A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

M rs. Watts had chosen the perfect spring day for her al fresco party. Birds chirped happily, the skies were streaked with thin, white clouds, and people trailed steadily into the gardens of Redditch House.

Philip glanced at the newest arrivals, hoping to see Finmore. It was a foolish hope—Finmore would no doubt stroll into the party twenty minutes before the end. He was rarely out of bed before eleven on a Saturday, and he could never abide being rushed.

Reasoning that the one place Miss Devenish was sure to go was the refreshment tables, Philip positioned himself on the outskirts of the food tents, speaking with whoever addressed themselves to him, all the while keeping an eye on her. He was obliged to wait for some time, as, by all appearances, she was approached by every eligible man in attendance, some even bringing her offerings from the table so that Philip doubted she would even need to come there for herself.

On all this attention her father looked with a watchful but not unkind eye. He seemed to be in little doubt what a treasure his daughter was.

Just now, her petite hand was being bowed over by Robert Munroe, a man nearly old enough to be her father. And yet, she still accorded him the same polite smile as she did every other man. She seemed to show no preference at all between the dozen men who had greeted her. It was what Philip so liked about her—and also the thing which made him worry so for his own prospects.

When she finally arrived at the refreshment table, Philip’s legs were fairly begging him to sit down or walk about, but he took the few steps over to the table and then feigned surprise.

Her father greeted him and then excused himself as he was addressed by a man behind Philip.

Philip smiled at Miss Devenish, but she was selecting a tart and seemed not to notice. “I see you come to the table with the same goal as me,” he said. “Sampling the lemon tarts before they have all been consumed.” He bit into one of the tarts.

Miss Devenish raised her brows. “Oh. I thought I saw you eating one just a few minutes ago. You have been standing here for quite some time, so I imagined you’d had the opportunity to sample nearly everything you could wish to.”

So she had noticed him. If he hadn’t just been caught in a lie, the realization might have been more gratifying. Feeling an explanation was called for, he said, “Oh, well, that is—” Crumbled lemon tart crust from his mouth flew onto Miss Devenish’s lovely lavender dress.

Philip’s hand shot up to his mouth, eyes wide. He hurriedly chewed and reached for his handkerchief before continuing to speak. “I apologize, Miss Devenish. Allow me.” He began to reach his hand out, only to realize how entirely inappropriate it would be for him to remove the piece of tart from the fabric between Miss Devenish’s bosom and shoulder. “Here,” he said, thrusting the handkerchief at her.

She took it, and Philip looked away while she removed the offending chunk of lemon curd. “I am not normally so clumsy,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh that would convince no one.

She smiled up at him. “It is no matter, my lord.” She seemed to hesitate with the handkerchief in hand, as though unsure whether to return it to him.

He waved a hand. “No need to return it to me. You may keep it.”

She thanked him genuinely, slipping it into her reticule.

“Rebecca,” her father said, coming up to them. “Mrs. Birch is in Town and was hoping to speak with you. I have just seen her arrive.”

“Ah.” She looked out onto the grounds. “Yes, I see her.” She smiled up at Philip kindly. “If you will excuse us. Good day, my lord.”

Philip sighed as he watched the Devenishes walk off, reliving every agonizing moment of the past two minutes in such vivid detail that he was hardly aware when someone came up beside him.

“You’ll have to do better than that if you mean to have her.” Finmore reached for one of the sweetmeats on the tiered tray beside them. “Of course, one should take care when generalizing, but I am tolerably certain that women tend to regard being spat upon with disfavor.”

“It was hardly done intentionally,” Philip said, a bite to his voice. Finmore would never commit such an error.

“I’m afraid that, in something as delicate as the pursuit of women, such a distinction is rarely appreciated. Why you cannot show a little humility and ask for some help is beyond me.”

Feeling unbearably hot, Philip removed his hat, sliding his hands along its rim as he considered whether to tell Finmore of his upcoming meeting with the Swan. But Philip didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had taken his advice. He could be unbearable sometimes. “Thank you, Fin. But no.”

Philip’s pride—the thing that told him he was capable of anything he set his mind to—balked at admitting he would be employing the services of a stranger to aid him in something that should have been easy for him to accomplish. But he clearly needed that assistance.

That and to stay far away from lemon tart.