Without a word, they stepped into the drive-into the open. Where anyone could see them and no one could suggest they'd been "private."
They were standing in the middle of the drive, facing the gate, when the carriage slowed and halted.
Lady Fortemain leaned over the side and beamed. "Mr. Cynster. Just who I was looking for!"
Lucifer quashed an urge to flee. With an easy smile, collecting Phyllida with a glance, he strolled to the barouche.
"I've just heard the wonderful news!" Lady Fortemain's eyes gleamed. "Now you've decided to remain among us and fill the void left by dear Horatio's passing, you must-positively you must-allow me to host an impromptu dinner to introduce you to your neighbors."
He'd been born in the country and lived among the ton; there was no need to ask how Lady Fortemain had heard.
She leaned forward, including Phyllida in her bright gaze. "Our summer ball is just over a week away-I'll send you a card, of course. But I thought, seeing as we're so very quiet hereabouts, that there would be no harm in holding a small dinner tonight."
"Tonight?"
"At seven-Ballyclose Manor. You can't miss it-just take the lane past the forge."
Lucifer hesitated for only an instant; such a gathering would provide excellent opportunities to further investigate his neighbors' activities last Sunday morning. He bowed to Lady Fortemain. "I'd be honored."
Delighted, her ladyship turned to Phyllida. "I'm just going to Dottswood and Highgate, dear, and then I'll be calling at the Grange. I'm expecting everyone to attend-your papa and brother, as well as dear Lady Huddlesford and her sons. And, of course, you, my dear Phyllida."
Phyllida smiled. To Lucifer, the gesture was superficial-mild, distant, it said nothing of her thoughts.
Her ladyship saw it otherwise; she beamed warmly at Phyllida. "Perhaps you'd like to accompany me to Dottswood and Highgate, and thence to the Grange?"
Phyllida's smile didn't waver as she shook her head. "Thank you, but I must call on Mrs. Cobb."
Lady Fortemain sighed fondly. "Always so busy, dear. Well, I must leave you and spread the word." She tapped her coachman; she waved as the carriage jerked forward. "Until seven, Mr. Cynster!"
Lucifer raised his hand in salute; smiling, he watched the carriage rumble away. Then he turned to Phyllida, unsurprised to find that her smile had faded, leaving a frown investing her dark eyes.
"So why aren't you delighted?" He gestured to the flower garden; brows rising haughtily, she strolled beside him onto a secondary path that wound its way through burgeoning beds to the central fountain.
He waited-he had no intention of withdrawing the question. He wanted to know the answer.
After a moment, she pulled a face. He inwardly blinked-she rarely displayed her feelings so blatantly.
"Would you be delighted to know you were destined to spend the entire evening listening to a pompous windbag?"
"Which windbag is that?"
"Cedric, of course." They strolled on, she admiring the blooms, he, more covertly, admiring her. Her consciousness of their interlude the previous night was still there, but had faded, receded, as they'd talked. Stopping to examine a rose, she went on. "I told you Cedric wants to marry me-Lady Fortemain is determined that I should marry him. That alone would render this impromptu dinner less than appealing, but, of course, Pommeroy will be there, too, doing his best to be off-putting."
"Why off-putting?"
"Because he doesn't want Cedric to marry me."
"Pommeroy wants to marry you, too?"
She smiled. "No-it's simpler. Pommeroy doesn't want Cedric to marry at all. There's fifteen years between them-Pommeroy therefore has expectations that Cedric's long bachelorhood have fueled."
"Ah."
They wandered on through the garden; Lucifer said nothing more. Her tone whenever they touched on the subject of marriage grated, although why he, of all men, should feel compelled to defend the institution was difficult to comprehend. Or, more to the point, he didn't want to comprehend the reasons behind the impulse, to study his motives too closely. Yet the fact remained.
Courtesy of her self-centered suitors, she'd developed a cynical, not to say negative, view of marriage that seemed considerably more cynical and deeply entrenched than his own. He, at least, knew all marriages were not like those offered her. Did she? "When did your mother die?"
Halting by the fountain, she blinked at him. "When I was twelve. Why?"