by Jason
“Why indeed? The simplest way to ease my concern is for me to speak with Miss St. Claire.”
They looked at one another for long moments, Bryght pleasantly implacable, Trelyn angry, but then the earl rose. “I will see to it.”
Bryght looked thoughtfully at the door which the earl had closed behind himself. The fact that he had not simply summoned a footman was very revealing. What the devil was going on?
He was tempted to follow, to search the house until he found Portia and could be sure she was safe, but he assumed Trelyn would have to produce her. Then they’d have truth.
He sipped the excellent claret and reflected upon the fact that his beloved was probably not the least willing to marry him. Never mind. He did not dare let her escape this net.
Once they were wed he would prove to her that he was not such a bad bargain.
And soon she would be able to judge by his actions.
A word with Heatherington had diminished the danger from that quarter, though Heather was not easily controlled. He would not make trouble, however, unless Portia exposed his relationship with Nerissa.
As for money, after a couple of nights at the tables, Bryght hoped to be able to assure Portia that her home was safe. Quite apart from covering Upcott’s debt, he had a strong desire to pluck Prestonly to the skin.
He would get rid of Cuthbertson.
The door clicked open and Bryght turned, heart speeding a little. It was not Portia, however, but Lord Trelyn. “Miss St. Claire awaits you in the Laocoon Room, Lord Arcenbryght.”
Bryght rose and followed across the classical hall to a small chamber—an alcove really—in which Portia awaited, with Nerissa nearby. Lord Trelyn left, and Bryght considered the situation.
Had this location been chosen with forethought? The room was small, but graced with three long windows. It had clearly been designed to display a magnificent set of Grecian marbles all addressing the theme of Laocoon, the Trojan priest killed, along with his sons, by a sea serpent. The sight of so many people writhing in monstrous toils was not merely symbolic, it was almost laughably heavy-handed.
He detected Nerissa’s touch.
Bryght glanced at Portia, hoping to share amusement, but she was not even looking at him. She was pale and almost haggard.
Damnation.
Bryght turned to Nerissa, who appeared positively stuffed with contentment. “I hardly think we need a duenna, my lady.”
“Do you not? But you both seem so governed by your passions. Lord Trelyn feels it best that you be accompanied. He is such a stickler for the proprieties.”
“Indeed he is.” He put a touch of threat behind it and saw Nerissa register it with a slight frown. She made no move to leave, however, and he decided the letter was a weapon best held for a more serious battle than this.
He went over and sat beside Portia on a cold marble bench. “I’m afraid you must have had a restless night, Miss St. Claire, but all is in order. You must not distress yourself.”
She looked up at him then, but blankly. There were shadows as deep as bruises beneath her eyes. “I am not distressed, my lord.”
“Are you not? You have stronger nerves than I, then. I am not at all distressed to be marrying you, my dear, but I cannot like the manner of it.”
“You are very kind, my lord.”
Bryght desperately wanted his Amazon back, not this limp doll. “I am not at all kind,” he said bracingly. “I am intolerably selfish.” When she did not react, he knew he could not force Portia to go through with this.
He took her chilly hand. “Miss St. Claire, I am not such a monster that I will pursue this marriage against your wishes. No serious harm was done, and if there is any scandal at all it will soon die down. If you do not wish to marry me, you must tell me so. I will ensure that there is no more said on the matter.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nerissa stir as if she would object. He could understand Trelyn’s desire for the match—the man had a genuine obsession with correct behavior, and also would like to see Bryght married. He wasn’t sure why Nerissa would want to see her cousin married to him.
Yet again, Portia surprised him. “I am completely willing to marry you, my lord.” It was said in a flat, unconvincing voice, but it was said.
What the devil?
He made appropriate remarks of delight and satisfaction, wondering all the while what was going on in her head. There was no point in lingering, however, for Nerissa clearly had no intention of giving them privacy. He took out the ring he had brought with him and slid it onto her chilly finger.
When he left, she was staring at it with a slight frown.
Portia considered the beautiful ring—a yellow stone surrounded by diamonds—and wished it symbolized more than a trap. She wondered where it had come from so quickly.
There was just a faint trace of a familiar perfume left in the air to tease at Portia’s senses. Against her will, her hand slid over the bench to find the place still warm from him...
“There,” said Nerissa complacently. “That was not too hard, was it? And really, I could almost envy you. He is quite deliciously handsome, and I can attest to his bed-skills. But then, so can you. Are you not eager to complete your education—”
“Oh, shut up!” Portia erupted to her feet and fled to her room.
The worst of it was that Nerissa was right. Her body had learned its first lessons and longed for more. Portia was tormented by the thought that perhaps there was escape, and she was blind to it.
That she was governed by her lust for Bryght Malloren.
Seventeen
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Bryght was thoughtful as he walked back to Marlborough Square.
It had all been a shock, he was sure, but that did not explain Portia’s state. He had given her the opportunity to escape and she had refused to take it. He had looked into her eyes and seen that she meant the words she said, but was deeply distressed.
