Mistress of the Hunt (26 page)

“I knew that dress would become you, Jess,” Philippa said, smiling her approval. “The ribbons match your eyes, and that Denmark satin will be a deal warmer than muslin, I believe.”

“I have never,” Miss Pellerin said, “understood this passion to dress all young girls in pure white muslin until they catch a husband. She will have to wear such stuff for her come-out in a few years, of course, but there is nothing to insist upon her wearing it now, particularly in the country and to a family dinner.”

“But it is not our family,” Jessalyn objected, “and I daresay Lucy will wear white muslin, for she fairly dotes upon it, you know.”

“Yes, and the purity of the color is excellent for her, because her own coloring is so vivid,” Philippa said, watching now as Alice swept her golden tresses high on her head in the style she liked best. The gown she had finally chosen was one of emerald-green velvet with a skirt that hung in soft folds from a high waistline. The sleeves were three-quarter-length with deep lace ruffles, and there was a wide edging of lace at her hemline as well. She wore several gold chains wrapped around her lovely throat, and there were emerald pendants for her ears. Alice threaded a gold cord through her curls, twitched two ringlets into place behind each ear and, once the earbobs were in place, pronounced her ready.

Philippa stood up, turning so the others might enjoy the full effect of her gown. “Have you your cloaks?” she asked.

“Indeed we have,” Jessalyn answered. “We have been ready this age, ma’am.” The child was fairly dancing in her eagerness to be off, and Philippa decided the enthusiasm must be contagious, for she felt much the same way herself.

D
USK HAD FALLEN BY FOUR
o’clock when the Raynard-Wakefield party reached Wyvern Towers, but inside the magnificent marble entry hall, every candle had been lighted to welcome them. Having never been inside the house before, Philippa stood transfixed upon the threshold, staring at the wondrous marble hall. Designed by William Kent in the Palladian style, the chamber was of a stupendous height, fully as tall as the building itself, and was surrounded by fluted Ionic columns. The ceiling was richly coffered and ornamented, and the marble was not ordinary marble at all, but pink alabaster, glowing vividly now in the light of a hundred or more candles.

Their party was guided up a broad staircase in an apse at the inner end, to the state rooms, which were hung with Genoa velvet and Brussels and Mortlake tapestries with both classical and hunting motifs. Passing through these rooms, the guests were led into a drawing room with walls of plain ivory and gold, which was distinguished by a collection of antique sculptures gathered over the years by succeeding Drakes in the course of their grand tours. It was here that they found their host, his relations, and a number of other persons.

Lady Lucinda Drake, who had been sitting demurely beside her eldest sister upon one of several red Kent-designed settees with gilt claw feet, leapt up and crossed the blue-and-red Axminster carpet with more haste than grace to greet her friend, chattering as she moved.

“Oh, Jessalyn, what a lovely gown! Was that a gift from your stepmama? Is this not exciting, to be permitted to dine in company?”

“Lucy, darling, where have your manners gone begging?” inquired Lady Kegworth as she rose gracefully to her feet. “Philippa, Miss Pellerin, how delightful that you all were able to come to us tonight.” Her gesture included the group of young gentlemen following behind, and she nodded to her butler to begin offering wine to those who wished to take a glass before dinner.

Rochford, who had been standing beside the marble fireplace, stepped forward then to extend his greetings to the newcomers, and Philippa was astonished when he approached her, took her suddenly in his arms, and kissed her soundly.

“Rochford!” she exclaimed, when she could catch her breath.

Twinkling, he pointed upward, and she discovered that a sprig of mistletoe had been secured to one arm of the chandelier overhead. “Happy Christmas,” he said to her in a low tone.

“Oh, is it not famous!” exclaimed his youngest sister, dancing at his side. “Seldon caught Margaret there and Kegworth caught Catherine, but neither has caught his own wife. Jess, you must stand underneath and see who will kiss you, too. I certainly mean to do so.”

No one rebuked her for her enthusiasm, but Rochford did lay a calming hand upon her shoulder, and Philippa noted that Jessalyn was blushing furiously. Edward noticed too.

