by Jason
As she climbed into bed, she tried to convince herself that he would have come home if he’d lost all the money, and that he must therefore be winning.
She couldn’t believe it. Disaster was hovering like a thundercloud.
Despite her gnawing anxiety, Portia did eventually fall asleep, and when she awoke it was morning. Her first thoughts were panic-stricken and she rushed out, seeking signs of disaster. Snuffling snores from Oliver’s room told her that at least he was in his bedroom and alive.
There was no indication of whether he had been lucky or not. There was certainly no pile of gold on the table. She rather thought that if he’d been hugely successful he would have woken her with the news.
A small win, though. Was that too much to hope for?
Even a small loss would be a relief.
Portia was very tempted wake her brother and demand an accounting, but what was the point? Whatever had happened had happened.
The hours dragged by. Portia tried to settle to needlework or reading, but failed at both. She paced the room restlessly, feeling she must be wearing a hole in the thin faded carpet.
What were they going to do if he had lost all the money?
What if he’d lost more, much more?
Again the image came to her of Oliver raising a loaded pistol to his head. . . .
“No,” she said out loud and another faint snore reassured her.
Fort. Fort was their only hope. Not only might he lend them the money, but he might be able to persuade Oliver to give up his madness and return to Dorset. Needing to act, Portia swung on her heavy cloak and went in search of the new Earl of Walgrave.
As she approached the grand house, her heart lifted. A baggage-laden coach was just leaving the door, presumably to go to the mews to unload. Someone had arrived. She ran lightly up the steps and used the shining brass knocker.
Portia knew it was unusual for a woman to call upon a man unescorted, but she hoped to carry it off with a grand air. When the door opened, she informed the footman that Miss St. Claire was here to see the earl.
His expression was not welcoming. “The earl is not at home, ma’am.”
Portia stood firm. “I just saw a coach arrive.”
“That was his lordship’s servants and baggage, ma’am.”
He began to close the door, and Portia said quickly, “So he is expected?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Then the door was firmly closed.
Portia turned away, deflated but still hopeful. Fort would surely be here today or tomorrow. Despite her prickling concerns, nothing too terrible could happen between today and tomorrow. After all, Oliver already owed five thousand guineas. Any extra sums he had thrown away last night were just raindrops in a barrelful.
Portia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She didn’t want to go back to their depressing rooms to listen to Oliver snuffle and snore, so she walked around this handsome area of London.
These were wide, well-ordered streets with houses varying from grand to simply elegant. Generally the pavements were flagged with stone, and sturdy metal posts bordered them, offering some protection to pedestrians from the carts and carriages which rolled past. The people she passed were ladies and gentlemen or their servants and children. The gin-alleys and whores could be from another world.
Scattered among the houses were shops filled with goods likely to appeal to the wealthy. Portia peered through small panes of glass at items from around the country and the world, wishing she could take some back to her family. Pru would love that lacy ribbon and it would only cost a shilling a yard.
She squashed the temptation. She was as bad as Oliver, wanting to spend money they did not have.
Retracing her steps to Dresden Street, she suddenly realized she had lost her way. She was not alarmed for she was equipped with Sayer’s Map Of London, and she paused to study it. Ah yes, if she went through Marlborough Square she should be back on course, and she would like to see the famous square. It was supposed to be the finest in town.
It was. Bordered by handsome houses of many types, the square included a railed park containing handsome trees, flower beds, and even a duck pond. Even at this bleak time of year it was lovely. In spring and summer it must be delightful.
Portia heard laughter and saw some children and their nurse feeding the ducks.
London had many faces, she mused. Squalid in one aspect, vicious in another, it could also be gracious, and even charming.
She went over to the railings to enjoy the antics of the four young children. One young lad caught sight of her and waved shyly. Portia waved back. The nurse was watchful, but did not interfere and so Portia paused to wistfully enjoy the little ones.
There had been suitors for her hand, but none she had been willing to accept. Her mother thought her unreasonable, but Portia needed to feel absolute trust in a man before she would give her life into his keeping. She had expected Hannah to understand this after her disastrous first marriage, but Portia’s mother seemed to think that any man was better than none.
If Portia had accepted one of the offers, however, she might have had children of her own. Now her chances were gone, for she was past her prime and without any kind of dowry.
She had been resigned to her spinster state for years, but she had hoped to be aunt to Oliver’s children. She had thought to live on at Overstead, working to make the estate prosper, enjoying nieces and nephews. Her mother expected to be there to enjoy her gardens and her grandchildren. . . .
One of the children looked up and Portia thought the child had noticed her distress. But the girl looked beyond Portia and shouted, “Zeno!”
Portia turned and found herself looking at Bryght Malloren across the width of the street. It took a moment for her to notice the large dog at his side, dark silky coat shining in the sunlight. The dog was still as a statue except for a lazily waving tail, but its bright eyes were fixed on the children.
The children were coming at a run.
