She let out a shaking, emotional breath. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was unkind and untrue. Please forgive me."
They continued riding in silence, rousing enough to greet passersby, but not speaking to each other. So much for playing a game to try to discover his true motives.
Finally, she glanced at Mr. Partridge. His handsome face had settled into an expressionless mask, and he gripped the reins as if trying to squeeze some moisture out of them. The horses danced nervously. He loosened his grip with a jerking motion.
She moistened her lips. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I regret insulting you. I will understand if you wish to discontinue our association." Never seeing him again, never hearing the sound of his voice or basking in the light of his smile, smote her through. But it would be best to do sooner rather than later.
"I am not angry at you," he said finally. "Of course I forgive you." He glanced at her, some kind of desperate longing glimmered in his eyes. "I am angry about . . . many things. Our difference in class-my family will not approve of my courting you-but mostly at that cretin who broke your heart."
She reared back. He knew! She clenched her hands to avoid putting them over her face. "H-how do you know?"
"By how guarded and defensive you are. Your suspicion of Mr. Morton. Your protectiveness of Miss Harris."
She clamped her mouth shut.
Achingly soft tones carried true regret. "I'm sorry he hurt you."
Staring straight ahead, she made no sound as he guided the team off the path and turned onto the street. She wrestled with his words, with the meaning behind them. Was it possible she'd been wrong about Phillip Partridge?
After two days of the kind of drizzle that permeated every surface and even Phillip's spirit, a sunny day with lawn games came as a welcome friend. He arrived at the St. Cyrs' country estate on the outskirts of London with Michael and eagerly looked around for the Staffords and their unforgettable niece.
"You have it bad," Michael said.
"I do, I really do," Phillip unabashedly admitted. "Every moment I spend with her makes me thirsty for more."
Being seen for himself, even if she kept a wary stance as if fearing he'd suddenly turn into a demon, was a unique pleasure. Besides, she liked his dimple. Even better, he'd even caught her admiring his physique.
Phillip made small talk with the host and hostess, Lord and Lady St. Cyr. Then, the inevitable middle-aged mother arrived, towing a girl whose hair was a shower of golden ringlets, probably having her first season.
Lady St. Cyr greeted the mother and daughter and made the introductions to Phillip and Michael.
The young lady-whose name he'd already forgotten-curtsied prettily and said in an overly high voice, "So pleased to meet you, Mr. Partridge." She gave him a blatantly hopeful smile without looking him in the eye.
He bowed. "A pleasure."
The young lady twittered and flirted, but she hardly looked at him. Just another girl who saw through him as if he were invisible, looking only at his heritage.
Out of the corner of his eye, Phillip spotted Meredith Brown. Sun shone on her, making her straw bonnet gold and her pale gown glow with heavenly light. The tightness in his chest eased, and exhilarated energy charged through him.
"Excuse me," he murmured, already moving toward Miss Brown.
Behind him, the girl said in her overly high voice that had turned decidedly condescending, "Who are those people?"
Ignoring them, he kept up a steady pace. The moment their gazes met, Miss Brown looked down and fidgeted. As he reached her side, he barely remembered to greet her family before bowing to her. "Miss Brown."
Her hesitant smile contained true warmth, he was sure of it. "Mr. Partridge."
Encouraged, he took a step nearer, close enough that her perfume filled him with more giddiness than his first crush. He'd never felt so alive. "I hear lawn bowls are first on today's agenda. Do you play?"
"I enjoy a game now and then, but I cannot claim to be skilled."
"If you have the right partner, I am certain you can soundly trounce the competition."
"Oh?" She pretended to look about. "Do you have any recommendations?" The playful glint in her eye gave him hope.
He puffed up his chest. "At the risk of sounding self-aggrandizing, I cannot give any higher recommendation than myself."
"I see. Since you come so highly recommended, I should consider you."
"Please say you will partner me?" He held out a hand.
She put her hands on her hips. "Only if you promise a good trouncing."
Theatrically, he laid one hand over his heart, keeping the other extended. "I will make that today's greatest ambition."
"Very well, Mr. Partridge, I accept." She placed her hand in his.
A cheer bubbled up inside him. He tempered it with a smile. He excused himself from her family and escorted her to the bowling green. The afternoon sun toyed with nearby trees and cast dappled shadows on the freshly mowed lawn.
Other couples lined up. The towheaded girl with the high-pitched voice had found a partner probably younger than herself, and Michael teamed up with a demure young lady with lovely eyes.
The host threw the smaller white ball called a kitty onto the green. Thus, the competition began. Each pair took turns throwing their balls to the kitty. Cheers, groans, and jeers followed every toss, and within minutes, the dignified group turned into a group of savages determined to win by any means possible.
The host laughingly accused one of the guests of cheating but got an elbow in the ribs from his wife, who raised her brows. Of lighter heart than Phillip had ever seen her, Miss Brown played vigorously, heckling the opposition with an incisive wit.
The host and his wife won, grinning as they accepted both congratulations and insinuations about their tactics. Merrily, everyone accepted glasses of lemonade served on silver trays.
Miss Brown folded her arms and sent him a playful glare. "You, sir, promised me a good trouncing."
Phillip held up his hands. "We made a valiant effort. Our problem was we played too honestly. Perhaps next time, we ought to cheat."
She laughed, her eyes alight. Glancing behind him, she gestured. "There's a swing on that tree."
"Do you wish to try it?"
"I would." She looked almost shy about it.
"I'll push you." He held out a hand.
She took it, and they walked hand in hand to an oak so large that three men could not encircle it with clasped hands. From far above Phillip's head hung a rope the size of his wrist attached to a large wrought-iron seat.
Miss Brown sat on the cushioned seat swing and spread her skirts. She glanced back at him, a smile playing with her lips that might be considered flirtatious. Had he finally won her over?
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready." She held up her feet.
He pushed the seatback, forward and back, forward and back, a little higher each time.
"I've forgotten how much I adore swinging. I haven't done it since I was a child." She leaned back and pumped her legs to keep her momentum.
He watched her contented expression and patted himself on the back for having given that to her. Of course, he couldn't take all the credit; she seemed a different person today. On the lawn, the other guests began a game of shuttlecock, but Phillip had no desire to join them.
She asked, "Do you want a turn?"
He shook his head. "Swing as long as you like."
"I think I could do this all day, but I probably ought to stop."
She held her legs still and allowed the swing's motion to slow. When she had nearly stopped, he stepped in front of her and grasped the ropes. His hand closed over hers, and she looked up at him with a delicate vulnerability. She stood, bringing her mouth within reach. Her eyes dilated, and she moistened her lips. His blood heated. The aching need to kiss her almost drove him to do it. She was finally warming to him. But moving too quickly would only push her away. Besides, they were in full view of the others.
Clearing his throat, he stepped back. "Forgive me."
She watched him with a new expression that he could not name. Curiosity? Approval? Relief? Disappointment? Lud, she was a mystery.
He held out an arm and took several steadying breaths as he escorted her back to the others. Mr. and Mrs. Stafford watched him.
Casually, Mr. Stafford approached him. "Mr. Partridge, may I have a word?" It wasn't exactly a question.
"Yes, sir." Phillip bowed to Miss Brown and followed the older man to another part of the lawn. He clenched and unclenched his hands uneasily. Had her uncle seen that moment when he'd almost kissed her and determined to take him to task?
Finding a shady spot out of earshot of the rest of the party, Mr. Stafford turned to him with lowered eyebrows so bushy they seemed alive. "You have a reputation for being an honorable young man, so I have allowed you to call upon my niece. But now that you are pairing off with her in public, I must ask you: what are your intentions?"