“A lady should certainly be kissed under the mistletoe at her first grown-up party,” he said calmly, taking his sister gently by the elbow and nodding to Rochford and Philippa to stand out of the way. They did so willingly, and smiled when Jessalyn accepted her kiss with a good deal more shyness than was her wont.

Lucinda had fallen suddenly silent and was watching her friend with wistful eyes. When Edward straightened again, he glanced first at her and then at Rochford, quizzingly. The viscount grinned at him.

“Will you do me the honor, Lady Lucinda?” Edward said then quietly, smiling at her.

Silently, as though she were in a trance, Lucinda moved toward him, and when she was properly under the sprig of mistletoe, Edward bent and gently kissed her on the lips.

Immediately there was an uproar as Lord Reginald Partridge, a proper neckcloth around his neck for once instead of his customary Belcher kerchief, stepped forward saying, “Dashed if I know why you should have all the fun, Wakefield. Here, Lady Lucinda, if you mean to stand under that stuff like that, I’d like my turn as well. Dashed pretty little thing, your sister, Rochford. Yours, too, Wakefield. Must share and share alike.”

Lucinda stared at the rake wide-eyed, but Jessalyn looked only too willing now to comply with his demand, and Philippa looked urgently at Edward, warning him to stop his friends before they became carried away. It was Rochford who came to the rescue, however, when the other gentlemen laughingly agreed that the younger ladies’ favors must be shared. Gray eyes twinkling, the viscount said, “Enough, my friends. You will turn the little ones’ heads till there will be no living with them. These chits, pretty as they unquestionably are, won’t properly be out for another three years. Moreover, you have not yet made your manners to my esteemed father.”

Thus gently reminded of their duty, the young gentlemen stifled their groans and stepped forward to make their legs to the earl, who sat near the cheerful fire in a comfortable chair that matched the red settees, his feet propped up on a velvet-covered stool. He had nodded to his guests but had said nothing, and Rochford said quietly to Philippa as he drew her forward to follow the others, “He is nearly burnt to the socket, I fear, but he insisted upon being present for the festivities tonight.”

“Dear me, I hope he won’t become quite ill,” she said.

“Devil a bit, he’s enjoying the attention. ’Tis merely that he has allowed himself to become overtired. A few days’ rest will see him right again, I promise you. He’s a number of years left in him yet.”

She could see that he truly was not concerned about his father’s health and so she was able to greet the earl with her customary poise. He looked up at her, grimacing.

“Hope you’ll forgive an old man, my lady. Promised my overconcerned family I’d slow the pace tonight. I am even to permit my butler to do the carving.”

“And rightly so, sir,” she said, daring to tease him a little. “Why, in days gone by you should have had a proper carver at your side, wielding a half-dozen knives, you know.”

“Surely not all at once, Philippa,” said Rochford in the same bantering tone.

“Well”—she wrinkled her nose—“I do not know precisely how the business was achieved. I believe he had some sort of carver’s apron in which he kept his knives. We must ask my cousin or your uncle to set us straight on the matter.”

“Good God, Rochford,” protested the earl in crusty tones, “don’t let her set Archibald off on some dashed historical point. He’ll keep us up all night with his prating.”

Philippa joined the general laughter, but Mr. Drake, entering the drawing room just at that moment and demanding to know what was the jest, found nothing particularly humorous in it when it was explained to him.

“Nothing wrong with knowledge,” he said almost as testily as his brother had spoken earlier. “Wouldn’t have done you a mite of harm, Wyvern, to have attended to your books as a lad.”

“Bosh,” retorted the earl. “Learned more by my travels than I’d ever have learned from books.”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Drake, but his tone was such that no one made the mistake of believing that he was agreeing with his brother.

When the earl turned his head to address a comment to his son, Philippa moved a little away with Mr. Drake, and said quietly, “I was perfectly serious when I suggested appealing to you to set us straight about the matter of the carving, sir.”

His expression softened somewhat. “Don’t doubt that, ma’am, but ’tis a subject that would indeed take long to explain. And don’t,” he added hastily as he noted Miss Pellerin approaching them, “think for a moment that I doubt your ability to comprehend the matter. ’Tis merely that carving was an art, with specific instructions laid down for each sort of bird or beast. Quite fascinating, some of the methods are.”

