"But I don't believe you've met the Countess of Tice­hurst?" Blithely oblivious, Henrietta indicated the lady be­side her. "And, of course, the Dowager Marchioness of Hammersley."

His expression fashionably distant, Philip bowed grace­fully, inwardly conceding that both the Countess, with her sharply angular features and frizzed red curls, and the Dow­ager Marchioness, heavy and portly with three chins to her credit, bade fair to living up to the varied descriptions he had had of them.

"Indeed, Ruthven, nothing could be more fortunate than your appearance here. The Countess and I haven't seen each other for year

s—we're keen to have a comfortable coze but her ladyship is uneasy over her niece." Raising her head, Henrietta looked out over the lawns. "She's over there somewhere," she said, waving one plump hand in the gen­eral direction of the flower walks. "She's walking with An­tonia and Geoffrey. And the Marquess, of course." Appar­ently realizing that this last needed further clarification, Henrietta exchanged quick glances with the other two ladies, then leaned to the side of the carriage. Lowering her voice, she fixed Philip with a sapient eye. "There's an un­derstanding between the Marquess and Miss Dalling, the Countess's niece, but there seems to be some slight hitch in the works. Nothing serious but you know how these things go." Assured that all was now crystal clear, Hen­rietta sat back and waved a dismissal. "Sure you'll want to join them."

Philip hesitated, then bowed. "Indeed, ma'am. Ladies." They let him go with thin smiles and magisterial nods. As he strode across the lawns, Philip found himself sympathiz­ing with Miss Dalling and the Marquess.

He discovered Antonia strolling arm in arm with Catriona. The heiress's eyes were alight, her cheeks glowing; it was almost as if Antonia was physically restraining her but from what action Philip could not tell.

Antonia looked up as he approached; she smiled warmly and held out her hand. "Good afternoon, my lord."

Philip took her hand; unable to deny the compulsion, he raised it to his lips, his eyes quizzing her as he said, his voice too deep for even Catriona to hear, "My lady." An­tonia blushed delightfully; Philip switched his gaze to Ca­triona, who bobbed a curtsy then flashed him one of her dazzling smiles. Philip smiled back. "I fear I should warn you that I've been dispatched as an envoy to keep an eye on you all."

Catriona's eyes widened. "How. . .? Who. . .?"

"As I understand it," Philip said, smoothly claiming An­tonia's arm, thus separating her from Catriona, "my step­mother and your aunt are long-standing bosom-bows. At the moment, they're in Henrietta's barouche, exchanging their recent histories, with Ambrose's fond mama looking on."

"Indeed?" Catriona was hanging on his words. "And they sent you to watch over us?''

"Precisely."

"Behold—the hand of fate!" Hands clasped to her bosom, Catriona pirouetted dramatically. Halting, she fixed glowing eyes on Philip. "Nothing could be more fortu­nate!"

The declaration set Philip's teeth on edge. "I do hope," he said, "that you'll allow me to be the judge of that. Why the transports?"

Noting the absence of his drawl, Antonia quickly ex­plained, "Mr Fortescue has arrived. He's arranged to join us here, but we were worried the Countess would inter­fere."

Glancing back over the lawns to the distant carriage, Philip humphed. "Not much chance of that at this point." He looked back at Catriona. "But where's this beau of yours?"

He was not about to assist in any havey-cavey affair. But Henry Fortescue proved to be a great relief. Philip's hackles settled the instant he laid eyes on him, striding along between Geoffrey and Ambrose. Antonia had hur­riedly explained their plan—they had sent Ambrose and Geoffrey to fetch Mr Fortescue so as to make it appear he was one of Ambrose's or Geoffrey's acquaintances. Quite what Mr Fortescue had thought of the arrangement Philip found himself dying to know.

Introduced, he shook hands.

In his early twenties, of middle height and powerful build, Henry Fortescue was readily identifiable as a scion of the noble family of that name; he bashfully acknowl­edged Philip's supposition. "Distant cousin of m'father's."

Catriona, clinging to his arm, declared, "We must be very careful, Henry, or Aunt Ticehurst will descend like the dragon she is and tear us apart."

Henry glanced down at her and frowned. "Nonsense." He took the sting from the comment by patting her hand. "You always were one to overdramatise, Catriona. What on earth do you imagine your aunt will do? It's not as if I'm some caper-merchant with no fortune and less pros­pects. Given I had your father's permission to address you, it's not as if there was any reason for her to shove in her oar."

"But she will!" Catriona looked horrified. "Ask Am­brose."

Ambrose dutifully nodded. "Terribly set on us marrying, y'know. That's why we sent for you."

"You can't talk to Aunt Ticehurst." Catriona clung to Henry's arm. "She'll banish you. I know she will."

Henry's jaw firmed. "I've no intention of speaking to your aunt—I'll speak to the Earl, as is proper."

Philip held Antonia back, letting the youthful foursome go ahead. Once they were out of earshot, he murmured, "I can't tell you how relieved I am to make Mr Fortescue's acquaintance."

"He does seem very steady." Antonia studied Catriona and her intended. "And he seems to know how to handle Catriona's flights."

"He's just what she needs—an anchor." Ambling in the youthful foursome's wake, Philip idly scanned the lawns. Abruptly, he halted. "Great heavens!"

Antonia followed his riveted gaze to a couple strolling towards them on an intersecting path. The gentleman she recognized immediately; Frederick Amberly was one of Philip's friends. He had not, however, spent much time in her circle, usually drifting into the crowd after the custom­ary exchange of greetings. The young lady presently on his arm, a pretty miss in pink spotted muslin, was unknown to Antonia. From the warm appreciation readily apparent in Mr Amberly's expression, she surmised the lady might well be the cause of Mr Amberly's frequent preoccupation.

"Good afternoon, Amberly."

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Regencies Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net