by Jason
Gracious heaven, for all his poise and power this man, too, was helplessly entangled in the vice. Portia wanted to plead with him to abandon gaming, plead just as strongly as she had with Oliver.
Then she reminded herself that Bryght Malloren was no concern of hers. If he lost every penny and shot himself as her father had shot himself—
Her mind balked at the image, and the words escaped. “I wish you wouldn’t play.” When he turned to her, mildly surprised, she hastily added, “I wish no one would!”
His lips turned up. “What then would we do with our long evenings? Ah yes, sit by the fire with our faithful spouses. . . .”
Portia knew she was an awkward red. “You mock, my lord, but it would be better.”
“Undoubtedly.” The amusement faded. “You frighten me, Miss St. Claire.”
“Of course I don’t.”
“I mean, I am frightened for you. You have something of the Joan of Arc about you.”
“I’m no religious zealot, my lord.”
He frowned slightly and looked alarmingly serious. “But you are fierce, brave, and have high ideals. That is dangerous in this cynical age. In a just cause you would not hesitate to take appalling risks. I would not want to see you go up in flames.”
“There is no danger of that.” But his words struck a chord of uneasiness in Portia. She lived these days with a sense of hovering disaster.
“Is there not? You would have shot me that day, wouldn’t you?”
She colored at the memory, but said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was supposed to allow an intruder to break into the house without objection?”
“A pistol ball in the gut is rather more than an objection, dear Amazon. What would you have done with me writhing to eternity at your feet?”
It was a disturbing picture but Portia would not let him see that. “Called for the Watch,” she said crisply.
He laughed out loud. “You would, wouldn’t you?” He touched her hot cheek with his knuckle. “You are refreshing.”
Portia felt caught in a moment of eternity, and fought it. “Like an ice-cold bath, perhaps?”
His eyes seemed truly warm as he said, “Not quite so harsh, I think. Like a cool fountain on an arid summer’s day.”
Portia could find nothing flippant to say to this and stared at him like a wooden-headed ninny.
It clearly meant little to him, however, for he continued lightly, “May I hope that now you will delight Society a little more with your presence, Hippolyta?”
Wooden-headed? More light-headed. Portia felt giddy. Thank heavens it was proper to be supported by his arm, for she needed it. “I ... I doubt it, my lord,” she said unsteadily. “We do not intend to stay long, and we will be living quietly.”
“Society is the loser thereby.” But he delivered her to her brother without protest, bowed his farewells, and moved on.
Six
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Portia watched Bryght Malloren stroll away, wishing there was somewhere nearby to sit down.
“Well, that will have attracted Society’s eye,” said Oliver. “But I wish you hadn’t behaved quite so boldly, Portia. Staring up at him like that . . .”
Heat flooded Portia at the thought of the spectacle she had just made of herself. “I did no such thing!” she declared, fanning herself vigorously with the mask. “Or at least, if I am to look at such a man whilst he talks, I have little choice. He is far too tall. It was all perfectly innocent.”
But she lied. There had been nothing innocent about that encounter at all.
Oliver was not impressed by her words, either. “Just bear in mind, Portia, that the aristocracy marry among themselves, and younger sons like Bryght Malloren don’t marry at all except for money and land. How could they support a wife?”
At the tables, Portia thought. Except that Bryght Malloren loses. She summoned a light laugh. “Marriage? Who speaks of marriage?”
Oliver ignored her comment. “And sometimes they hunt for sport.”
Portia shivered, for she feared Oliver had Bryght Malloren’s intent exactly. If only she could understand why he would choose a poor squab such as herself as prey.
“See,” said Oliver. “He is now paying court to Mrs. Findlayson.”
Portia looked at the vivacious raven-haired beauty, swathed in a cloak of red velvet lined with dark furs. Five handsome specimens hovered around her like gaudy moths at a flame. Or like hawks on the hunt, more like. Bryght Malloren was certainly no fluttering moth.
But then, Mrs. Findlayson did not resemble any common type of prey.
Who, in fact, hunted whom?
