Anthony felt bemused at the slight lift of her chin. He felt instinctively as if some sort of expectation pressed in on her from Hoyt.
“Hoyt,” he responded, watching their exchange with interest.
He lifted his brow as Hoyt handed a bouquet of flowers to Phillipa. Red roses. She looked at them, apparently unsure of what to do, then her gaze skated to Anthony.
He allowed his lips to quirk at her lack of enthusiasm. He felt the keen stare of Lady Merryweather as she observed the three of them.
“Thank you, Lord Hoyt.” Phillipa gave him a wooden smile, then buried her nose in the flowers. “They smell divine.”
“Well,” Lady Merryweather burst into the ensuing silence, “Lord Hoyt is invited to break his fast with us this morn. Would you care to join us, as well, Lord Anthony?”
Phillipa’s eyes flared at her aunt’s invitation.
“I regret that I cannot accept,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “But thank you.” Relief filled Phillipa’s eyes at his polite rejection. Or was it disappointment?
It was good to know he rattled her. He only prayed it was in a good way.
He tilted his hat to the small party, spun Thor, and cantered off. He wished he could, but he had other pressing issues, namely arranging to have Lord Orwell put back in his proper place.
He wanted no distractions. The attentions of the delectable Miss Peppiwell would be for him, and him alone.
Whether or not he decided to seek them.
…
The ballroom of Lady Annabel Rogers, Countess of Blade, was brilliantly lit, showcasing the stunning elegance of the room and the ladies dressed in the height of fashion. The rousing strains of a waltz filtered through the air, bringing sweet contentment to Phillipa. Lady Blade’s soiree was a crushing success, and the first time Phillipa had relaxed in weeks.
“It is good to see you smiling.”
Phillipa laughed, twisting to hug her friend effusively. Lady Elisabeth, the oldest of the countess’s daughters, glowed in a soft pink ball gown, her gray eyes sparkling. “Is he here?” Elisabeth’s voice oozed contempt.
Phillipa didn’t need to ask to whom she was referring. “No, I do not see him.”
Elisabeth nodded. “I ensured Mama did not invite him.”
“How did you accomplish that?” she asked worriedly.
Elisabeth’s giggle was infectious. “It was not hard to slip his invitation out of the masses of envelopes Mother placed on the mantel.”
“Oh, you are wicked. But thank you!”
“Do not thank me yet. I ensured she invited Lord Anthony.” She smiled triumphantly.
“Elisabeth!” Phillipa held her breath. “Please say you did not!”
“Oh, don’t look so appalled. I have never heard you speak of any man so glowingly.” Her grin quickly faded to consternation. “However, in hindsight, Mama may now think I have developed a tendre for him.”
“Oh, Elisabeth.” She griped her friend’s hands and drew her across the crowded floor. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray, needing to steady her nerves.
“This is what I mean. You are flushed, and I can see the pulse beating at your throat at the mere mention of him.”
“It is dread,” Phillipa insisted. “Nothing more.”
“No, that is what Lord Orwell inspires in you. I think Lord Anthony makes you feel something else entirely.”
She flinched at the quiet assertion. “How could you do this to me?” She tried to ignore the sense of betrayal that slashed through her veins. She knew Elisabeth meant no harm, but Phillipa found her actions unaccountable.
“Please forgive me.” Elisabeth’s voice rang with sincerity as she tightened her grip on Phillipa’s hand. “I have seen you act so coldly for the past few months and have heard the whispers of you being called the ice maiden. You radiated passion yesterday when you spoke of Lord Anthony.”
“I could have sworn I cursed him,” Phillipa grumbled.
“Yes, but he interests you enough to make you splutter and rail. You unfroze, Phillipa. And he is nothing like Orwell. I would be remiss in my duty as your best friend if I made you think otherwise. Lord Anthony is a gentleman, through and through. Father speaks of him well. And all the maters covet him as a son-in-law!”
She’d thought Elisabeth understood the fear he inspired in her. That he could so easily shatter her resistance, and use her own passion against her. Perhaps ask her to be his mistress.
The fear that she might break down and give her trust to him, only to endure heartache in the end.
After their chance encounter that morning, she could not see him again so soon. She needed time to fortify her walls. She had attended this soiree at Payton’s insistence, in the expectation that few people of her acquaintance would be present. She drew her hand from Elisabeth’s, ignoring the pleading look in her friend’s eyes.