Nodding, Meredith continued to speak to the horses as she rubbed their necks and noses. They ceased prancing and stood quietly, blowing out their breath in snorts.
"Are any of the riders injured?" she asked the driver.
"Nah. Jes angry. Blamed fool in the curricle careened around the corner. I couldn't avoid 'em. Those young bucks with their fancy clothes got no sense a'tall."
The men to whom Mr. Partridge spoke had ceased yelling. With Mr. Partridge as clear leader, gesturing and demonstrating, he and several bystanders lifted the two carriages. They half carried, half dragged them toward the nearest mews. How extraordinary that such a highborn gentleman would help perform a physically demanding task rather than leave it to the working class.
Meredith and the driver with the horses followed the ruined carriages as they limped under human power beneath an arch leading to the mews. They stopped in the mews courtyard. With the blockage cleared, traffic resumed streaming past the arch. Mr. Partridge continued to mediate until the men parted to see to their own carriage and teams.
He turned and smiled. "Forgive me for not attending to you." He brushed the smudges off his tailcoat and cast a rueful glance at his no longer pristine attire. The disheveled appearance lent him a greater charm. That dimple didn't help matters.
Almost against her will, she admitted, "You handled what might have been a dangerous situation."
He shrugged. "I'm happy they didn't come to blows. Shall we find Michael and your cousin?"
Humble too. Was he real? "Yes. I'm certain Annabel will be alarmed at my absence."
"You're close, aren't you?" He held out his arm.
She took his elbow and fought the sense of safety accompanying his touch. "She's a loyal friend."
"Everyone needs such a friend." With head high and walking at a sedate pace, he escorted her as if they were promenading at the park.
"She is not only a friend; I view her almost as a sister. I have none of my own." Why she offered that personal information she could not imagine.
"I have one sister, and she's so painfully shy that I wonder if she'll ever be coaxed out of hiding."
"Poor dear. I have never been shy. She must be lonely."
He glanced at her. "You're very astute. She has confessed to me of her loneliness, but she seems unable to speak when others are present and refuses to attend group gatherings where she might make friends."
"Perhaps she will learn ways to cope. Is she very young?"
"She is not yet sixteen. My mother only managed to coax her to come to one small dinner party to announce that she is out, but has not succeeded to do so a second time. Still, you are probably right."
He stepped in front of her, walking backward. "I know; I shall ask my mother to have a small dinner party and invite you and your family. She would probably like you. I know my sister would. Will you come?"
"To dinner with a duchess? Oh, no, I don't think I could possibly-look out!" She gestured at the lamppost behind him, but her warning came too late.
He backed into the post and let out an oof. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder at the lamppost. "Was that there a moment ago?"
His bewildered indignation tickled her funny bone. She tried to smother her laughter but only laughed harder.
He grinned and finally joined in. "Have I ever told you they called me ‘Mr. Suave' when I was in school?"
"Oh, indeed?" she asked skeptically, still chuckling.
"No." He made an exaggeratedly sad expression, which only sent her into peals of laughter.
"Good day, you two," sang out Annabel.
The landau pulled up alongside. Again, Mr. Partridge held her steady, and again a sense of safety and comfort came with his touch. She should not, could not, would not allow herself to fall for him. Despite his growing list of admirable qualities, he had yet to prove he wasn't after her virtue or dowry, despite her attempt to conceal the true amount. Why else would a duke's son give the time of day to the daughter of a mill owner?
Phillip and his companions reached the impressive home of the Earl of Tarrington while a light rain spattered their clothes. He barely managed to keep his eyes off Miss Brown long enough to step out of the carriage. As a group, they proceeded between large columns to the main door, where they were admitted into the spacious entrance hall. The rest of the group gathered inside, their excited, hushed voices revealing their anticipation of touring the home of the Earl of Tarrington and his art collection.
Miss Brown greeted Miss Harris, and they fell into happy conversation. Phillip drifted nearer, greeting others as he moved, and stood near Miss Brown, but hopefully not so close that she felt smothered by his presence. She had seemed to warm to him after the accident was resolved and laughed easily enough when he'd run into the lamppost. It gave him hope.
"Tell me, Miss Harris." Miss Brown's voice reached him. "Have you met any interesting gentlemen?"
"Do call me Cora," Miss Harris said.
"Only if you will call me Meredith," Miss Brown said.
Meredith. Phillip turned her name over in his mind, imagining gaining her permission to use it.
"I haven't met anyone new, Meredith," Cora Harris said, "but Mr. Morton has been attentive."
"Yes, he does seem to be. Have you known him long?"
"We met a week ago at Lady Hennessy's ball. He has called upon me nearly every day since."
Meredith Brown paused, then asked, "Don't you think that's taking it a bit too quickly?"
Trying not to appear as if he were eavesdropping, Phillip glanced at Miss Brown. She wore a thoughtful, guarded expression he knew well.
Miss Harris nodded. "I admit I'm surprised. As you can imagine, with a face like mine, I've never been considered a great catch. He declared it was love at first sight."
Miss Brown made a scoffing noise. "I have little faith in love at first sight. Besides, there is nothing wrong with your face."
"You are very kind, but I know the truth. At least my teeth are good, which my mother tells me is better than a flawless complexion or large eyes."
"Oh, indeed. I quite envy your teeth."
Another kind remark, considering Miss Brown's teeth were every bit as fine.
Three more gentlemen arrived, including the one Misses Brown and Harris discussed. Mr. Morton looked around. Spotting Miss Harris, he beamed and headed straight to her, leaving his two companions behind nudging each other and grinning.
"Welcome," said an older woman to the group. "I am the head housekeeper at Tarrington House, and I will guide your tour. Follow me, please."
She took them to a gallery upstairs and showed and discussed various portraits, landscapes, fine pottery, porcelain, and other curios inside rooms as ornate as the art they showcased-every bit as grand as the Suttenberg family ancestral home where his mother spent most of her time outside of London. The duchess would be impressed with the Tarringtons' tasteful opulence. Miss Brown made appreciative comments about the art that revealed her interest and knowledge of the subject.
Regardless of the beauty of art and architecture, Phillip mostly watched Miss Brown. She alternated her attention between the art that clearly drew her interest and the couple that concerned her. As she studied each new piece, her face softened, and her eyes drank in the art as if trying to glean wisdom. When she drew her attention to Miss Harris and Mr. Morton, she took on a focused, suspicious air.
Phillip leaned close to speak softly into Miss Brown's ear, but the scent of her perfume scattered his thoughts. Inhaling her softly exotic fragrance, he reached out to touch those little curls next to her ear. He stopped himself. If he hoped to win her trust, moving too fast would have the opposite effect.
Her breath caught as she no doubt felt his nearness. She turned and shot him a wary look.
Under his breath, he said, "You're very concerned about her, aren't you?"
She took a step away from him and fluttered her hands. "About whom?"
"Miss Harris."
She glanced at him, her pupils dilated, and took another step away. Ah, so she was not as unaffected by him as she tried to appear.
In a breathy voice, she replied, "Er, yes. I don't want her to suffer a broken heart."
"Please allow me to offer my assistance. I could make discreet inquiries about Mr. Morton's character, if that suits you?"
She considered. "If you wish."
He edged away from her and approached the two young men who had come in with Mr. Morton. One of them, Mr. Creasey, if memory served, stood near the edge of the group, his head tilted as he stared at a marble statue of a Greek goddess.
"Lifelike proportions," Phillip commented. "The expression of the face and the position of the body are quite remarkable. Out of cold marble, the artist created something almost alive."