Stephanie James (6 page)

In addition to being a genius, Philip also discovered something else about the man: he was an outrageously flamboyant Frenchman named Henri Brasseux, who possessed a fierce connection to his white poodle, Collette, and an equally fierce love of young footmen. At first, Philip had diplomatically ignored Henri’s behavior. But after Henri had given Philip one delicate little caress too many, Philip had given the man complete control over the interior design of Tyndall Hall and switched from ignoring to avoiding him.

“I ’ave brought you some samples, Lord Philippe,” said Henri one day. They had been in Philip’s study at the time, with Philip seated at his desk and Henri standing next to him.

“I sought zis wallpaper would be perfect for your chamber, monsieur. Very romantic, is it not?” said Henri as he placed the sample before Philip and his hand on Philip’s back … Philip’s
lower
back. Philip had reacted instantly by jumping up from his chair.

“What is wrong, monsieur?”

“Nothing, nothing,” answered Philip. “I, uh … I like it. In fact, I like everything you select, so from now on, feel free to make choices without my consent.” Philip had begun to rub the back of his neck nervously. “Just keep the designs, uh … masculine.”

“But of course, monsieur! Nothing else could suit you. One can see sat you are a very, very — ” Henri’s eyes had drifted downwards in a blatant survey of Philip’s body “ — virile man.”

“Right,” said Philip, feeling horribly violated. “Good. W-well, if you’ll, uh, excuse me now, I have some business to attend to … outside. Some business outside. Good-day, to you, sir.”

Philip had left the room thanking God that the landscape architect was a robust outdoorsman with a wife, ten children, and one on the way. He didn’t need two designers pursuing him. The landscape architect’s rugged nature did not hinder his delicate landscaping eye, however.

The exterior was beginning to look wonderfully presentable. The overgrown flower beds, hedges, and vines had all been tamed and trimmed to rigid perfection. The barren lawns had been properly fertilized and were now uniformly green. Fountains and statues were on their way from Italy for the garden at the back of the house, as was a shipment of limestone for a gravel drive.

It was all costing Philip a fortune, but this was his home. He would go back to London to visit his family for a short time when the Season began, but Tyndall Hall was to be his base. He wanted the estate to reflect his ambition and accomplishments through flawless presentation. He wanted to be proud of it, and so even though the bills were at times painful, the cost really would not matter in the end.

But so many things — from settling the bills (which came in daily now that the repairs were in full motion) to his business with Mr. Winter and the horses — kept him hopelessly detained. Philip had been so busy, in fact, that he had not yet apologized to Olivia.

It had been nearly two months since that dreadful dinner at Whistler Manor, and he still had made no attempt to make amends for his cruel words. Thankfully Mr. Winter had remained perfectly ignorant of what had transpired between his daughter and his business partner. It would only upset the old man if he found out his daughter and Philip detested one another.

Detested.

Detest.

I detest your kind.

The words had rolled over his mind again and again since that night. What had she meant by “your kind”? Had she been speaking of men in general? Aspiring businessmen? Whatever her meaning had been, it mattered little in comparison to his failure to apologize. Philip had behaved disgracefully. He had offended Miss Olivia and made gross assumptions about her character. As a proper gentleman, he should have issued his apologies as quickly as possible. But he had been putting it off.

Philip was ashamed to admit it, but his pride couldn’t stand the thought of confronting her just yet. He had admittedly welcomed all the little distractions that kept him away from her, and had even put in a little extra effort to avoid her. He had insulted her so thoroughly he cringed at the memory of what he had said. How could he have been so stupid, so conceited, and so … wrong?

Well, none of that mattered now, he supposed. He could put it off no longer. As much as he hated to put himself in such an awkward situation, he had to face her. And however improper Philip thought she was, Miss Winter was still owed an apology. He was simply going to have to toe-the-line and atone for his behavior, get it over with as quickly as possible so he could go back to attending to his own affairs. As soon as he was dressed for the day, he would ride over to Whistler Manor and swallow his pride.

