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The bigoted beast. Phyllida slipped through the crowd and into the ladies’ retiring room before she betrayed her humiliation by marching straight over and slapping Ashe Herriard’s beautiful face for him.
He had flirted—worse than flirted on the quayside—he had joked with her this evening, promised to keep her secret and then, the moment he discovered who she was, snubbed her with a cut direct.
She flung herself down on a stool in front of a mirror and glared at her own flushed expression. Stupid to let myself dream for a moment that I was a débutante flirting with a man who might offer marriage. Stupid to dream of marriage at all. What had come over her to forget the anguish of that struggle to resign herself when she had faced the fact that she would never marry? I will not cry.
‘Is anything wrong?’ She had not noticed it was Miss Millington on the next stool.
‘Men,’ Phyllida responded bitterly as she jabbed pins into her hair.
‘Oh dear. One in particular or all of them? Only I liked your brother very much, Miss Hurst, he is such a good dancer and so amusing. He has not made you angry, surely?’
‘Gregory? No, not at all.’ Gregory was being a positive paragon this evening. ‘No, just some tactless, top-lofty buck. I hope,’ she added vengefully, ‘that his too-tight silk breeches split.’
Miss Millington collapsed in giggles. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I believe the gentlemen wear nothing beneath them, they are made of such thin knitted silk. What a shocking revelation!’
Phyllida imagined a half-naked Lord Clere for a moment, visualised those long legs and taut buttocks, then caught Miss Millington’s eye in the glass and succumbed to laughter, too. ‘Oh dear. He is very good-looking and has a fine figure, but I suppose it is too much to hope for.’
The other young woman hesitated. ‘I wonder if you might care to call on Mama, Miss Hurst. Perhaps it is forward of me, but I think we could be friends.’
Phyllida cast a hasty glance around the room, but they were alone at one end. ‘United in our desire to study Classical statuary, or perhaps anatomy?’ she asked wickedly. ‘I would like that very much. Will you not call me Phyllida?’
‘And I am Harriet.’ Miss Millington fished in her reticule. ‘Here is Mama’s card. She receives on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘Thank you, I look forward to it.’ Feeling considerably soothed, Phyllida dusted rice powder lightly over her flushed cheeks and went out to look for Gregory.
They found each other almost immediately, both, it seemed, ready to go home. ‘I have done my duty by all six of the young ladies you listed for me,’ he said as he helped her with her cloak in the lobby. ‘If I stay any longer I will get confused between bankers’ daughters, mill-owners’ heiresses and the offspring of naval captains awash with prize money.’
‘Did you like Miss Millington?’ Phyllida asked as he handed her into a hackney.
‘Miss Millington? She’s the tall brunette with a nice laugh and good teeth. She has a certain style about her.’
‘I have good news. She thinks you are a fine dancer, has invited me to call and we are now on first-name terms. I really like her, Gregory.’
‘I did, too,’ he admitted.
‘Now all we have to do is to make sure she falls in love with you and that you do not fall into any scandals that wil
l alarm her fond papa.’
‘And we will do the difficult things after breakfast, will we?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best to be a good lad, Phyll.’
Please, she thought. And fall in love, for Harriet’s sake. And then she could retreat to the little dower house in the park and spend her time finding items for her shop, for which she would employ a manager. She would be independent, removed enough not to cause a newly respectable, and wealthy, Earl of Fransham any embarrassment and free from the deceits and dangers of her current situation.
It all seemed so simple. Too simple? No, we can do it.
Phyllida managed to maintain her mood of optimism through the short journey home, a cup of tea by her bedchamber fire and the rituals of undressing and hair brushing.
But when she blew out the candle, lay back and shut her eyes, the image against her closed lids was not of a happy bridal couple in a cloud of orange blossom, but Ashe Herriard’s disdainful face as he watched her across the ballroom floor.
Bigoted, arrogant beast, she thought as she punched the pillow. Your opinion isn’t worth losing a wink of sleep over and so I shall tell you if I am ever unfortunate to meet you again.
At five o’clock the next morning Phyllida was not certain how many winks of sleep she had lost, but it was far too many and lost not to constructive thoughts or pleasant half-dreams, but a miserable mixture of embarrassment and desire. She pushed herself up against the piled pillows to peer at the little bedside clock in the dim light. Quarter past five.
It was hopeless to try to get back to sleep. The best she might hope for was to toss restlessly, remembering the heat of Ashe Herriard’s mouth on hers, his long-limbed elegance as he sat on the window seat. It was bad enough to have thoughts like that without entertaining them for a man who despised her for an accident of birth.
Phyllida threw back the covers and got out of bed to look through the gap in the curtains. It was going to be a nice day. If she could not sleep, at least she could get some fresh air and exercise. A walk in Green Park would relax her and put her in a positive frame of mind for the morning.
The water in the ewer was cold, of course, but that did not matter. She scrambled into a plain walking dress and half-boots, tucked her hair into a net, took her bonnet by its ribbons and threw a shawl around her shoulders.