“Which gentleman is Mr. Findlayson?” she asked.
“I told you, she’s a widow, and looking to use her first husband’s money—he was a tea-Nabob—to buy a grand second husband. Bryght Malloren stands high in the bidding.”
Now why did that news give Portia a stab of agony?
“And anyway,” Oliver continued, “a husband don’t hang around his wife in public. It’s not done.”
Portia glanced around, seeing similar scenes everywhere— ladies preening, and gentlemen flirting, but none presumably with their proper partners.
So much for fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. He must have thought her ridiculous.
For her part, Portia thought Society’s ways disgusting and frightening. If she married, she would not want to shame herself with other men, and she would be devastated to see her husband flirting with other women. Oliver was right. They had no place here except as spectators.
She suddenly remembered Maidenhead, and a letter. A letter, doubtless, from one of these women to one of these men. But not her husband. And that relationship had not been mere flirtation.
Had Bryght Malloren been the lover involved? But why then had he seemed so shocked? And yet he could not be the husband.
Perhaps he was a betrayed lover. A woman who betrayed her husband would not balk at deceiving her lover, too.
Perhaps, Portia thought with a start, Desiree was Mrs. Findlayson, the woman he was courting. The knowledge that his intended wife was so lewd would certainly shock a man, and had there not been mention of tea in that letter?
She glanced back at the scene and saw the widow laughing merrily at Bryght Malloren, her hand placed intimately on his chest. Portia wanted to snatch that intrusive hand away. If Bryght Malloren had been shocked, she thought tartly, it would appear he had made a good recovery.
Portia dragged her eyes away angrily. The man was no concern of hers, and she was no schoolroom miss to run mad over a virtual stranger!
However, now it seemed that everywhere she looked there were men and women behaving in an immodest way. There! She saw a woman allow a man a kiss on the lips whilst others nearby applauded. And only look where that man’s hand rested! The scene in the park definitely resembled a flock of predators, and the chatter was beginning to sound just like the shrieking cries of birds of prey.
If she could not return to the simple, decent life at Overstead, then she would welcome Manchester. There were no such immoral goings-on there.
Oliver was saying something else, about money and Mallorens. “I beg your pardon,” Portia said. “I did not hear you.”
“I said that I’d lay my money on the Findlayson being Lady Bryght before the spring. She’d be a fool not to snap him up. He stands in line to be marquess if his brother dies.”
“A somewhat unlikely event, I’d think. And she’d be a fool to trust her money to a man who will throw it all away at the tables.” Then Portia realized what she had said and wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry, Oliver. . . .”
“No matter,” he said stiffly. “It’s the truth, though at least it was my own money.”
But all our lives went with it, she thought bitterly, and all my work on the estate, and mother’s beautiful gardens. . . .
The magic of the day shattered. Portia turned her back upon the Findlayson group so that she
wouldn’t be tempted to so much as glance at Bryght Malloren.
Bryght flirted with Jenny Findlayson, but his mind was on Portia St. Claire.
It had been simple curiosity that had taken him to her. The woman on Upcott’s arm had looked so ordinary and yet had to be his sister. He had wondered if his fascinating Amazon was entirely a figment of his imagination.
Seen up close, she had still appeared ordinary, for she was no beauty and her clothes were not in the latest style. It had soon become clear, however, that beneath the prosaic surface she was the woman who had challenged him, fought him, and tried to shoot him.
Today she had no pistol, but she had confronted him with wit and a sharp tongue, and they were as intriguing. Moreover, the glimpse she had given of her home and family had touched him.
London Society would doubtless count him cynical, and in many ways he was, but he understood family bonds. He had been born into a happy family and raised with love. His parents had died when he was thirteen, however, when the new marquess had only been nineteen and the twins grubby seven-year-olds.
Relatives had immediately stepped in to take care of the younger ones, but Rothgar had refused to allow them to be fostered elsewhere. He had held the family together and built close ties between them. He had even arranged his inheritance in such a way that the younger sons found employment and profit in the business of the marquisate. Rothgar had created and nurtured strong bonds among his family, and Bryght understood without explanation Portia St. Claire’s need to keep her family afloat and happy.