• • •

“I’m so sorry, Lord Philip,” said Mr. Winter’s butler, Johnson. “Mr. Winter has gone to the village.”

“Is Miss Winter in residence?”

“No, my lord, she is not. She’s gone out for her daily ride.”

Philip’s shoulders sagged.

“But I imagine she will be back soon,” said Johnson. “She usually comes back about this time.”

“Mmm,” Philip mumbled. He didn’t particularly want to see the woman to begin with, but he had geared himself up and dragged himself over to face her and get it all over and done with. To be denied the opportunity to rid himself of his shame and guilt was most irritating. “Thank you, Johnson. I shall try again later, I suppose.”

The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. I shall tell Mr. Winter you called.”

Damn little chit. Why could she not be at home? Why could she not be in the drawing room, painting or sewing, or doing something else feminine? Why did she have to be out riding? It was unacceptable, damn unacceptable. It was nearly time for tea. A proper lady would be in residence preparing for such a daily ritual, but not Olivia. No; not Miss Olivia Winter. She had to be out
riding
. Well, if she was out and unavailable to receive his apology then it was not his fault. He was not going to wait around for her like a fool. He was going back to Tyndall Hall. He was going to take the day to himself. He was going to —

Hoof beats.

Well, well, so she returned. No doubt her riding habit would be covered in mud and her hair would be loose again.

Philip turned to the source of the rhythmic sound and spotted a large grey horse canting through an open field. The rider was too far away to see clearly, but Philip knew instantly it was Olivia. He could see her long red-golden hair whipping around behind her.

“I knew it,” he said to himself.

He did his best to rid his mind of agitation. If he was to apologize, then he would need to behave pleasantly.

She appeared to be a natural rider, he noticed with surprise. Perhaps he should compliment her on her form as a lead-in to his apology. Women liked compliments. That should soften her up a bit.

Maybe he should also — hang on. Why was she riding alone? And what in the name of God was she wearing?

• • •

Olivia knew instantly the man standing near the stables was Lord Philip. She could not yet see his face, but the figure could be no one else. She knew of not a single man in the county who would have the gumption or fortitude to wear such a hideously bright, peacock blue coat.

“Ah, Lord Philip,” she said with false delight as she dismounted and relinquished her horse to a stable boy. “To what do I owe this
dis
honor?”

“You rode alone?” asked Philip indignantly.

“I always ride alone,” she said.

Philip made no response. He only stared at her in disbelief. “What the devil are you wearing?”

Olivia scanned his apparel. “I might ask you the same question.”

Philip looked down as his clothes. “What do you mean?”

“That coat,” she said, waving her hand in his direction to indicate the garment. “It is atrocious.”

He looked back up at her and blinked. “It’s the latest in men’s fashion in London.”

“Ah, yes, but this is Dorset,” Olivia stated. “And I’m afraid we simple country dwellers are not quite refined enough to accept something so … bright as peacock blue,” she finished with a smile.

Philip smoothed his hands down the front of his coat. “But everyone wears these kinds of colo — my clothes are of no consequence!”

Olivia took a reflexive step back, but was no less amused.

“You should not be dressed in those!” he bellowed and pointed to Olivia’s lower half.

She looked down at her brother’s old breeches briefly before looking up again and shrugging her shoulders. “So,” she said dismissively.

“So?” Philip repeated, wide-eyed. “
So
there are men working on this estate, that’s what’s so problematic about your attire. Good God, woman, those …
things
cling to every part of your legs.”

“Why, Lord Philip,” she chimed. “How horribly improper of you to notice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t notice something so alluring.”

Olivia gasped.

Philip moved closer to her and spoke in a low, whispering tone. “Whistler Manor is crawling with gardeners, footmen, and stable boys,” he said. “Rest assured
all
of them have noticed your shapely backside, Miss Winter. In fact, that young lad who took your horse gave you a good look-over.”

“How dare you!” she hissed.

