Revealed (4 page)

“Well, it will match Mrs. Benning’s half a million pounds tidily!” an aptly named Penny Sterling added.

“Ladies!” Phillippa cried, unwilling to let the innuendo go any further. “Goodness, you’d have me married by morning, wouldn’t you? All I can say is that if I choose to bring the Marquis of Broughton to heel, I would do so.”

“But what of Lady Jane? She’s set her cap—”

“Lady Jane?” Phillippa trilled. “Do you honestly think I consider her a threat in any way?”

Nora snorted beside her. “Lady Jane couldn’t catch Broughton with armed gunmen and a net. Phillippa will win him, you’ll see.”

“Nora,” Phillippa said quickly, her smile faltering slightly, “I only said if I
wished
—”

“Is that so, Mrs. Benning?” A throaty voice, sharpened by wit and edge, said from behind a screened alcove to their left. “Do you really think you can best me in anything?”

Lady Jane Cummings emerged from behind the screen, a few of her closest minions behind her, forming a wedge of pretty, fierce scowls.

An undercurrent of electricity cut through the room. Before Phillippa could open her mouth with a smarting reply, Nora’s mouth got the best of her.

“Of course she can,” Nora said, turning her small body to block Phillippa from onslaught, in a move that Bitsy, her Pomeranian, had performed for Phillippa countless times. Against the foe of squirrels, but still a protective move, nonetheless.

“Why?” Lady Jane answered. “Men only want you for your money. And Broughton
has
money.”

A sudden chill descended upon the group. No one spoke. No one breathed. Lady Jane had said what no one ever dared. At least, not to Phillippa’s face. Phillippa’s eyes narrowed; her expression turned to marble. She thought it only fair to answer in kind.

“Meanwhile, men only want you for your connection to a title. And Broughton
has
a title. I don’t know how you think to catch his eye by relying solely on your sparkling personality.”

“Lucky for me, my personality sparkles a bit brighter than yours.” Lady Jane shot back, cool as the Thames on a December day, as she and her entourage floated toward the door and out.

“Oh!” Nora scowled at the now-shut door, “that Lady Jane thinks since she’s the daughter of a Duke she can do and say anything!”

“True,” Phillippa replied, then took notice that she still had an audience of Louisa, Penny, and Mrs. Dunningham, all waiting for her to either crack or cry. Phillippa refused to do either.

“Do you know, I’ve recently read a little Chinese text. Most adorable thing, filled with just the most useful observations,” she said with an easy smile to the crowd around her. “And it says that if someone who is engaged in words leaves before the thing is finished, he has absolutely no ammunition with which to fight.”

The three ladies blinked at each other, until Mrs. Dunningham piped up with, “She’s right, girls! Imagine that! Lady Jane left the room so quickly, before Mrs. Benning had opportunity to retort! She must have been terribly afraid of what Mrs. Benning could say!”

“Absolutely!” “Oh goodness, you’re right!” the younger girls gushed.

“Mrs. Benning, where would one acquire that Chinese text? It would be so useful in guiding the girls through society!” Mrs. Dunningham asked, her face flushed with the anticipation of being able to tell her friends of Mrs. Benning’s recommendation. Phillippa graciously supplied the name of a bookseller, and she and Nora made their exits.

“That was neatly done,” Nora whispered, as they made their way back to the Winters’ drawing room, where several card tables had been laid out in anticipation of a night of genteelly deep play.

“It’s the truth.” Phillippa shrugged.

“But what are you going to do about Lady Jane and Broughton?” Nora asked right before they chose their table for a rubber of whist, playing four with Phillippa’s friend and companion Mrs. Tottendale, who cornered Mrs. Winter and a bottle of sherry to be her partners that evening.

“Its simple, Nora,” Phillippa replied. “I’m going to win.”