He didn’t understand it, but could not marry any woman so against her will.
When he arrived at Malloren House he went to the offices, hoping to drown concern in hard work. He could not concentrate, however. After listening to a clerk’s explanation of wine imports and prices, and realizing that he hadn’t taken in more than a tenth of it, he gave up the effort.
When he entered the hall, he encountered Rothgar in full Court magnificence, including his Orders.
“And how are our beloved monarchs?” Bryght asked.
“Dull as always,” said Rothgar. “I intend to be dissipated and drink strong coffee. Do you care to join me?”
Bryght was tempted to find a hole to hide in but refused to succumb.
They went to the library, Rothgar’s favorite haven, an oak-paneled room lined with a disorderly collection of well-read books. As they waited for the coffeepot, Bryght said,
“Do you think the Song Of Songs is allegorical or simply a love story?”
“Cannot it be both?” Rothgar took a seat close to the fire, flipping back the encrusted brocade skirts of his coat and adjusting his rapier to settle comfortably by his side. Like Bryght he was powdered, but for Court he had clearly intended to impress. His buttons were rubies, his sword-hilt was set with diamonds, and he wore three heavy rings on his elegant, pale hands.
“I feel positively underdressed,” said Bryght, taking the opposite chair. “Are we asking for something?”
“Quite the opposite. When petitioning, one appears gentlemanly but unostentatious. I am merely making an impression against the time it becomes necessary. There are some people still looking to the old order, and paying their greatest attention to the king’s mother and Lord Bute. I look to the future.”
“Will the king ever break free of his mother and Bute?”
“Undoubtedly. Especially with my help.”
“ ‘Struth! Are you turning king-maker?”
Rothgar smiled. “Hardly that. But he is somewhat in awe of me, and I am one of the few around him n
ot constantly asking for favors. A little heart-to-heart we had at the Abbey after Cyn’s wedding didn’t hurt either.”
Bryght couldn’t help but grin. “About politics?”
“Devil a bit. About the marriage bed. He and the queen are most grateful, though she, of course, does not know from whence the blessings came.”
Bryght dissolved into laughter. “Gads, Bey. I don’t know how you do it!”
Rothgar looked slightly hurt. “It is merely that I have everyone’s best interests at heart. Now, as to your love-life . . .”
The arrival of the coffee was fortuitous. By the time the footman had poured the drink, handed the cups, and been dismissed, Bryght had composed himself.
“My lovelife goes ahead smoothly without your aid. The wedding is to be on Wednesday.”
“Then I had best send for Elf and Brand immediately. Perhaps your bride would like to dine here tonight. With the Trelyns, of course.”
“I’m not sure.”
“If that is not convenient, I must call upon her.” When Bryght remained silent, he added, “To do less would be discourteous.”
“Yes, I suppose it would.”
“Bryght, if there is about to be a disaster in the family, I would like to know.”
Bryght put down his empty cup. He had always guarded his personal affairs from Rothgar, but his brother was right. This could go beyond the personal. “Make no mistake of it,” he said, “I want to marry Portia St. Claire. It is not a particularly prudent marriage, but I want it.”
“I would be positively alarmed if my family were to start being prudent.”
Bryght laughed at that. “Your composure is safe, I assure you. I was caught kissing Portia at Lady Willoughby’s soiree last night. Kissing her with considerable enthusiasm.”
“Was she kissing you back?”
“With equal enthusiasm.”
“Where, then, is the fly in this ointment?”
“I’m not sure. Trelyn is preaching propriety and insisting on marriage. I think he’s three parts honest. The other part is a desire to see me married and thus less likely to rut with his wife.”
“What an optimistic view of marriage, to be sure.”
That made Bryght laugh again. “I think his optimistic view of marriage is a little dented, but he doesn’t yet realize the full truth. It’s not my business to enlighten him.”
“Assuredly not. So, he is insisting on marriage. You wish to marry. The lady is enthusiastic. Where is the problem?”
“The lady is not enthusiastic. She was not exactly enthusiastic last night, and now she is as keen as someone invited to sleep the night in a plague house.”
Rothgar leaned back. “Bryght, I will not assist you to capture an unwilling bride.”
“I would hope not. I offered her escape and she refused it. I don’t know what the hell’s going on.” He rose to pace the room. “I tricked her into that kiss last night, Bey, but nothing will persuade me she didn’t enjoy it.”
“Perhaps you should tell me all about your bride-to-be.”
There was nothing Bryght wanted less, other than to hurt Portia. He sat down and complied, but left out everything about the brothel.
“So,” said Rothgar at the end, “her brother is ruined, and has possibly fled abroad, and she doubtless holds you to blame.”
“Me? Why?”
Rothgar shook his head. “You let him win. That was remarkably foolish. You should have fleeced him thoroughly, let him sweat for a few days, then torn up his notes.”
Bryght rolled his head back. “Damnation, so I should. I didn’t know then how deep in he was.”
“And of course, after two such unfortunate experiences of gaming—both father and brother—Miss St. Claire cannot feel easy about linking her life to an inveterate gamester.”
