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It seemed her brother did not possess the instincts of a natural chaperon. ‘Oh, you know him, do you? Interesting fellow. Great eye for a horse and the money to back his judgement.’
‘You haven’t been betting again?’ Her heart sank. Had Gregory’s virtuous resolutions been too good to last after all?
‘No!’ He looked wounded. ‘I was round at Tatts, just looking, blowing a cloud, chatting. You know. Clere bought two riding horses for himself, a pretty little mare for his sister and a carriage pair.’
‘Good lord.’ She pushed away the jewellery and tried some mental arithmetic. ‘That is a huge amount of money, all in one go.’
‘I know. And they were all good buys. No gulling him. They’ve got that pair of greys that Feldshore had to sell to meet his gaming debts, you remember them? Showy as they come. Clere just walked round them, had them trotted out and said, “Weak pasterns.” What do you think of that?’
‘Amazing,’ Phyllida agreed, trying to recall what a pastern was. ‘I hope he can pay for all this.’ She could just see Ashe surveying the bloodstock down that straight nose of his, rejecting the inadequate with a word. It took no leap of imagination to see him as a raja in his palace, waving a dismissive hand as slave girls were paraded in front of him, or crooking a long finger in summons if one pleased him.
‘Grandfather was a nabob. Father’s a marquess, he’s the only son. Must be rolling in it,’ Gregory said with amiable envy.
‘And his grandmother was an Indian princess,’ Phyllida could not resist adding.
‘You’ve really b
een talking to him by the sound of it.’
‘Mmm.’ Phyllida tried to focus on the clasp of a rather pretty necklace of polished Scottish pebbles.
‘You’ll be pleased that I’ve invited him for dinner, then.’
‘What?’ The necklace ran through her suddenly nerveless fingers and back into the box with a rattle.
‘You’re not pleased?’ Gregory’s normally cheerful expression became a scowl. ‘Has he acted in some way you did not like? Or said something out of turn? Because if so…’
‘No, nothing like that.’ The last thing she wanted was her brother charging off issuing a challenge. ‘He did not realise about our parents’ marriage and then, when he did find out, he allowed his… surprise to show. That was all. He apologised.’
The scowl was still in place. ‘You liked him, didn’t you, Phyll?’
She managed a rueful smile and a shrug. ‘He is intelligent and attractive. I found him amusing to talk to.’
‘He’ll be looking for a wife,’ Gregory said cautiously.
‘I know, that is only to be expected.’ Her stomach took a sickening swoop. That was what he was skirting around when he apologised. He had mentally assigned her to the ranks of eligible young women—despite what he had seen of her business—and he was inclined to like her. And then he had discovered that she was completely unsuitable…
‘And if he liked you he might have been interested and then he discovered—’ Gregory ploughed on, in unwitting echo of her thoughts.
‘That I am baseborn. Quite. Don’t look so tragic, Gregory. Lord Clere and I had a conversation, that is all. It is not as though we had been meeting for weeks and formed an attraction and then he found out. He is no different from all the rest of the gentlemen we socialise with. I really do not regard it.’
But I do, she realised, even as she spoke. Everyone was perfectly civilised about her status, she was invited to many events, received by all but the highest sticklers. She would never get vouchers for Almack’s, of course, never be presented at court. Her marriage prospects were non-existent, at least amongst the ton, who would object to her birth in an alliance with one of their sons, or amongst the rich middle class families who wanted impeccable bloodlines for their money.
It had never mattered so much before, Phyllida realised. She could not recall the time when she was ignorant of her status, of the oddity of her parents’ marriage and what it meant for her. She had her own interests, her business, her friends and her ambitions for Gregory and that was enough. It had to be. There were daydreams, of course, moments of sadness. Of more than sadness when she had held friends’ babies in her arms, but she had learned to control those foolish hopes.
But Ashe Herriard had shaken her. She liked him and she was attracted to him. It would always have been impossible, of course. The consequences of the choice she had made when she was seventeen meant marriage was out of the question anyway.
Yet somehow, with this man, it hurt. They had only just met and she might yet come to find she only felt mild attraction to him, or she might discover something to dislike in him. He could well have paid her no more attention after the ball. But it was as though someone had just told her for the very first time that she was unmarriageable: shock, a sense of loss, a dull pain somewhere under her breastbone.
Foolishness, she scolded herself. A kiss, a pair of green eyes, a sense of strength and virility, that is all it takes to fill you full of pointless yearnings. It was useless to repine and wish that things were different. They were not and that was that.
The thoughts had run through her mind in seconds and Gregory was still watching her with trouble in his brown eyes. ‘I will tell him we’ve a crisis in the kitchen or something and take him to White’s,’ he offered.
‘No, don’t be silly.’ Where the bright smile came from she had no idea. ‘We will have a dinner party, it will be a pleasure. Now, who else can we invite? I think we must stick at eight of us, otherwise we will be uncomfortably cramped. Shall I see if Miss Millington’s parents will allow her to come? If we invite a married couple, then I cannot see they will have any objection. Lucy and Cousin Peter would be ideal—I am sure Mrs Millington would find a baronet who is a Member of Parliament respectable company for her daughter.’
‘That’s six, including us. I’ll invite the Hardinges as well, shall I?’
‘Mrs Millington will be in a second heaven! An earl, a baronet, a viscount and a baron. I cannot believe she can refuse to allow Harriet to come. I will call tomorrow. What day did you tell Lord Clere?’