W
HEN Phillippa Benning entered a room, it was an event. People stopped their conversations midsentence, craned their necks to see. The favored rushed forward to greet her, usher her to the best spot in the room, the one with the most advantageous views, to see and be seen. The unfavored—well, they wouldn’t be invited in the first place. And the admiring throng would part like Moses’s sea as she swept past. It was always the best moment of hers or anyone’s evening.

Yes, Phillippa Benning knew how to make an entrance. It was an incredible show. That was why, upon entering Almack’s, it was so terribly disconcerting to discover that the Marquis of Broughton had yet to arrive.

“But they close the doors in twenty minutes!” she whispered to Nora through a deceptively placid smile.

“How definite was his intention of coming?” Nora whispered back, while nodding to an acquaintance.

“Wholly certain!” Phillippa shot back. Then, musing, she added, “Well, he never did say definitely if he’d show up; he just wondered whether he might see me here.”

“That is difficult to ascertain,” Nora agreed.

“Well, I refuse to be put out by his not seeing my entrance.”

“Bravo!”

“This . . . delay gives me time to greet the patronesses and fix my gown.”

“Is your gown amiss?” Nora worriedly scanned Phillippa’s rather demure gown, a higher-than-normal silk bodice and a chiffon and lace skirt that skimmed her body as it flowed to the floor, all of it the color of a blushing rose, setting off Phillippa’s skin tone delightfully. “I see nothing wrong. Do you want me to send for my mother?”

Phillippa rolled her eyes. “No, Nora, your mother can’t sew worth three shillings, and I don’t require any stitching in any case.”

“Then why did you say your dress required repair?”

“I said I was going to fix it,” Phillippa said with a mock-innocent stare. “Who said anything about repair? Ah, Countess Leivin, how wonderful to see you . . .”

“I should have known. You always have something up your sleeve.” Nora said with an admiring smile as she passed Phillippa in the turn of the quadrille.

Within ten minutes of their arrival, Phillippa was already on the dance floor, causing a stir.

It must be some sort of record, she thought. Delicious.

In fact, she was causing such a stir that she and Nora both grinned deeply when they saw (and heard) Mrs. Hurston, in her offensive purple-plumed turban, say to Mrs. Markham, in similarly nauseating yellow feathers, “I cannot
believe
what Mrs. Benning is wearing; it is so incredibly over the top, and beyond calculation, that I can
not
countenance . . .”

But there Mrs. Hurston’s rant ended, as the wild gesticulations that accompanied her speech caused her cup of orangeat to pour down the front of poor Mr. Worth’s shirt, who’s only offense had been that he had been there, he had been overly tall, and he had been in the orangeat’s way.

Nasty stuff, that orangeat.

Phillippa momentarily felt sorry for Mr. Worth as she watched him leave the ballroom, hunched and coated in orange liquid. Then she recalled he was the man who had been so rude as to pick up Nora’s glove at the parade, and decided orangeat was just punishment for it. Then, just as quickly as the notion had entered her head, she let it flit away, turning her mind to more pleasantly nerve-racking topics.

She had spent the last ten minutes constantly flitting her eyes back to the main doors, all the while dancing and being admired and appearing uninterested and blasé about the attention. Truly exhausting work. But her observational devotion paid off, for just as Mr. Worth passed through the main doors, the massive portals swung open again, this time admitting the Marquis of Broughton.

Phillippa couldn’t help it; she audibly sucked in her breath. Her dance partner, a Mr. Green, looked at her askance but wisely kept his countenance. Luckily, Phillippa was too graceful a partner to let a little thing like the entry of her new conquest cause her to miss a single step.

Broughton was a glowing, golden god. Light seemed to reflect off of his achingly beautiful self, let alone from the diamonds at his cuffs and neckcloth. It was rumored one young lady fainted at the sight of his glowing, golden hair, certain she had seen an angel’s halo. But the reason he attracted so much of Phillippa’s attention was that dastardly twinkle in his eyes. As if he were bored by what he saw and longed for trouble.