In the Mallorens, however, the load was shared. None of them was a burden. Bryght feared that Portia gained little support from her family and was leaned on heavily. He had been tempted to dig deeper, to find out more about the individuals, but he could detect a peril as obvious as that.
He was already more interested in Portia St. Claire than was wise.
By the end of their time together, even her slight build and unusual looks had appeal, and her fine-skinned face which showed every emotion had been enchanting him. The ladies of fashionable London had perfect, creamy complexions; if they were not gifted with them by God, they found them in a cream pot. Bryght was accustomed to it, though the fact that Nerissa Trelyn’s complexion was her own had been a significant attraction.
He had not cared before that Jenny wore a discreet layer of paint. Now he compared her artificial complexion with a fresh country face sprinkled with freckles, and found it wanting.
He was turning mad.
He was done with romantics, and if he married it would be to money. There was no place in his life for a woman like Portia St. Claire.
He had told the truth, however, when he’d said he was concerned about her. She was too forthright and natural for London, and too inclined to fight against the odds. If her brother was the hopeless gamester it would appear, the perils were terrifying.
Damn it to Hades, but he had no desire to be constantly fretting about the woman!
He looked up from Jenny’s teasing face and caught Nerissa Trelyn eyeing him.
He bowed.
She turned away, pretending not to have seen him.
Bryght saw a possible solution to his dilemma. What was the connection between Portia and Nerissa? If Portia was safe beneath the wings of the Trelyns, Bryght need never concern himself with her again.
He removed Jenny’s possessive hand and kissed it. “Alas, but I must leave you again, dear lady.”
“Indeed?” Her dark eyes cooled. “If you return to that red-haired dab, I will begin to think you insincere, my lord.”
Jenny clearly thought that threat would control him, but Bryght merely said, “That would be unfortunate,” and left her to interpret it as she wished.
As he crossed to where Portia stood with her brother, he prayed that Bridgewater not require large new sums of money. Before today, he had thought that making a practical marriage with Jenny Findlayson would be easy enough.
Now, for some reason, it was looking like a labor of Hercules.
Portia had blocked Bryght Malloren out of her mind so successfully that she was startled to hear his voice at her shoulder. “Miss St. Claire, a word with you, if you please.”
She turned warily.
“What, pray, is your connection to the Gloucestershire St. Claire family?”
Portia was so disordered by his return that she could hardly think. She managed to answer coherently, however. “That was my father’s family, my lord. He was a younger son of Lord Felsham.” She was pleased enough to let him know that she was not a complete nonentity.
“Then perchance, is Lady Trelyn a connection?”
Distrusting everything about this encounter, Portia frowned at him. “Lady Trelyn?”
“Oh come, Portia,” Oliver interrupted. “Nerissa Trelyn! You asked about her earlier.”
“She was a St. Claire before she wed,” said Bryght.
Oliver stared between them. “You mean Nerissa Trelyn is a connection of yours, Portia? Bless me, why didn’t you say so?”
Portia was completely off balance. She flickered a glance at the beautiful Queen of Society. “I don’t know. ... I believe I have a cousin Nerissa. . . . But . . .”
“But have not met,” said Lord Bryght. “I thought so. You must permit me to introduce you. Come.” He extended his arm.
Portia would not have gone, for she distrusted anything Bryght Malloren did. Oliver, however, urged her on.
Portia was shepherded across the grass to where Nerissa Trelyn was holding court. In contrast to the Findlayson, Lady Trelyn was cloaked in white satin lined with thick white fur, and was surrounded mostly by ladies. She looked for all the world like a queen with her court.
Portia halted. Though Lady Trelyn was quite young— probably younger than herself—Portia could not think of such a grand lady as her relative. “She will not repulse you, Hippolyta,” said Bryght softly. “Not if you are introduced by me.”
And what did that mean? Portia wondered as she was propelled forward by a hand on her back—a hand that seemed to be sending hot vibrations down her spine.
