by Jason
“My conscience. You heard her. I am not to intrude upon her in any way unless I can prove I did not lie.”
Andover laughed. “I had forgotten that. She seems to have taken you in dislike.”
“She labors under misapprehensions.”
“Does she? And can you not prove you spoke the truth?”
“Of a certainty, but it amuses me to choose when and where to claim my forfeit.”
Andover glanced at Bryght. “What’s the attraction there? She seems rather strait-laced. She is too forthright to be pleasing, and is rather lacking in curves.”
“Do you think so?” said Bryght with faint amusement. “Strait-laces can be loosened, and I find forthright quite attractive. For example, I have a fatal weakness for women who try to shoot me.”
Andover burst out laughing. “Fatal indeed! When did that happen, and why the devil would she do such a thing?”
“She told me to stop, and I had no mind to.”
“So you’ve already had her, have you? And her not your slave?”
“My dear Andover, you are developing a low turn of mind. Let us enter Lady Willoughby’s and see if it can be improved by screeching sopranos and fervent harpists.”
Fifteen
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The soiree was much more to Portia’s taste than the rout, though it too was crowded. But there were seats, and in two rooms there was excellent music.
Portia would have been happy just to listen to the music, but Nerissa wanted to talk. “I do wish you would tell me what is between you and Lord Bryght. I am dying of curiosity.”
“There is nothing to tell, Nerissa. If the man has any honor at all, he will never approach me again.”
“But there, see, there must be something, or you would not say such a thing.”
Portia met the avid brown eyes. “I dislike him, that is all. Because he encouraged my brother to play.”
“If you dislike him so, you should want your revenge.”
That again. Portia wished she knew what was really in Nerissa’s mind, for she did not trust her. “I assure you, I want nothing that involves spending them with Bryght Malloren.”
Nerissa fluttered her fan. “Lud, you are fierce upon the subject. But it shall be as you wish it to be.”
At the change in Nerissa’s voice, Portia followed her cousin’s gaze and caught her breath. He was here!
“How strange,” murmured Nerissa. “It is rare enough to see Bryght at a rout, but at a soiree such as this. . . .”
Portia deliberately turned away from the doorway. So he was following her. Stalking her like a predator. Well, he would find she was no field mouse.
She prayed he would keep his distance, but within moments he crossed to speak to them. “Lady Trelyn, Miss St. Claire. What a charming surprise. And Lord Trelyn.”
Portia realized Lord Trelyn must have come almost at a run as soon as he saw Bryght approaching his wife. Perhaps they were lovers.
“I didn’t know you had a taste for music, Malloren,” said Lord Trelyn frostily.
“I have a taste for all things excellent. Tell me, Trelyn, what do you think of Amazons?”
Portia almost leapt out of her seat with alarm.
“Amazons?” repeated Lord Trelyn blankly. “Why nothing. What have they to do with anything?”
“Do you not find the idea of female warriors intriguing? Perhaps we should mount a battalion of them.”
“The idea is absurd.”
“It would surely dismay the enemy. What do you think, ladies?”
Nerissa laughed uneasily. “Why would we want to go to war, my lord? We have enough work here at home.”
“How true. And you, Miss St. Claire? Do you agree?”
She had to look at him. “I would not want to fight, my lord.”
His lips twitched. “Really? You surprise me.”
Portia felt her cheeks heat. “Unless the enemy was wicked,” she added with meaning. “Then I would fight to the death.”
His eyes turned serious. “Ah, but wickedness is so hard to detect, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think that at all. Gaming is wicked, as are brothels and fornication.”
“Cousin Portia!” exclaimed Lord Trelyn. “You speak too boldly.”
Portia controlled her unfortunate temper. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” She deliberately looked up at Bryght and dared him to protest his virtue.
He bowed instead. “My dear Trelyn, perhaps you should have waited and wed the cousin. You seem to be in agreement on all matters.”
With that he was gone, leaving a seething atmosphere behind him. After an eloquent silence, Lord Trelyn extended his arm to his wife. “I think you would like to listen to Madame Honorette play on the harp, my dear.”
It was after they left the crimson saloon where the harpist had entertained them for a half hour, that the party was divided.
Lord Trelyn received a note on a silver salver. He read it in frowning silence. “Something has arisen at St. James, my dear. I must attend to it. I will be gone less than an hour.”
“Oh, poor Tea-cup,” said Nerissa, laying a hand on his sleeve, and causing Lord Trelyn to cast a rather embarrassed look at Portia. “Surely it can wait until tomorrow.”
“Now, now, Sugar Plum,” he murmured, “you know my duty must always come first.”
“But what are we to do?”
“You will be quite safe here and there is excellent music to enjoy. I will take the carriage and be back in no time.”
After a few more playful protests, Nerissa let her husband leave. “Do not marry a political man, Portia,” she said with a plaintive sigh that almost convinced Portia she was bereft. “Come, let us stroll about.”
The next few minutes reminded Portia of their time at the Debenhams’ rout, with Nerissa steering skillfully through the rooms as if afraid she might miss something. Portia greeted people absentmindedly and kept a weather eye open for Mallorens ahead.
