Revealed (3 page)

“Rumor has it, Broughton’s been locked up at his estate, poor thing,” Phillippa pouted saucily.

“Which one?” Nora asked. “They say he has a dozen.”

“Does it matter? It only matters that he wasn’t here before, and now he is.” A small, satisfied smile lifted the perfect bow of her mouth.

“Well,” Nora conceded, “if he’s as
delicious
up close as he seems to be from a distance . . . Have you been introduced?”

“Not yet,” Phillippa said, as the last of the militia trooped past, leading cheering revelers in their wake (luckily, the parade had been horseless, else the revelers might suffer a misstep and a smelly fate). “But he’ll introduce himself shortly.”

Nora’s brows shot up in surprise. “How can you know that?”

“Watch.”

As the last of the revelers passed, Phillippa let go of her coyness and turned, catching hold of the Marquis of Broughton’s hawklike gaze and holding it.

She arched a brow, slightly, allowed the faintest upturn to the corner of her mouth.

Never did his eyes lift from hers. Never did she allow the heat of his gaze to cause more than the faintest of blushes to paint her cheek.

With one last fractional brow raise, Phillippa pointedly turned away and addressed Nora.

“He’ll introduce himself shortly,” she repeated. She didn’t even attempt to hide the smugness she considered well-deserved. “In the meantime, shall we get some ices? Its unbearably hot among all these”—she flitted her hand—“people.”

Phillippa handed a squirming and eager Bitsy to his liveried attendant for walking, and taking Nora’s arm, she gently steered her toward the shops that lined the park. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Marquis of Broughton approach them. He was still a good twenty feet away but moving like a hunter stalking his prey. Surreptitiously, Phillippa reached over and grabbed one of Nora’s gloves out of her hand (she certainly wasn’t about to let her own glove get muddy) and dropped it, all without Nora noticing. The Marquis was behind her now, out of her line of sight.

She slowed, and then counted.

He would be a few feet from the glove by now.

Bending down, he’d have picked it up.

“Excuse me, madam?” an unfamiliar, deeply masculine voice addressed them, a warm drawl coloring his expression.

Phillippa turned, sly smile and coy look at the ready to lay claim to . . .

Someone who was not the Marquis.

“You seem to have dropped this,” the incredibly tall man with the deep voice said, holding up Nora’s small, now-soiled glove.

“Thank you,” Nora said, accepting the glove with a polite smile. “I hadn’t realized I dropped it, Mr.—”

“Mr. Worth,” he replied before tipping his hat.

“Mr. Worth,” Nora repeated, doing the conversational duties Phillippa had abdicated.

Abdicated, because her gaze had narrowed and locked onto the Marquis of Broughton, who, like them, had attracted his own barnacle of sorts, as she watched him hand a reticule back to a vaguely pretty female who lightly touched his arm at discreet intervals.

It seemed he had “accidentally” been bumped into by none other than that treacherous harlot herself, Lady Jane Cummings.

T
HE rivalry between Phillippa Benning and Lady Jane Cummings was of such long standing, no one knew its origin. Some were certain that a young buck must have, at one point in time, favored one over the other. Others with keener memories knew they had been rivals at Mrs. Humphrey’s School for Elegant Ladies, ruling opposing factions of adolescent girls with strong hands, witty remarks, and imaginative pranks, which would have been unbecoming of young ladies of their station . . . if they had ever been caught. Still others thought the rivalry had begun in the womb, as both their mothers were notorious in their own exploits in their beautiful youth. Whatever the cause, Phillippa Benning’s hatred of Lady Jane and vice versa had the effect of setting every tongue in London wagging.

Phillippa, of course, had thought herself removed from Lady Jane at her coming out; Phillippa had debuted at seventeen, and Lady Jane’s mother, the Duchess, would not hear of launching her only daughter into society until she was eighteen. But, while Phillippa married, then mourned, Lady Jane had debuted, and then was shocked into nursing and soon mourning herself, when her own mother took violently ill and suffered for weeks before finally succumbing. And so, the seasons had passed, and Phillippa and Lady Jane found themselves again staring each other down in society.

It was highly annoying.

Phillippa had the advantages of the freedoms of widowhood, but Lady Jane, although the exact same age as Phillippa, had the impression of youth and newness. And there was nothing so alluring to the Ton as something new.

Every lady of marriageable age was either in Phillippa’s camp or Lady Jane’s, and every gentleman knew what it was to walk the line between them. So when one gentleman caught both Phillippa and Lady Jane’s eye, it was certain to cause a commotion.

But due to her great advantage in height, Phillippa was absolutely certain she had seen him first that day in the park.

“The Marquis of Broughton,” announced the imperious butler at the door of Lady Plessy’s parlor.

She also had the good luck to be the only one of them invited to this dinner party.

Lady Plessy’s dinner parties were entirely Phillippa’s arena. The people who populated them were fashionable, eager, and determined to have their fun. Lady Jane would be wholly welcome in that circle, if not for Lady Plessy’s allegiance to Phillippa.

Phillippa Benning was nothing if not determined. They were gathered in the parlor before walking in to dine, milling about talking of the eventful nothings of the day. As Broughton made his bow to their hostess, Phillippa walked directly up to him, extended her hand, and spoke.

“Good evening. I’m Phillippa Benning. And you are . . . ?”

Sometimes the direct approach had its advantages.

Broughton blinked once, then twice, then let out a short guffaw and bowed over her hand, saying, “Broughton, Mrs. Benning. Terribly pleased to see your gloves are none the worse for wear.”

That earned a brilliant and knowing smile from Phillippa.