The smiling nurse opened the gate, and they spilled out. The children ignored the man and lunged at the dog. It dodged. Portia gasped, thinking it must turn on the innocent tormentors, but she soon saw that this was a familiar game of tag.
The dog weaved and danced, and the children chased after.
“You like children?”
Portia swung back and found Bryght Malloren had crossed to her side.
“Of course I like children!” Her heart was pounding and she was sure her cheeks had turned brick red.
“There’s no of course about it. Little monsters, every one.”
“Your dog does not seem to feel so.”
“He considers these exercises a noble sacrifice in the cause of educating the young.” His tone was perfectly serious, but there was a devastating twinkle in his eyes.
Portia could not help but smile back. “He looks to me to be having a wonderful time, my lord.”
“Hush! He thinks he has us all fooled.”
Portia’s smile widened. He echoed it, and she wished he had not done that. It seemed so genuine, as if he, too, were delighted by this chance encounter.
It was all facade, she told herself sternly, but his expression was so warm that it could melt the coolest common sense into soggy idiocy.
He was dressed plainly today in a dark jacket, brown leather breeches, and black top boots. His dark hair was simply tied back and a trifle wind-blown. He carried a tri-corn and crop so he must just have returned from riding.
Unlike his satin and powder of the park, there was nothing about these everyday clothes designed to attract or impress. The effect, however, was even more perilous. Such simple clothes made him seem more ordinary, more the sort of man Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset, could be expected to know.
To like.
To love, even.
Good heavens, no. Never that!
“You live here, my lord?” This was to remind herself that no one who lived in Marlborough Square was ordinary.
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br /> “Yes, over there.” He gestured to the most magnificent house on this side of the square. “Don’t be too impressed, though. It belongs to my brother.”
“The Marquess of Rothgar?” High aristocracy, Portia. Remember that.
He raised a brow. “Have you been studying my family tree, Miss St. Claire?”
Portia turned away to watch the play—and to hide her reddening cheeks. “Certainly not, my lord. All the world knows such things.”
He must have moved closer, for his deep voice came from just behind her ear. “What else does all the world know?”
Portia swallowed, but kept her voice brisk. “Begging for compliments, my lord?”
He laughed, and moved round into her line of sight so she had to look up at him or be pointedly impolite.
Oh dear. If Bryght Malloren was handsome solemn, he was devastating when lit by laughter. He had placed himself so that they were too close, intimately close. . . .
“I doubt,” he said softly, “that much the world has to say about my family could be construed as complimentary.”
“They say you are rich.”
“But what do they say of how we make our money?”
“They say you intend to marry it!”
The words were out before she could stop them. Portia wished a convenient hole in the ground would open up for her.
“Don’t be uncomfortable,” he said. “It’s true. What choice do we poor second sons have?” But he took her hand and his thumb rubbed gently against the back of it. They were both gloved, but that did not seem to lessen the power of his touch.
“Hard work?” she queried, far more breathily than she wished.
“Heaven forbid.” He pulled slightly on her hand, pulled her toward him.
He wouldn’t! Not here, where people could be watching from any of a hundred windows.
“And they say you make it at the tables,” she snapped. This was as much to remind herself as to accuse him. He’s a gamester, Portia. The sort of man you most despise.
“All the world games.” He was still drawing her gently into his arms and, alarmingly, she lacked the will to resist.
But just then the swirling group of dog and children swung past, and Zeno performed a sharp turn to circle Bryght and Portia. In following, one child slipped and sprawled onto the ground with a wail.
Portia broke free of Bryght to help the child, but he was ahead of her. He swung the little girl smoothly to her feet, then crouched down at her level to straighten her hat on her short, mousy hair. “No great harm done, I think, little one.”
“I’m muddy,” the child said with a sniff.
“It’ll wash.”
“I hurt my hand.” The girl held out her right hand, which was scraped a little on the ball of the thumb.
Bryght took it and gave it serious study. “Mainly mud, I think. Shall I kiss it better? Or shall I kiss your hand as a gentleman kisses the hand of a lady?”
The girl, who was about five, looked at him in a surprisingly coquettish manner. She was undoubtedly destined to be a minx. “Properly,” she said, extending her hand, palm down in quite the right manner for a lady.
Bryght took the muddy paw and brushed a kiss over the knuckles, then rose to his feet. He gave a sharp whistle, and Zeno evaded a clutching hand and trotted over to his side. The flushed, excited children would have followed, but their nurse controlled them. Bryght sent the girl to join them and they all disappeared into one of the houses.
At the last minute, the children turned to wave and Bryght waved back, grinning.
“Little monsters?” Portia queried, aware that her heart had just suffered a serious blow. He might be an aristocrat, a rake, and a gamester, but he liked children and was kind to them. She didn’t think she would ever forget him kissing the hand of a tearful infant.
“I’m waving them on their way,” he replied. He fondled his dog’s ears. “Miss St. Claire, may I present Zeno, the most stoical of dogs.”
The dog had indeed reverted to a stationary pose and an attitude of endless resignation.
