Mistress of the Hunt by Amanda Scott

minutes, however, her curiosity got the better of her and she turned her head to look up at him, only to discover to her consternation that he was regarding her with measuring intent. She found she had become more accustomed to his nearness and rather liked looking at him, however, so when his gaze did not shift, she lifted that mobile eyebrow again.
    Rochford seemed to recollect himself, but when he spoke he said nothing about Wellington. Instead, he said, “I have neglected to express my sympathies on your recent loss, ma’am.”
    She blinked, then gave herself a little shake and answered calmly, “Thank you, sir, but you need not reproach yourself. My loss took place nearly two years ago.”
    He nodded as though she had answered some question or other, and Philippa told herself there could be no difficulty in deducing what that question must be. She had seen that look on a number of masculine faces in the past months. No doubt Rochford was like the rest and had made it his business to discover during the time since she had been introduced to him that Lord Wakefield’s widow, besides being well-favored and unattached, was quite amazingly wealthy.
    She had not the least notion of how the Drake fortunes stood, but few men on the lookout for a wife would wish to pass up a young woman in her circumstances. Not only had Wakefield left her nearly every scrap of his unentailed property, but she had her dowry as well, a not inconsiderable amount, since she was Toddleigh’s only daughter and the earl was a man of relatively deep pockets. That searching look and the remark about his sympathies could only mean that Rochford wished to discover whether she still pined for her late lord before considering what strategy to use to win her hand. Philippa had seen the signs all too often, but never before had they so much disappointed her.
    “You look grave, ma’am,” he said gently. “I ought not to have mentioned your loss. Even after two years—”
    “It was not that,” she said impatiently.
    “Well, then, it must be the children, but I trust you have not allowed yourself to be too disturbed by their mischief. I am persuaded that the duchess has chosen to look upon the matter in a flattering light—that they took such effort to attend her birthday celebration, you know.”
    Finding it easier to accept his interpretation of her feelings than to explain precisely what he had done to bring that grave look to her face, she managed a little smile and said, “You do not regard the matter so lightly as that, I believe.”
    “Certainly not. I informed my repellent sister that I should send a letter directly to Miss Blandamore instructing her to punish Lucinda as severely as she might.”
    Philippa could not help herself. She laughed outright, and when he looked down at her in bewilderment, she laughed harder until tears formed in her dark eyes.
    Rochford smiled doubtfully. “Have I said something so funny, then?”
    She shook her head. “Only it is clear that you have never met Miss Blandamore,” she said, controlling her mirth with an effort.
    “No, of course I have not. How should I?”
    “Well, she reminds me of nothing so much as a cabbage, sir, with perhaps a little onion atop for the head. All ruffles and smiles and rippling flesh. She must have as many as four chins by now, like dewlaps.”
    “Good Lord!”
    “Indeed, sir. I am persuaded the worst punishment she is capable of giving is a frown and perhaps a shake of her head, which would merely set all the ruffles and ribbons of whatever cap she is wearing at the time to moving in such a way as to distract a wrongdoer from all thought of her displeasure.”
    “How on earth does she manage to run a school for young ladies?” His eyes narrowed, and Philippa discovered within herself a sudden wish to defend the absent Miss Blandamore.
    “Her breeding is excellent, I promise you,” she said, “and the girls like her very much. Indeed, I am certain that had Lady