Revealed (32 page)

As he escorted her back to her room that afternoon so she could prepare for supper, Broughton had broached the subject everyone else had discussed except them.

“I must apologize for last night,” he said in his affected, lazy drawl.

“Must you?” Phillippa asked innocently.

“Yes. I don’t know what happened—it must have been the wine—but I got to the stairs, and I nearly fell asleep there. It was all I could do to get to my room.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, and I know you were waiting for me,” he began to tug at his collar. Obviously he was not used to his charms failing.

“Was I?” Phillippa cocked her head to one side.

“Phillippa, don’t be cruel,” Broughton pleaded. He took a breath and allowed his charming smile to return full force. “But tonight, I won’t disappoint you.”

“You won’t?”

“I assure you, I am exceedingly well-rested.” He drew his hand under her chin at that, delicately lifting her face to his. He smiled down at her, and Phillippa had to admit he was the most handsome man of her acquaintance, but she was struck by just how many teeth Broughton had. Surely more than normal. “Just wait until I knock on your door tonight.”

“No, Phillip,” she said, smiling into his eyes. They maneuvered down the hall so slowly, she was certain they drew eyes, but her voice was pitched so sweetly, no one would know what she spoke of.

“No?” he echoed.

“I find that I don’t like to be kept waiting. And according to what you said,
you
kept me waiting all night.”

Broughton’s brow furrowed. “But you said we’d have
hours
to ourselves this weekend—”

“Really, Phillip, I don’t remember making any promises.” They were at her door now and came to a stop. She took a step closer to him. “But there will be hours tonight when no one will be watching us. However, I will not wait for you to knock on my door.”

“But—”

“You will have to wait for me to knock on yours.”

That toothy grin returned in full force. He
was
exceptionally good-looking. It struck her every time he smiled. And it was so nice that she was able to control him so effortlessly. Really, the poor man had thought he’d won, when he asked, “What time?”

“What time?” she repeated.

“What time will you knock on my door?”

“Heavens, I haven’t decided if I’m going to.” And with a smile, she slipped into her room, shutting the door in his shocked face with a laugh.

It was the most fun she’d had this whole weekend. And seeing Broughton tortured, working through her challenge, while eating supper was the second.

Indeed, Phillippa found herself rather discomfited that night at the dining table. Even the sight of Lady Jane, seated to Broughton’s left, trying and failing utterly to engage his attentions could not bring a smile to Phillippa’s face.

And she couldn’t fault the food, oh no! Lady Hampshire’s cook had pulled out all the stops, the prize birds having been killed and dressed for the occasion, the sauces a delight, the trifles lighter than air.

But it was impossible to eat, to focus on conversation, nay, to focus on anything other than the fact that she had yet to tell Marcus about what she saw at the stables.

Once she and Broughton finished their meeting, Phillippa had to rush to bathe and dress again, this time for the evening’s festivities. Not knowing what lay ahead that evening, she did not rightly know how to dress. She went through several options before she chose her most sturdy dancing slippers and another of her Madame Le Trois commissions with skirts voluminous enough for pockets, a devastatingly decadent cream satin with silver thread. She was already setting a fashion. More than one young lady sported a wider skirt that evening—all because of Phillippa’s desire for pockets!

She now stuffed those pockets with a bit of candle, a few coins, even Totty’s little sewing kit. Who knew what she would need? But all this preparation came with a price, and by the time she came downstairs, everyone was already heading into the dining room. Broughton, good boy that he was, had duly waited for her, in order to escort her in, forcing Nora, in a quick whisper, to eat her earlier words about Phillippa having “done something wrong.”

Once seated, Phillippa had hoped to be near enough to Marcus to engage him in whispered conversation. But she had not taken the time to butter up the hostess to her advantage, because she found herself not only at almost the other end of the table from Marcus but seated directly next to Lord Sterling!

She tried everything. She tried a discreet cough, an overly loud laugh to catch Marcus’s eye, but to no avail. . . . Hell, she would have attempted engaging him in a game of charades if she, firstly, could do so without anyone else noticing, and secondly, didn’t hate charades. . . . She didn’t think he was ignoring her, though after she was so rudely abrupt to him last evening, he had every right to. No, instead she hoped that since he had left off his spectacles for the evening, it was possible that at this distance, she was nothing more than a large blur.

By the time the dessert courses were being served, Phillippa was a nervous wreck. She tried attending her conversation to Lord Sterling, but he said nothing more incendiary than to comment on the food or ask her advice on his daughter’s prospects.

As the host and hostess rose from the table, Phillippa was on her feet, too. And Broughton abandoned Lady Jane to take Phillippa’s arm.

Luckily, since dancing and entertainments had been arranged, the practice of the ladies excusing themselves from the men was abandoned for the evening, as the party moved with laughter and gaiety toward the ballroom.

Trying to walk with dignity when desperately trying to reach someone is no easy task. Doing it in a cream silk ball gown embroidered with silver thread and silk dancing slippers while being escorted out by a sulky marquis didn’t assist matters.

“I hope my conduct so far this evening meets with your approval,” Broughton sneered under his breath, causing Phillippa to smile somewhat viciously.

“You are the consummate gentleman. You aren’t trying to sway my decision, by any chance?”

Broughton’s eyes flashed as they maneuvered with equal parts grace and speed through the flowing crowd. “Unabashedly,” Broughton said.

“Phillip.” She smiled, stepping into him, placing her hand on his chest, as they were crushed together by the wave of young people, eager to join the dance. “You do know how to soothe a girl’s wounded ego.”