But it was not a Malloren they encountered. It was Lord Heatherington. He bowed. “Lady Trelyn, and the lovely Miss St. Claire. How delightful. May I escort you to the choral recital?”
He held out a hand to each and they began to move with the flow of people toward the ballroom where the recital was to take place.
But then Nerissa stopped. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I cannot bear the thought of more singing. Portia, do you wish to go?”
“Not particularly. Do you have a headache, Cousin? Perhaps Lord Heatherington could find you something to drink.”
“Or perhaps I can escort you both to the refreshments, ladies.”
This was agreed on, and they went toward the back of the house, moving against the flow of people.
“The choral recital is very popular,” Portia remarked.
Lord Heatherington looked down at her. “The choir of Westminster Abbey, Miss St. Claire. Are you sure you would not wish to hear them? I promise to take excellent care of Lady Trelyn.”
“No, thank you, my lord. I think I have a little of the headache, too.”
In fact, Portia would have liked to hear the famous choir, but she was afraid to be alone. She was sure Bryght would somehow discover that fact and harass her.
They reached the refreshment room at last, but Nerissa halted in the doorway. “Oh dear. Fish! The smell of fish quite turns my stomach these days. Perhaps if I could just sit in a quiet room . . .”
“But of course,” said Heatherington, all concern. “I’m sure there must be one down here.”
Within moments they were in a small room further down the corridor and away from the soiree. Portia helped Nerissa to a chaise. “Lord Heatherington, perhaps you could find some water.”
“Oh, no,” Nerissa protested. “I just need a moment’s rest away from the smell of fish.”
The atmosphere in the room suddenly reminded Portia of her discomfort with these two earlier in the day. Her suspicions must be absurd, but even so, she resolved not to leave them alone.
Lo
rd Heatherington took a pinch of snuff and dusted his fingers. “You have an unfortunate brother, Miss St. Claire.”
Portia knew the remark was more than idle conversation. “He is unlucky,” she admitted watchfully.
Nerissa suddenly spoke to the viscount. “Bryght Malloren came up to us and was speaking of Amazons. Did you not say that was the key, Heather?”
Portia looked between them sharply, alarm sounding.
Lord Heatherington smiled. “Hippolyta. I thought so.”
Portia’s knees went weak, and she collapsed in a chair.
“Don’t worry,” said Lord Heatherington quite kindly. “We mean you no harm. It merely suits us to have you on our side.”
“Your side?” But she knew.
“To not have you tattling to Trelyn every time we meet.”
Portia looked at Nerissa. “What have you done to get rid of your husband, Cousin? Sent him a false note?”
It was Lord Heatherington who answered. “Not at all. We are opportunists, Miss St. Claire, and Lord Trelyn is a very busy man. Matters will doubtless be even easier now you are our supporter.”
“I am no supporter of adultery, my lord.”
“Then you are Hippolyta, virgin queen of the brothel, bought by Bryght Malloren in a business that is the talk of the clubs.”
Portia was terrified, but tried not to show it. “What purpose would there be in revealing that?”
“None,” he said. “But it is our weapon.” Before Portia could respond to this, Nerissa said, “We’re wasting time! Portia, you have no choice but to dance to our tune. If you will just wait in the next room . . .”
“Nerissa, you can’t—”
“Or,” said Lord Heatherington, “the world will learn all.”
Portia leapt to her feet. “This is wicked!”
“Save your moralizing,” snapped Nerissa, and rose to her feet with remarkable energy. She walked over and opened the adjoining door. “How appropriate. It’s the library. You can study your Bible. Stay here, and give warning if anyone should come.”
Portia wanted to be a holy martyr, but she knew it would do no good. This pair would destroy her reputation, then find some other way of meeting. She walked into the library and Nerissa closed the door behind her with a firm click. Portia turned to look at it, and was deeply grateful that it was solid. She wanted to know nothing of what went on in there. She turned back to the library which was hardly worthy of the name. There was only one wall of glass-doored bookcases. A large library table held two lecterns, but there was little evidence of study here. A sofa and two easy chairs were probably better used than the books. The room was lit only by a low fire and one candle, but the dimness suited Portia’s despondent thoughts. London did have pleasures to offer—music and fascinating people—but she wanted no more of its danger and wickedness. If only Oliver had taken her back to Dorset.
She heard the click of the door, and spun around. If it was Lord Trelyn would she give the alarm or let him catch his wife?
It was Bryght. He glanced around the room. “I thought you were with Nerissa. You shouldn’t be wandering alone—”
“It is none of your business, my lord. Please leave me in peace!”
Instead, he closed the door. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing!”
“Just haunting the library, are we? Checking different Bibles?”
It took Portia a moment to follow his train of thought. That silly wager. “My lord, desist. You sought to fool me and you failed. If you had the honor of a newt, you would leave me be!”
He laughed. “Toads, snakes, and now newts? What pray do you know of the honor of newts? They may have a strong code of ethics.”
“Then what, pray, would you know of newts?”
He sighed. “You are a rash woman.”
Portia desperately wanted to flee him, but coward that she was, she did not dare leave her post. If Lord Trelyn came and discovered his wife and her lover, she had no doubt that her own shame would be all over London tomorrow.