Having come up to them in time to catch the meaning of his words, Miss Pellerin inquired gently, “Do you by chance have in your possession any of those books of instruction, sir?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Drake replied, his expression gentling even more as his gaze came to rest upon her soft pink face.

“Perhaps you would care to join me in a glass of Madeira, Miss Pellerin, while I tell you about them.” And without so much as another glance at Philippa or Rochford, again beside her, he guided Miss Pellerin to a sofa at some distance from the others, where he kept her engaged in conversation until the butler announced that dinner had been served.

Philippa found herself seated at the long, highly polished table, between the earl and the viscount, across from Miss Pellerin and Mr. Drake. The dinner was a magnificent one, worthy of the occasion, and included several courses and a vast number of removes and side dishes. The first course began with a soup santé removed with fish, which was in turn removed with a roasted turkey and a haunch of venison. The side dishes that accompanied these included semels and poivrade sauce, three sweetbreads, larded and glazed, asparagus and peas, glazed neat’s tongue, a souties of mutton and cucumber, grenadines and endive, and beef collops
à la tortue
with truffles, as well as numerous other dishes. Chief over all, however, was the boar’s head, that splendid dish of pagan ancestry, which was borne to the table with immense ceremony, upon a magnificent platter of gold, by four liveried, bewigged footmen.

As she stared at the spectacular platter, then looked around at the splendid dining room, Philippa remembered the even greater splendor of the marble entry hall and decided, not without a touch of chagrin, that whatever she might think of Rochford, she must certainly acquit him of desiring her merely for her fortune. With a glance she discovered that he was watching her rather than the procession. Blushing to think he might read her thoughts, she returned her attention to the ceremony.

The boar’s head had been a traditional Christmas dish since the late fourteenth century, and this one, like its ancestors, was decorated with rosemary, bay, and holly, and had an orange thrust between its teeth. No singing or trumpeting accompanied its progress, however, so it was not long before it was set down before the earl, who removed the orange from its mouth and presented it to his butler in lieu of a chief singer. The golden platter was then removed to one of the side tables, where the meat might be cut into narrow slices for serving.

Philippa had enjoyed the ritual, but when the dish was offered to her, she shook her head.

“You don’t fancy boar’s head,” Rochford murmured, shaking his head at the footman in turn.

“I prefer the chicken in celery sauce that I see coming after it,” she told him with a smile, “and if I don’t mistake the matter, there is yet another course to come.”

“And plum pudding,” he told her. “Margaret and Catherine, like my mama before them, believe in doing things properly.”

“Well, if I attempt to eat even a single bite from every one of these delicious dishes, I shall burst a seam before I rise from the table,” she confided.

“In other words, you don’t like boar’s head.”

Philippa grinned at him, and he nodded, satisfied.

The second course was as complete with removes and side dishes as the first, and Philippa made her way through it cautiously, accepting only the narrowest slice of game pie and but a taste of her caramel pastry basket, refusing the chantilly cream altogether. A bite of spinach with croutons, a smattering of broccoli in brown sauce, one small Jerusalem artichoke in white sauce, and the merest slice of pheasant, and she thought herself replete until a footman presented cheesecakes as yet another suggested a mince pie.

“Oh, Rochford, I cannot,” she protested, turning a laughing face toward him. “Send them away, do, for I have not the willpower to do so myself, and I shall surely disgrace myself if I eat another bite.”

The viscount waved the footmen past, chuckling. Then he said with a perfectly straight face, “How disappointed Margaret and Catherine will be that you do not like their dinner.”

Philippa sat straighter, dismayed. “Oh, I would not give offense for the world.” She heard a harsh chuckle to her left and turned quickly to discover that the earl, who had ignored everyone while he attended to his dinner, was looking at her now with very nearly the same charming twinkle in his eyes as she had often seen in his son’s.

“The girls don’t expect anyone to eat everything that is offered, my lady. Indeed, I believe they would stare at anyone who could. You must not allow my detestable son to roast you in such a fashion.”

Philippa smiled at him and turned an accusing grimace on the viscount. “So, sir, you choose to make game of me, do you?”

“Easy game, as it transpired,” he agreed, still smiling. “You rise most eagerly to the bait, ma’am, as always.”