Revealed (5 page)

“I don’t require one.” She spoke breathily. “Besides, its impossible to wear with this dress. Its impossible to wear almost
any
undergarment with this dress.”

Now was Broughton’s turn to suck in his breath. Phillippa gave him one of her half smiles and followed him through the turn. His eyes turned positively black, like a hawk about to swoop in on its prey.

“Mrs. Benning, I find your conversation refreshing. I do hope we have the chance to continue it. Perhaps this evening?” She held his gaze. “Perhaps at the Iversons’ ball?” Broughton spoke, his voice pitched low and calm, the perfectly polite gentleman. But still it caressed her skin more intimately than his hand was allowed. “I understand their library is very exclusive. And very private.”

Was he . . . was he suggesting what Phillippa thought he was suggesting? Oh goodness! But that sparkle in his eyes—that deep-down wickedness—he
did
court trouble, and he knew how to have the best time with it.

Perhaps . . . perhaps she could play a little deeper. She was a widow, after all. Perhaps it was time that she partook of
all
that widowhood afforded.

But it would be on her terms, of course.

“Oh, my lord, I am engaged at the Fieldstone affair after Almack’s,” Phillippa replied, aiming for a note of palpable sorrow in her voice.

“Your plans can be changed, surely. Nothing is ever set in stone,” he growled.

“My plans are as readily changed as yours, my lord,” she countered with an arched brow.

“Now, now; you responded to my invitation to meet me here. Why not follow me to the next step? Have a little adventure.” As the music finished, the whirling couples came to a stop on the floor, polite applause masking his next words from all ears except hers. “Phillippa, am I not worth the chase?”

Phillippa’s mouth went slack for the barest of moments. Then she set her expression and gave him a long, cool assessing stare.

“You ask the wrong question,” she said after thoroughly grazing him from toe to head. “You should inquire whether or not
I
am worth the chase.”

Broughton smirked, opening his mouth to answer, but Phillippa boldly held her fingertips to his mouth. “The answer to which,” she said, her eyes never leaving his, “can be found in the Fieldstone library at midnight.”

Then, with a low curtsy, prompting an automatic bow from Broughton, Phillippa turned, walked into the throng of the Ton, and refused to look back.

Her heart going a mile a minute, Phillippa allowed herself a secret smile.
How’s that for a little adventure?

“
W
HAT on earth have you done?” Nora pulled her best friend aside in the Fieldstones’ receiving line, shocked white by what she had just been told.

“Its nothing, Nora. Just a rendezvous.” Phillippa shrugged off her friend’s horrified reaction, which only prompted further horror from Nora’s petite form.

“No. No, it’s not. I know that you flitter and make suggestive comments—every move calculated to pique a man’s interest, as you’ve taught me—but you have never been so bold as to arrange a tryst!”

Nora’s whispered protest was abruptly cut short as their chaperones had reached the head of the receiving line and signaled for Nora and Phillippa to join them. After perfunctory curtsies and polite murmurs to the hosts, the girls moved into the main gallery, where Nora took the first opportunity to force Phillippa into a private corner no bigger than a broom closet.

“You cannot mean to meet Broughton—do you?” Nora questioned, the bleak hope in her voice unmasked.

But Phillippa merely gave her friend a raised eyebrow and an elegant shake of the head. “If I were to leave him waiting there, he would be embarrassed—and worse yet, likely to never believe I can play deep.”

“You shouldn’t play so deep!”

“Shouldn’t I? Nora, you will come to understand that men have different expectations of different women. The rules are different for me. And Broughton cannot stand missishness; he’s made that clear. If ever there was a time to play deep, it’s now. Besides, I can do as I like . . . Who’s to say anything against me?”

Nora knew her friend was right. Extreme beauty and extreme wealth had gifted Phillippa Benning with an overwhelming sense of entitlement, assisted greatly by the fact that she had been widowed. No one questioned her behavior.

And yet it was a very daring thing to do: rendezvousing at a party! Nora could not help squealing with a little girlish delight. “Oh, Phillippa, it is so exciting! Promise me you’ll tell me everything! And should we inform Totty?”

Phillippa shot a glance toward Mrs. Tottendale, her erstwhile companion, who had wandered over to a liveried servant bearing a tray of glasses. “No,” she replied, “let’s leave Totty to her amusements. She’d only worry.”

“Maybe rightly so,” Nora ventured, chewing her lower lip, “Phillippa, do be careful. You are walking a line.”

“Luckily, no one walks a line as well as I. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

“I knew you’d come,” he said, a greedy smile spreading across his face, deepening his sole dimple.

“I knew you’d be waiting,” Phillippa replied with a saucy wink. Their prescribed meeting place was dark; only the light from under the door that led to the ballroom illuminated their faces. Phillippa could see his was flushed with the anticipation of (she thought wryly) getting what he wanted.

“No one saw you?” he asked, his eyes flicking warily to the source of the muted babble and music of a fete in full swing.

“No one saw me.” She looked up into his face, into those sparkling eyes she was quickly coming to adore. “Except, of course, for the servant who brought me these.”

And with a flourish, she revealed a tray of sweetmeats and marzipan pastries, a sight that had ten-year-old Reggie Fieldstone nearly apoplectic with delight.

“Shh! Reggie! Do be quiet! If your mother finds out, she will have your head,” Phillippa scolded.

