy.
“Hecate plays hard to get,” Johnny said. “What else should I expect from a woman who’s been on the shelf for half her life?”
“You should expect gratitude,” Portia snapped. “If a handsome, well-heeled man of substance favors her with that much attention, she ought to be grateful.” Hecate would be grateful eventually, though Johnny had exactly fifteen minutes to get himself down to the warming pantry, unless the butler had failed to deliver that invitation.
Johnny smiled, and his annoyance turned to a wicked, wicked sort of allure. “Little Portia is all grown up. My gracious.”
Portia debated with herself for one more deep, deep breath—Hecate did not deserve to marry such a fine specimen—and then she seized Johnny by his lovely broad shoulders and took possession of his mouth.
She felt the surprise go through him—she’d ambushed the former soldier—then he wrapped his arms around her and began kissing her back. He tasted of brandy and forbidden fruit, and Portia almost wished she wasn’t about to become engaged to Lord Phillip.
She pushed herself closer. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…
The verse had no sooner popped into her head than she heard a slight scraping sound. Then Johnny shoved her away—he was the one breathing deeply now—and stood at attention.
“I can explain,” he panted. “This is all her fault.”
Hecate had turned the house-party assemblage loose on the buffet a quarter hour ago. A few guests from distant parts were already arriving and milling about in the foyer. Uncle Nunn, accompanied by Mrs. Roberts and Mr. DeGrange, had gone up to his study not five minutes ago, and Hecate’s nerves were in a state.
“Where can he be?” she muttered to nobody in particular.
“Beg pardon?” Mr. DeWitt materialized from the alcove at the top of the main staircase. He was a credit to his tailor and to the fine country air of rural Berkshire. Not as muscular as Phillip, but lean, elegant, and rangy.