Having sweetly bribed Lady Plessy with promises of an introduction to her famed mantua maker, Madame Le Trois, Phillippa earned the honor of sitting a mere seat away from that good lady, and therefore opposite Lady Plessy’s other favored guest, the Marquis of Broughton. He was certainly making a splash in society, a mere three days introduced.

Phillippa let him lead the conversation, her clear blue gaze finding his a dozen times throughout the meal. As he spoke of his exploits hunting, his fencing prowess, his pride in Britain’s victories abroad (although he had taken no part in them), and his homes and estates (careful to gloss over their net worth in the way of polite people), he kept turning to her, seeking her out in the flow of words between them. Phillippa couldn’t help but smugly think,
Lady Jane doesn’t stand a chance.

He led her to the floor after dinner, his hand lightly brushing the back of her neck and sending a delighted frisson down her spine, causing a small hitch to her breath and curve to her lips. She felt a greater willingness to hold on to his hand through the turns of the quadrille, the effortless stepping of place to place, his movements graceful and perfect.

When the party broke up to go on to others, Broughton leaned over Phillippa’s hand, this time lingering, the heat of his thumb caressing the tips of her fingers.

“I do hope to see you again,” he said in a deep rumble. “At Almack’s, perhaps?”

“Almack’s?” Phillippa replied on a cough.

“Almack’s,” he repeated, a decided twinkle in his eye. “Should I wager for you or against you?”

And at that, all she could do was smile.

“But you hate Almack’s! You always say the patronesses look down their noses at you,” Nora said in a rushed whisper. They were seated in the ladies’ retiring room of the next party—was it the Hurstons? No, Phillippa had refused to attend that one—they were at the Winters’, enjoying the small luxury of gossiping in the relative privacy provided by a number of screened-in alcoves, allowing several ladies the necessary privacy required for the secrets of beauty.

Or just secrets.

“They look down their noses at everyone, but they have never denied me a voucher,” Phillippa replied nonchalantly.

“But—”

“Nora, I’m well aware of my feelings about the place.” And so, apparently, was the Marquis. But he had nearly dared her, nay,
challenged
her to go. What would he think of her if she were not up to the challenge?

The happy, melodic hum of other women chatting, gossiping, laughing in their own alcoves kept their conversation private, but slowly some voices became more easily distinguished than others.

“Did you
see
the Marquis of Broughton at the parade? So tall and elegant! He was practically more beautiful than every man in uniform!” spoke a young lady who could only be Miss Louisa Dunningham, by her high-pitched, girlish squeaks.

“Yes, my dear,” spoke her surprisingly deep-voiced mother, “he eclipsed them all.”

“Did you see him after the parade?” another young woman, likely Miss Sterling, said. “Practically
mauling
Lady Jane Cummings!”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Dunningham replied, “I saw no such thing. You shouldn’t spread such gossip, Penny.”

“But I saw—”

“What you saw was a man fetching a reticule, nothing more.”

That quelled the young debutantes into silence. But only for a moment.

“Oh, he fetched her reticule! How
romantic
!” Louisa squeaked, causing Phillippa to roll her eyes in a thoroughly exasperated and most unattractive manner. Louisa’s youthful outburst of vicarious emotion was followed by Penny Sterling’s artfully wistful sigh, and “Oh, do you think he’ll fall madly for her? That he’ll be whisked away by her endless beauty?”

“More likely frightened away by her endless nose,” Phillippa whispered to Nora, who unfortunately giggled and then covered it with a snort.

Nora, as much as Phillippa enjoyed her company, had a rather distinctive snort.

The overheard conversation ceased. Then, instead of taking up some other topic with delicacy and grace, the curious Louisa stuck her head around the privacy screen, treating Nora and Phillippa to a view of her eyes going wide.

“Oh! Mrs. . . . Mrs. Benning! How do you do?” Louisa stammered. “Miss De Regis,” she turned to Nora, and in doing so, dropped to a curtsy, forcing Nora and Phillippa from their seats to do the same. They emerged from the private alcove (no sense hiding any longer) to greet Mrs. Dunningham and Miss Penny Sterling.

After a moment of stiff bobbing up and down, Penny elected to speak first.

“We were just talking of—”

“Something that would never happen in a million years!” Nora burst out, much to the shock and surprise of everyone, including Phillippa. “I mean to say,” she continued, “that the Marquis of Broughton is not going to fall in love with someone like Lady Jane Cummings simply because she dropped her reticule, especially not when he has since danced with Phillippa. Twice.”

The shocked and delighted gasps that statement elicited from their audience covered the shocked and appalled “Nora!” that escaped from Phillippa’s mouth. For the first time in many many months, Phillippa felt a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. She would be deeply angry at Nora, if she didn’t look so well when blushing.

“Where! When! How!” Louisa and Penny were squealing, while Mrs. Dunningham was far more silent but still just as interested in any piece of gossip.

“Oh, its so romantic!”

“Was it at a party? Was it as if you were the only two people in the room?”

“What is the Marquis like? He must be incredibly dashing!”

Phillippa smiled. She was more than willing to expound upon Broughton’s virtues. “Dashing is an acceptable word.
Delicious
is far more appropriate.”

And he was. Phillippa thought back to their long-delayed introduction, only hours ago. His gorgeous blond hair, falling over his forehead in perfect fashion as he bent over her hand; he never took his eyes from hers, lingering slightly overlong but not in a leering way. It was rare that Phillippa was affected by anyone, but Broughton certainly piqued her interest. And then when he asked her to dance, it was a challenge, a dare. Phillippa doubted Lady Jane would prove such a tempting partner.

“Oh!” Louisa sighed, snapping Phillippa back to reality. “Do you think he’ll ask for your hand?” Mrs. Dunningham joined her daughter in delight, “I hear he’s worth half a million pounds.”