“No, she’ll have your head,” Reggie countered, as he reached through the banister of the elegant staircase, trying desperately to reach an apricot tart.

“No one will ever have my head, Reggie. I’ll sell you out in a heartbeat,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, Mrs. B, you’re the absolute ultimate—such a cracking good lady. All my parents’ other friends would tell me to go to bed.”

“Well, I shan’t make you go to bed. However, I make two requests.”

Reggie nodded for her to continue, his mouth too full of whatever he managed to grab to answer vocally.

“First, don’t tell a soul about how you showed me where the library is.”

“Kwosh—” Reggie swallowed, allowing freer speech, “excuse me, Mrs. B. Cross my heart. Only my papa uses that room in any case. I’m not allowed in; only grown-ups are.” Reggie was the eldest son in the Fieldstone family, a full decade old, and therefore, he considered himself quite adult. However, his youth was still in enough of a bloom that petulance occasionally surfaced.

“Understandable. Now, secondly, I request that you don’t sneak down here again.”

“But, Mrs. B, you said I should enjoy the party, too!”

“Yes,” Phillippa replied, soothing Reggie’s scowl off his face, “but I meant from the balcony on the third floor; you can see the ballroom very well from up there.”

“How do you know about the balcony on the third floor?” Reggie frowned.

“A very complicated procedure,” she countered. “I went into the ballroom and looked up. There it was.”

This was met with an adorably puzzled “Oh.” Reggie might not be the quickest ten-year-old on the square, she thought, but he was terribly cute.

“And . . .” Phillippa lowered her voice, “I’ll give you a shilling if you make note of everyone the Marquis of Broughton dances with while I’m not in the ballroom.”

“A shilling . . . and a slice of cake?”

“Bargain.”

Phillippa extended her hand. Solemnly, Reggie accepted it, and then, plate of sweetmeats in hand, fled as silently as a loping ten-year-old can, presumably to the third-floor balcony. Pleased with her small bit of espionage, Phillippa turned, intent upon attending the ladies’ retiring room, where she had decided to have supposedly been for the past ten minutes, before returning to the ballroom. However, she was not three steps down the dark corridor before bumping soundly into the surprisingly rock-solid form of a very tall, very eavesdropping man.

“Mr. . . . Mr. Worth!” Mr. Worth, the gangly gentleman who had managed to recover his evening from the disastrous orangeat incident at Almack’s, had caught her at her waist as she turned directly into his path.

“Mrs. Benning,” Mr. Worth said, before removing himself to a safe distance of three feet and assuming his characteristic hunch. Or perhaps that was what he thought was a bow.

“I did not intend to intrude—”

“How much did you hear?” she asked, her normally light, sweet voice suddenly sharp with fear.

“Only from young Mr. Fieldstone bemoaning that only grown-ups are allowed somewhere.” Mr. Worth replied, an eyebrow going up.

“Oh!” She said and then gave a perhaps too-bright trill of laughter. “He meant the ballroom. No, sadly, Reggie cannot attend the dance, else all the ladies will be in love with him. I do hope you’ll keep my giving the boy sweets a secret,” she went on, giving Mr. Worth her best beguiling smile, her eyes wide with innocence. “I’ve a great fondness for young Reggie, and I do recall being of an age where nothing would be so exciting as attending the festivities and due to nothing more than youth, finding oneself excluded. Why, this is a different shirt than you were wearing at Almack’s, isn’t it? Identical shade and style to what you were wearing, of course, but not cut for you. Although it is close.”

And with that comment, Phillippa laid a small, gloved hand on his shirt and brought her eyes up, shyly, to meet his, which were a dullish brown, with perhaps some hazel in them. His hair was a similar shade of dullish brown, uninspiring, not worthy of a single swoon. Indeed, aside from his height, Mr. Worth fell into the category of most men: pleasingly formed, handsome enough in an unobjectionable and totally uninteresting way.

Now, most men would have fallen into blushes and stutters, entranced at the notion of having her undivided attention, not to mention the intimacy of her hand placed lightly on their shirtfront. Unfortunately, Mr. Worth chose this particular moment, for likely the first time in his life, to distinguish himself from the category of Most Men.

A small smile crept up the left side of his mouth, setting his generally boring brown eyes to a twinkle.

“Mrs. Benning,” he said, not a blush or stutter in sight, “you speak as if you showed that child a great kindness.”

“You speak as if surprised that I am capable of such kindnesses,” she replied, puzzled.

“Oh, I think you capable! Of many things. Including coercing a child through bribery into being your spy.”

A bucket of cold water would have been less shocking.

“Did you think I missed that part of the exchange? Or if I hadn’t, found it lighthearted and forgivable due to your lovely form and even more lovely attentions?” Mr. Worth caught her hand against his chest and held it there.

Really, who would have thought bland Mr. Worth would dare scold Phillippa Benning? Such a jolt was his behavior that Phillippa could only stare and gape.

“Mrs. Benning, do not mistake me,” he said in jovial tones with a complacent smile, “if I cannot admire your kindness, I am well capable of admiring your resourcefulness.”

“Well!” Phillippa wrenched her hand away from his chest as if it burned her skin.

“By the bye, Broughton is currently dancing the reel with Lady Jane Cummings. And quite the pair they make, too.”

And with that, Mr. Worth bowed and withdrew, folding back into the shadows like some demon of the night, all before Phillippa could pick her jaw up off the floor.