“No, madam, how dare
you
. It’s bad enough you insist upon running about with your hair unbound, but you are playing with fire indeed by flaunting yourself so. And to ride without an escort,” he continued. “My God, how can you be so reckless?”

Olivia lifted her chin proudly. “The grounds of Whistler Manor are perfectly safe. And as for my attire, well … I have been wearing breeches around this house since I was a child. No one thinks it improper. They all know it is simply something I do.”

“Well, you are not a child any longer,” said Philip. “And I would gladly wager every last man you pass in those breeches thinks lustful thoughts of you. It is ‘simply something’
they
do.” He jutted his index finger at her. “You can be sure of that.”

Olivia gasped. “That is not true,” she said. “Even if it were, no one would dare touch or harm me.”

Philip rolled his eyes. “I sincerely doubt you know all the servants here, Miss Winter, especially the men. You cannot know what any of them will do if they have been thoroughly teased by the sight of you in those things.”

“You are disgusting,” said Olivia.

“I am honest,” Philip retorted. “And you need to behave more like a lady.”

She huffed out a dismissive breath and tilted her head to the side. She didn’t need lessons on being a lady from this stuffy lord from London. “Why are you here?”

Philip recoiled slightly. “I, uh … ,” he mumbled. He straightened his back, cleared his throat and smoothed out the front of his coat as though he were about to deliver a speech Lord Philip seemed to enjoy preaching and telling others what to do and how to think, Olivia noted. It seemed rather natural for him to be so imperious. She rolled her eyes and waited for yet another loquacious diatribe. What would he say to her now, she wondered.

“I came to apologize.”

Olivia blinked in surprise. After his stern lecture on her apparel, an apology was the last thing she would have expected from him. Still, he had a funny way of apologizing. “Insinuating the men around the Manor stare at me is hardly the way to accomplish that goal.”

“That was not my apology,” said Philip.

“Oh, of course not,” she agreed. “Well, then do please apologize after such a speech. I’d rather like to see you try.”

“I’m sorry,” said Philip, without any sort of conviction and on a rather rushed breath.

Olivia did not need to ask for which transgression Lord Philip was apologizing. With the exception of this moment, they had spent time together on only one occasion and it had been a very memorable meeting indeed. She especially liked the part where she had torn him to pieces and left him wordless.

She looked him over, evaluating the expression on his face. Could he be sincere? He had said the words rather quickly. And he had postponed his apology for nearly two months. Nevertheless, he had still made the attempt to make amends. She could forgive him, she supposed. She
could
, but that wouldn’t be very much fun.

“I do not accept,” she said finally and turned toward the house.

“You what?” said Philip to her back.

Olivia turned around and walked backwards a few steps as she answered him. “I believe I spoke quite clearly, my lord.”

She turned back around and continued to the door, savoring the look of confused shock on Lord Philip’s face.

• • •

Philip watched as she turned away from him again and continued her journey back to the house. How could someone not accept an apology? Certainly, when one issued an apology, the offended had the option of refusing, but no one ever did that.

He set off at a run after her. He had swallowed too much of his pride to have his words cast aside as nothing.

“Stop,” he ordered when he caught up, stepping in front of her to halt her steps. “What gives you the right to refuse my apology?”

A peaceful smile decorated her face as she casually laced her fingers behind her back. “Because I can,” she said simply.

“You most certainly cannot. I apologized,” he argued, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Now you must accept. That is the way apologies should unfold.”

“Perhaps, but not in this case.”

“And why not?”

“Because I don’t like you, Lord Philip. You are rude, cruel, and the most disgracefully arrogant man I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Why should I accept the apology of someone so unpleasant?”

“Because I meant it!” He jumped slightly as he yelled the words. By God, she was driving him mad.

“Well, that’s very refreshing,” said Olivia, “but nothing you do, short of parting the waters of the Atlantic, will make me accept.”

“Good God, woman,” he bit off as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Olivia was still smiling. She was obviously enjoying the fact that she could irritate him so profoundly…which only irritated him more.