Hecate refilled his cup with a steady hand, though the blunt request took her aback. Nobody asked Hecate Brompton for anything anymore, except to prevail on her to dance an opening quadrille with a spotty, bumbling nephew.
She had worked for years to make it so. “Why me? Why not ask Tavistock to appoint you a finishing governess? I’m sure among his army of step-relations and acquaintances, he knows somebody who could see to your Town education in due time.”
Lord Phillip wanted to pace again. She could feel the restlessness in him, even from a foot away. Instead, he accepted his refilled cup, took one sip, and set his drink aside.
“Anybody Tavistock chose would jolly me along, overlook three-quarters of my bungling, and pronounce me fit for Almack’s. I’m not stupid, Miss Brompton, but I’m ignorant. I’m the slow top younger brother kept out of Society’s view by decree of the late marquess. He’s dead—thank the Deity—my brother acknowledges me, and now everybody is entitled to have a gawk at the bumpkin spare. For the sake of my brother and for the sake of my own pride, I need to make a good showing.”
Family loyalty was a trap Hecate understood only too well, and pride was both her besetting sin and her saving virtue. “Did you pay me a compliment when you implied that I’d call out your bungling?”
He retrieved his tea for another sip. No slurping, no gulping. “A drill sergeant bellows at his recruits because he wants them to survive battle, not because he’s an overbearing, foul-mouthed brute by nature. Bellow at me, Miss Brompton. Whip me into shape. Please help me survive the battles I’ll face in Mayfair’s ballrooms.”
Lord Phillip wasn’t begging, but rather, asking for help. He was also issuing Hecate a challenge. She hadn’t had a challenge in ages—other than how to manage her family—and the Little Season was still weeks away. She had time to make a silk purse out of…
Wrong analogy. Lord Phillip was intelligent, shrewd, physically impressive, and willing to apply himself to his studies.
With the right tailoring…
But no. Hecate had enough on her plate dealing with her rackety family. “I am not well liked,” she said. “If you are looking for somebody to show you the basics of charm and flirtation, I am the wrong resource.”
“You are respected. You are formidable. A woman who does not suffer fools and who hasn’t succumbed to the blandishments of the fortune hunters. You are my first and last choice of finishing governess.”
How she would have rejoiced to hear herself described thus ten years ago—respected, formidable—and the words were still some comfort, though the finishing governess part…
Nobody had warned her that not suffering fools left a woman with little company in polite society.
“A lady doesn’t raise her voice or use profanity,” Hecate said. “My drill sergeant qualifications are sadly lacking.”
Lord Phillip saluted with his tea cup. “A gentleman is doubtless such crushingly dull company that he ensures a lady is never inspired to colorful language. I have excellent hearing, however, so we can hope you won’t have to raise your voice to me in truth. Putting the manners on me should be nigh boring for one of your accomplishments.”
His eyes were dancing, though his expression remained otherwise solemn, and Hecate realized what about this man had drawn her notice.
Lord Phillip seldom looked anybody in the eye. His gaze was invariably on his surroundings, on his hands, his boots, the nearest painting, but not on the people in his ambit. The same tendency in another man might have come across as furtive or shifty. Lord Phillip was neither—far from it—and she was sure in her bones that he wasn’t arrogant either.
But quite possibly, he was shy.
He’d be torn to pieces and tossed to the tattlers.
Until Tavistock and his new marchioness were blessed with sons, Lord Phillip was the heir presumptive to a marquessate. He was a landed gentleman in his own right, young, attractive… The matchmakers would make a meal of him if the gossips left enough to snack on.
“Mayfair will undoubtedly bore you witless,” Hecate said, “if it hasn’t already. I don’t suppose you’re wealthy?”
Lord Phillip took up a visual inspection of the great harp. “Is that question rude?”
“Very. Also pertinent.”
“I’m happy to pay you.”
Holy angels defend him. “I will not accept coin for spending time with an agreeable social connection.”
Lord Phillip again swung his gaze in her direction. “You should be compensated. Your time is precious, and I’m a quick study, but I have much to learn, and agreeable comes close to a falsehood, Miss Brompton.”
He was sure of his strengths and honest about his weaknesses. That lack of prevarication left Hecate at a loss for how to respond. Lord Phillip was also the first person to inform her that her time was precious.
She should say no. She should politely decline. She should recommend him to some agency that specialized in deportment instructors, though none immediately came to mind.
“Very well.” Phillip rose and bowed. “I’ll wish you a pleasant rest of your day. I can see myself to the door. My thanks for hearing me out.”
He’d said please. He’d been respectful. He was facing a pack of wolves and had sense enough to know it.
He was about to leave the room without offering her a bow, for pity’s sake. “Coin of the realm is of no interest to a lady, but if I’m to take on your education, I need an idea of your means.”
Lord Phillip sent a longing glance at the French doors. “I’m not in your league, but I’m well fixed. I own Lark’s Nest thanks to Tavistock’s generosity, and the estate prospers. I’ve invested a bit here and there, and I’m patient. I patented a plow design a few years back and some wool shears for use in the left hand. My tastes are modest, my needs few.”
Hecate considered that recitation. “Ten thousand a year?”
“And a bit more, most years.”
What had Tavistock been thinking to leave his brother tethered in Town like a goat set out to tempt the matchmakers?
But then, Tavistock hadn’t been thinking. He’d been dreaming of wedded bliss with his Amaryllis.
“You’ll need funds,” Hecate said. “Funds for a wardrobe, cattle, a curricle or phaeton. We have time for that, but if you want to make a good showing this autumn, we’ll need to get started.”
“You’ll take on my education, then? Break me to harness?”
Still not the right analogy. “You are on probation, my lord. Try my patience too far, exceed my tolerance in any way, and I will toss you to the penny press.”
“I am duly warned.”
“Then do stop looming over me. I have more questions, and I have it on good authority that my time is precious.”
“So it is.” He resumed his place on the sofa and poured himself a third cup of tea.
Phillip had put off calling on Miss Hecate Brompton for a week, until it was almost too late, until most of the best families had left the sweltering confines of London for the green and restful shires. He would have decamped for Lark’s Nest with them, except that home was Crosspatch Corners, where Trevor, Marquess of Tavistock, and his darling Amaryllis were embarking on their honey month.