She waited, therefore, senses twitching, for Bryght’s next move. He did not come near her. Instead, he lit the candles on the table.
“What are you doing?” she demanded nervously.
He said nothing, but took down a book. With a trickle of unease, Portia saw it was a Bible. He laid it open on one of the lecterns and flipped through the pages until he came to a place. Then he stood back and gestured. “Come, Miss St. Claire, and prepare to admit your fault.”
Portia would have dearly liked to refuse, but pride and honor would not permit it. She walked forward.
The Song Of Songs. What on earth was that?
And there were the words he had quoted. And more like them!
Suspiciously, she checked the title of the book, the other sections, and even peered to see if these pages could have been inserted. Then, with a sinking feeling, she turned to face him. “My Bible does not have this.”
“I think you will find that the pages have been neatly cut out. I have heard of such barbarous practices.”
“Those words do seem unsuited to a Holy Book.”
His smile was suspiciously innocent. “It is all an allegory of the soul and God.”
She glanced at the lectern. “It does not seem so to me.”
“Nor to me. It is a lovely representation of God’s gift to humanity.” In a soft, gentle voice he asked, “Do you admit your fault, Portia?”
He had never used her name before, and instead of undiluted outrage, Portia felt a shock of intimacy. She closed her eyes. Her head told her he was a wicked gamester and philanderer, but he could still weave a spell about her heart.
A hand touched her cheek. Her eyes sprang open and she flinched away.
He caught her in his arms, “You do not learn easily, Hippolyta. Again you tempted Dame Fortune and lost. It is time to pay your forfeit.” He smiled at her. “You really can’t scream here, you know. Nor would it be fair.”
He was right. Not only would the fuss and commotion cast her reputation into doubt, but it could expose Nerissa.
That would lead to her own ruin.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
His hand curved softly around her neck, causing a shiver to pass down her spine. “You look as if I’m about to torture you. Was our previous encounter so terrible?”
Portia summoned ice for her voice. “You would do better not to mention that at all, my lord.”
Magical fingers played at her nape. “I admit there were some shortcomings, but I was laboring under a considerable handicap. Would you not care to try again in more favorable circumstances? ”
Portia fought, then, but he was too strong and willing to use his strength. She stopped at the first touch of pain.
“You’re hurting me!”
“You’re fighting.”
“I have the right to fight.”
“Not this time. You lost and must pay.”
“You’re vile!”
She saw his jaw tighten. “Do you deny that you made a wager and lost?”
Portia met his eyes. “You cheated.”
He shook his head. “You really are going to have to learn caution. First I am a liar. When proved truthful, I am a cheat. How do you arrive at that conclusion, oh wise one?”
“You knew it was true!” she protested. “There’s no honesty in laying bets when you know you will win.”
He laughed. “What a strange notion of gaming you have. No wonder your brother loses all the time.” He swept her into his arms and carried her squirming to the sofa, where he sat with her in his lap.
When she tried to slide off he used his strength again and she had to stop. “This is so unfair!” she hissed. “You know I do not have the strength to break free.”
“If I have an ace, I play it. If you were wise, you would learn not to bet against a certainty.”
“I was certain I knew my Bible!”
Portia was in despair, not because of her fate here but because her
resistance was melting like candle wax. His closeness was sweeter than a fine wine, and in a moment he was even going to make her laugh. That would signal total defeat.
“If you seek to be a successful gamester,” he advised, settling back comfortably as if at ease with the world, “study the players as well as the cards. You need a strong hand indeed to bet against me.”
“I have no desire to be a gamester, successful or otherwise.” She tested his grip again, and found it unbreakable. “My lord, release me. This is intolerable.”
“I find it highly tolerable, and you have the soul of a gamester.”
“No!”
“Then why do you leap into wagers with such enthusiasm? I’ve been making enquiries. Your father was a gamester in his time, and then turned to industrial speculation.”
“And ruined himself. I learn by that.”
“He was unlucky. Or perhaps just rash, like you.” He compelled her to rest against his chest. “Or are you?” he whispered. “It depends what you want to win. . . .”
This was unbearable. He was too intimate, too disturbing, and too close to the truth. “Just kiss me, my lord, if that is your price, and let us have done with it.”
“But I never specified the terms of the wager. You really should watch that kind of thing, you know.”
She twisted to glare into his eyes. “I will not pay an outlandish price, my lord.” She saw that he understood her.
“I would hardly expect that here, my dear. You will pay with a kiss?”
Portia distrusted his tone, but she wanted this settled before she became even more foolish. “Yes.”
“Your word on it?”
“Yes.”
He let her go. “Then kiss me.”
Portia stared at him, then leaned forward to give him a peck on the lips. She was snared before she could escape. “Not fair payment,” he whispered. “A proper kiss. A lover’s kiss.”
“You didn’t specify.”
His eyes glinted with infuriating amusement. “But I’m setting the terms.”
“I loathe you. I want you to know that.”
“We’ll see,” he said with infuriating calm. “Are you going to kiss me? If not, I will have to think of some other forfeit...”