And it seemed that she attracted his eye, Broughton having wound his way through the throng of admiring people to her side just as the dance ended. She curtsied politely to Mr. Green, who, seeing the lay of the land, again showed his intelligence and took himself off without another word.

“Mrs. Benning.” Broughton spoke, his voice a throaty rumble. “I’m pleased to see you here.”

She let his voice run down her spine in that pleasant little shiver only Broughton seemed able to produce and gave him a sultry smile. Even better than his voice, even better than his presence, was the fact that the entire hall had begun buzzing like bees roused from their nest.

“Is that Broughton?”

“Aye, I believe so. He’s bowing to Mrs. Benning!”

“Did he kiss her hand?”

“He’ll kiss more than that if he can—the utter rake!”

It was quite impossible to not hear this last exchange, as it was voiced by the shrill Mrs. Croyton, who, having three daughters out in the dangerous waters of society (and none with much hope of prospect, Phillippa thought wryly), felt it necessary to voice her disapproval of unacceptable behavior at a high, loud pitch.

Broughton smirked, amused, and then brought Phillippa’s gloved hand to his mouth, holding it there for such a length of time, until he heard a gasp of “My word!” from Mrs. Croyton, and the inevitable shuffling of her and her gawking daughters’ skirts. But his eyes—his eyes never strayed from Phillippa’s.

Then, without another word, he smoothly tucked her hand in his arm and led her to the floor.

Almack’s had only recently allowed the waltz, it being seen as scandalous for a good number of years due to the contact it allowed men of women’s bodies and the proximity in which the dancers stood. But as the dance grew in popularity, standards became relaxed, until grudgingly, the patronesses had to allow it, if only because there was so much popular music written in its three-quarter time.

But scandal could still be awoken from a three-step rhythm.

For, as Broughton laid one hand high on Phillippa’s waist, its size and strength wrapping around to her spine, his eyes widened in surprise.

Phillippa’s lovely white dress was completely backless.

From the front and side, the dress looked perfectly respectable, with a front neckline one would even call demure. But the neckline at the back was now closer to a waistline, the fabric coming down in straight lines over her shoulder blades and ending at the waist belt. Broughton’s ungloved fingers had landed squarely on the warmth of the valley of her spine.

Phillippa looked up with sinful innocence into Broughton’s suddenly intense icy blue eyes, and she knew that all the extra money she had paid Madame Le Trois to have a removable panel installed had been worth it.

The music began, pulling the couples into spinning swirls of black and white, Phillippa and Broughton along with them. Once he had recovered his surprise, Phillippa was again shot with a thrill of pleasure; Broughton danced marvelously. His pace was strong but not too fast, and oh! His ungloved fingers on her unclothed flesh made it so the slightest bit of pressure moved her according to his whim.

Reveling in the dance and musing on how well she and Broughton must look together, their matching blond hair and crisp blue eyes, their individual beauty combining to outshine the stars, Phillippa almost did not hear Broughton speak.

“I’m glad to find you accepted my challenge,” he began, his voice pitched just above a murmur, for Phillippa’s ears only.

“Challenge?” she replied innocently.

“To come to Almack’s tonight.” He smiled sardonically. “Rumor has it you despise it almost as much as I do.”

Phillippa smiled, blushing prettily as she gave the slightest of shrugs. Broughton’s hand tightened ever so slightly on her back, drawing her barely closer.

“I find Almack’s confining, don’t you?” he said, his voice conversational again.

“Somewhat,” Phillippa replied, arching her brow, “but most Society likes a little confinement.”

“And you do not count yourself among them,” Broughton stated.

“How do you know that?”

He leaned in, his voice caressing her ear.

“Because you’re not wearing a corset.”

Phillippa sucked in her breath and felt his fingers flex and resettle against her skin. Broughton’s touch, the air around them, all of it crackled with electricity. Phillippa was very good at this game, the cat and mouse of flirtation, but rarely had it been as exciting to play as it was with Broughton. Impulsively, she decided to play a little deeper.