Lady Trelyn turned her head and saw them. She froze for a brief revealing moment, but then she smiled and Portia thought she might have been mistaken about that fleeting expression of alarm. Bryght bowed with almost exaggerated reverence.
“Lord Bryght.” Nerissa’s voice was husky. Portia saw with something like despair that Nerissa’s perfect, pearly complexion owed nothing to artifice.
Bryght kissed the bejeweled hand she extended and then straightened to acknowledge the beauty’s husband with a much more moderate bow.
No love lost there either, thought Portia.
“I come bearing gifts,” said Bryght. “My dear Lady Trelyn, I do believe I have found a cousin for you.”
“Cousin?” Nerissa looked between Oliver and Portia.
Bryght urged Portia a step closer. “May I present Miss Portia St. Claire?”
Nerissa looked blankly at Portia for a moment, then laughed with seemingly genuine delight. “Portia! Uncle Fernley’s girl? But I have heard of you. How delightful!”
Portia was enveloped in an overwhelming perfumed embrace, and introduced to Lord Trelyn. Introduced in fact to everyone in a dizzying assembly of smiles and names.
“And you, sir?” Nerissa asked at last of Oliver.
He made a profound, adoring bow. “Alas, my lady, I can only claim to be a relative by marriage. I am Sir Oliver Upcott, Portia’s half-brother.”
He was kissed on the cheek all the same. “But a relative of sorts! This is of all things wonderful. You must come to dine, mustn’t they, Trelyn? I want to hear all about your family, and . . . and, oh, everything.” Her charming excitement was flattering, and all around beamed upon her. “Let me see. This is Tuesday and . . .” she counted on her pretty fingers and then glanced endearingly at her husband, “Saturday, Trelyn?”
“If you wish, my dear.” But he alone was not beaming, and his voice and eyes were coo
l. He glanced at Bryght Malloren thoughtfully.
Portia, too, wondered what was behind all this. She was delighted to find a relative in London, especially such a powerful and charming one, but could not imagine that Bryght Malloren was motivated by uncontaminated kindness.
“Saturday, then,” declared Nerissa. “Do say you will come on Saturday.” She made it sound like a humble petition.
“We would be delighted,” said Portia honestly. She had been feeling so alone, and now it seemed she had a relative and perhaps a friend. Nerissa was so wonderfully warmhearted that it was not surprising that everyone seemed to adore her.
Whatever Bryght Malloren’s motives, she wanted to thank him for this, but when she turned, she found he was already strolling off.
Back to Mrs. Findlayson, it would appear.
Lord Trelyn’s voice jerked her attention away from that elegant green silk back. “And how do you come to know Lord Bryght, Miss St. Claire?”
She turned to him nervously. “He is merely an acquaintance of my brother’s, my lord.”
“Ah.” Lord Trelyn flicked a strange look at Oliver.
Oh, gracious. Would they interpret that as meaning Oliver was a gamester? What would happen when the Trelyns found out Oliver was ruined?
But Nerissa linked arms with her and drew her away from Lord Trelyn. “I feel as if I have gained a sister. We will be Portia and Nerissa at all times.” She chuckled. “Just like in the Merchant of Venice, except that there Nerissa was Portia’s serving maid. We will have to find you a noble Bassanio!”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Portia was “my dearest cousin.”
Though not much taller than Portia, Nerissa was an overwhelming presence, and Portia could hardly think while drowning in light chatter and rather heavy perfume. When it was time for them to move on she was a little bit relieved.
“Upon my word,” said Oliver, once they were out of earshot. “The Trelyns and the Mallorens in one day! We are moving in the highest circles.”
“Such high living is more likely to cost money than earn it, Oliver.”
“That shows you don’t know how the world works. Those great families have patronage at their fingertips. There are government posts worth hundreds, even thousands a year just waiting to be given, and they are given by people like that! Even if Fort lends me the money to redeem Overstead, there will still be a heavy debt to repay. An extra income of a few hundred a year would certainly help.”