Phillippa and Broughton finally managed to pass through the hall and into the center of the festivites. Unfortunately, Marcus was so far ahead of them that by the time she had reached the grand ballroom, bedecked in rich autumnal silks and a full orchestra playing a minuet at the far end, he had already taken his dinner partner, Nora, to the floor.

“Oh, drat it all,” she said, standing on tiptoes to watch Marcus take Nora through a turn. She had been so attentive to him during dinner, hadn’t she? Phillippa’s face turned red at recalling how every time she looked over at Marcus, Nora was there, laughing at some unheard comment, artlessly grazing his hand with hers. And now she had him taking the floor with her! And on top of it all, he looked to be enjoying it!

Was it just her, or did Marcus look ridiculously handsome that evening? His afternoon of rest had obviously done him good, his hair grown out of its fashionable cut just slightly enough to make it stylish, his clothing impeccable. She had noticed more than one lady, including Nora, give him an approving once-over, and at least one man. Marcus was well on his way to being accepted by the highest echelons of the Ton as one of them. Soon, he wouldn’t need her anymore.

A startling thought, which Phillippa refused to allow more than a second in her mind. She had more important matters to attend to. Namely, getting to Marcus and finally speaking to the wretched man!

“I’m afraid I must abandon you,” Broughton said, as he brought her hand to his lips. “I promised a dance to Lady Jane earlier, and I’d just as soon get it over with.”

“Fine,” Phillippa said distractedly.

“You’re not . . . angry?” Broughton asked quizzically.

“No, go ahead,” Phillippa waved him away, all the while keeping her eye on Marcus and Nora.

“But, Phillippa—why?”

Remembering her game, Phillippa shot Broughton a bewitching smile. “Because I know you’ll be back right after.”

Broughton scowled and stalked off. Perhaps she was having too much fun leading him by a string, she thought, as she waited patiently for the minuet to end. He was likely to chafe against the binds.

However, she could not worry about that now. The average dozen or so gentlemen had asked to step out with her for this dance, but she declined them all, claiming it was to late to join in the first dance. Slowly, she wedged her way through the young ladies and gentlemen, the matron mamas and their patient husbands, who lined the edge of the dance floor. The ballroom was wide in the way of most Tudor grand halls, but not up to modern standards and therefore, to fit two lines of dancers, the rest of the attendants were squeezed mercilessly to the sides of the long hall. And given Lady Hampshire’s penchant for company, the Hampshire Ballroom was all but at a standstill. But Phillippa, intent on her course, did not allow difficulties such as other people to stand in her way.

As annoying as it had been to see Nora dancing (gracelessly, to her mind) with Marcus, Phillippa knew that there was an advantage to the situation. When requested to do so, Nora would hand over her dance partner without too many questions.

And that’s exactly what she did.

“Nora, do you mind if I have a word with Mr. Worth?” Phillippa asked, after greeting her friend, as the last strains of the minuet fell away, and the guests’ applause rose.

Nora, with a quick quirk of her head, smiled and said, “By all means. But I see the Marquis of Broughton over there, escorting Lady Jane to the floor.”

Phillippa smiled at Marcus, then took Nora’s arm and pulled her slightly away.

“Nora, I just need a moment,” Phillippa said in a soothing but unquestioning tone. But Nora was never one to remain wholly questionless.

“Phillippa, what are you doing?” Nora whispered furtively. “Broughton is dancing with Lady Jane, and you only want to speak to Mr. Worth? I know he’s your ‘project’ or some such thing, but honestly, I sat next to him all through dinner, and he was most dreadfully dull—didn’t once compliment my dress or my hair. I don’t know what you see in him.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Phillippa countered.

Nora, flinched back, shocked. Phillippa was a little shocked herself, so rarely did the undressed truth pass her lips. But she held her ground. And Nora, once recovered, stood hers.

“Broughton is being
very
attentive to Lady Jane. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose him.”

A quick glance told Phillippa that Nora was right. Broughton was pulling out all the stops to flirt with Jane, an obvious ploy to engage her jealousy. Phillippa drew herself up to her full height and stepped closer to her friend. “It may not look it, but Broughton is well in hand. He’ll be fine without me for a few moments. And I have to speak to Mr. Worth. Nora,” she said, softening her speech, “please, Thomas Hurston has been desolate all evening; you’re the only person here who can make him smile.”

Nora wrinkled her nose, shooting a glace first toward Thomas Hurston, then quickly, furtively, toward the Marquis of Broughton.

“Fine,” she said, as she flounced away. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Duly warned, Phillippa thought and turned back to Marcus.

He had dreamed of her, of course. His slumber that afternoon was marked by fevered memories of what it had been like to taste her, to touch her. The way that simple nightgown had fallen off her shoulder. Then his memory began to entwine with his imagination, and the idea of his skin pressed against her flushed breasts, bare stomach, that jointure of all earthly delights . . .

Needless to say, he slept much longer than he had intended.

Because, upon waking, he was forced to remember that she had rejected him last night.

Again.

And it sat in his stomach like a lump of cold lead.

Byrne mentioned he’d run into Phillippa in the hall, that she was with Broughton at the time. And to see the way Broughton stared at her mournfully through dinner, escorted her solicitously, was basically a pet on her lead, made him all the more infuriated. To think that Phillippa preferred that—

Marcus sighed. Byrne was right. He had lost sight of what he was here for. It was a mutual exchange. He used her for her social contacts; she used him for the Benning Ball. Somewhere in the middle, his head had gotten muddled, and he began thinking she might actually care for him. That was just foolish. Especially considering that he was supposed to be on his guard that night.