Portia extended her hand, and when the dog showed no sign of objecting, stroked his silky head. “He’s beautiful.” As beautiful as his master, she thought, for in their dark leanness and fine bones there was a similarity. “What is he?”
“A Persian Gazelle Hound. There being no gazelles nearby, he feels no duty to exert himself.”
Portia addressed the dog. “Zeno, I think your master slanders you. You do not have the look of a sloth.”
“Nor do I,” said Bryght, “and yet am I not an idle, purposeless creature?”
Portia glanced up guiltily. It was as if he’d read her mind. He did look too alert, though, too strong, and too healthy for the life he supposedly led. “I do not know you, my lord.”
It was supposed to re-create the proper order of things, to remind both him and herself that they were strangers from different orders of society.
But he said, “That can be corrected, Hippolyta.” There was something in the tone, something in his eyes, that shivered along her nerves. “I would like to know you better.”
Know? As in the biblical sense?
Portia took a step back. “My lord, stop this!” She bumped up against the hard railings, trapped and reminded of Maidenhead. How could she have forgotten that violent encounter?
“Stop what?” He was all innocence, the wretch.
Portia raised her chin. “I do not want your attentions, my lord.” Even saying it sounded ridiculous and she thought he might laugh.
Instead, anger flashed in his eyes. “You refuse my attentions without even discussing the matter, Miss St. Claire?”
“Yes. There is nothing to discuss!”
“It seems to me that there is a great deal to discuss.”
“No!” she protested, thoroughly alarmed by how little she wanted to repulse him. “There is no price you could offer, my lord, that would persuade me to be your mistress!”
He stared at her and now he looked just like her moonlight marauder—capable of attack. Portia earnestly prayed that a hundred eyes were watching this encounter.
But then the anger was leashed. “How very insulting,” he drawled. His cold eyes studied her, from her neat hat to her sturdy shoes, and all the while his crop tapped against his glossy boots. “What if I were to pay all your brother’s debts, Miss St. Claire? Would that weaken the shackles on your virtue?”
Portia felt her eyes widening. “He owes five thousand guineas!”
“Is he worth five thousand guineas?”
“His estate is.”
The light had entirely left him and he was darkly sober. “Everyone has his or her price. Would you be willing to give yourself to me body and soul for five thousand guineas?”
He surely could not mean it, but out of fear she hit back. “Are you worth five thousand guineas, my lord?”
“Are you doubting my word?” he asked, coldly enough to freeze the pond.
“If I were to enter into such a wicked bargain, I would certainly have to see the money first!”
His breath hissed in. “You are a reckless woman, my Amazon, to insult me so.”
“I am not your anything, my lord.” She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way with his crop.
“What if I make it ten thousand? Your brother clear of debt, your family safe in their home, a dowry for your sister . . .” He smiled, and his voice took on a satirical edge. “Would not that be worth your precious, too-long-hoarded virtue?”
The insult stabbed at Portia’s heart, but she was frozen. If he were serious, she couldn’t refuse. “You would pay all that?”
“Have I not said so?”
Portia gave a great, shuddering sigh and looked down. “Very well, my lord.”
He slowly lowered his crop and Portia watched, shivering, as it tapped his glossy boot again.
“Joan of Arc indeed. Your family is not worth it.” She could not read his tone at all.
She looked up to m
eet guarded eyes. “My family is worth any sacrifice, my lord. Is not yours?”
His chin jerked almost as if she had hit him. “I withdraw my offer, Hippolyta. I am no woman’s sacrificial pyre.” With that he turned and strode away toward the mansion that was his home.
Portia sucked in a deep breath and told herself she was relieved. Of course she was relieved. Her family would never want her to purchase their security with her virtue. She had been raised to believe that death was preferable to dishonor.
But honesty told her there was a touch of regret in her heart. If it hadn’t been for that cruel comment about her long-hoarded virtue, the wicked plan might have been attractive. His words had reminded her, however, that she was past her prime. They had made it clear that his proposal had been a heartless joke springing from disdain not attraction.
He had never been serious.
When the door closed behind him, Portia regained some strength in her legs and could go on her way with dignity. She walked out of Marlborough Square, resisting all temptation to look back, or to think of what might have been.
Bryght stalked into the library and slammed the door so hard he only just avoided Zeno’s tail. The dog gave a reproachful yelp and settled before the fire with a sigh.
“Now that was a fine piece of work.” Bryght splashed some brandy into a glass and downed it. “Such charming behavior would be bound to win the heart of any lady!”
Zeno opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them.
“Quite. What would your mate do if you told her she was stale on the shelf, a dried-up stick, a confirmed ape-leader?”
Bryght went to throw himself in a chair by the fire. Zeno, knowing his duty, rose to rest his head on his master’s knee.
“Stop play-acting,” said Bryght. “You have no sympathy for me, and you are right. But she made me lose my temper. She seems to have a way of making me lose my temper, the wretched woman. I am normally in control of my emotions and my life.”
Zeno made no response to this, so Bryght stroked him gently, being soothed by the silky warmth.