“Me? I am no such thing.”
“To her, you doubtless are. My suggestion is that you explain the truth—that you are not a slave to Chance, and are willing to give up the tables forever.”
“I’m sure her brother promised that too,” said Bryght, but he was hedging.
“A little of your recent history might convince her. I doubt you’d played more than a sociable game of whist in years until you involved yourself in Bridgewater’s affairs.”
But Bryght couldn’t give up the tables just yet—not if he was to keep Bridgewater afloat and cover Upcott’s debt. He had no intention of telling Rothgar that, however, for then his brother would offer funds from his own fortune. “I doubt she’d be so easily convinced,” he said. “She is not rational on the subject. No, I think I should withdraw my offer. If the Trelyns are forcing her, that will block them. If she can be convinced I am of the angels, we can achieve a new agreement over time.”
“It will look peculiar.”
“To the devil with how it looks. Even at the worst interpretation, there is no need of such a hasty wedding, and Lady Willoughby can attest to that. If the Trelyns make trouble, I have the means to deal with them. I do not want to watch Portia walk down the aisle toward me with that dread on her face.”
Rothgar studied Bryght thoughtfully as the clock ticked and a coal tumbled in the grate. Then he rose and went to his desk. He took a small stack of letters from a drawer and handed them to Bryght.
Bryght looked at them in surprise. They were all addressed to him, the papers were of many shades, and a distressing ferment of perfumes wafted from them. “What the devil . . . ?”
“Your post. If Miss St. Claire does not find you to her taste, it does not seem to be the common opinion.”
Bryght ripped open a nasty-looking purple missive drenched with oil of lavender. It was a frankly lewd invitation to disport himself with a lady calling herself Sybella, and naming the time and place.
He threw it, and the rest of them unopened, on the fire then faced his brother. “What do you know?”
“It is all over the clubs that you have dedicated yourself to public education.”
“So few men have panache in these matters.”
“How true. But to pay six hundred guineas for the honor of demonstrating the art seems quixotic at the least.”
Bryght tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “It was a wager and I won.”
Rothgar merely looked at him.
Bryght sighed. “The tender virgin was Portia.”
“Ah. I suspected as much. A rash gamester for a brother does rather point the way.”
“Hopefully not too clearly.”
“Certainly no one speaks of it. No one questions Hippolyta’s extreme youth, and Cuthbertson’s prey are usually of the petty classes. The wager was a clever twist, too. Who would question a wager?”
“Quite. And I was able to set the terms.”
“I’m pleased your acuity has not entirely deserted you. It was also very clever to connect her with the Trelyns. Virtually untouchable. I congratulate you.”
Bryght laughed. “Call me rather a Prince of Serendip. That was not planned.”
“And the scandal at the Willoughbys’ is yet more luck? I was feeling positively overwhelmed by your genius! If anyone thinks to wonder why you are marrying rather lower than you might, they will have a reason. You were caught at the game and decided to act honorably.”
“And there you have some truth in it,” Bryght admitted. “I wanted to bind her.”
“But in view of all this,” asked Rothgar, “can you in honor retract your offer of marriage?”
“Can I in honor enforce it? She’s still a virgin, Bey.”
Rothgar’s brows rose. “So I gather, but as the story has already entered the realm of the fabulous I could not be sure.”
Bryght suddenly laughed. “Hence the letters. I am now a lover of mythic proportions and can expect to be hotly pursued by lustful ladies. I had best marry, and soon!”
“Don’t forget the lustful swains,” remarked Rothgar. “I overheard Ramage compose an ode to your torso. I hinted that I would treat such matters as if they were offenses against
one of my sisters. He was chastened but confused.”
Bryght collapsed in helpless laughter. “I wish I could see you out to defend my honor! ‘Struth, but I had a simple life before a certain Amazon decided to shoot me.”
“Perhaps she will defend your honor,” said Rothgar. “If she’s of that mettle, you must certainly marry. It seems marriages that open with pistols work out very well.”
Bryght stood, still smiling. “I intend to marry her, but not on Wednesday under duress. I had best arrange matters.”
Rothgar waved a negligent hand. “I will take this news to Trelyn House.”
“There is no need—”
“It will go better. You still have Nerissa’s letter?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the means to communicate with her secretly?”
“I know how. I hardly make a practice of it.”
“I should hope not. Very well. Send a message telling her to support her cousin’s liberation. I will deal with Trelyn. He would like my support in some matters to do with the Cinque Ports. What Miss St. Claire does will perhaps be interesting.”
He rose languorously and studied himself in a gilded pier glass. “Should I mute my glory? The orders, perhaps.” He removed a sash and a couple of showy jewels, and handed them to Bryght. “Do you have a message for Miss St. Claire if I should see her?”
Bryght considered the glittering baubles in his hands. “Just that I wish her well.”
Rothgar left, and Bryght felt strangely bereft. It was the only thing to do and yet it left him uncertain of the future.
He did not deceive himself that it would be easy to woo Portia back to hand after setting her free. She would not again be tricked, or ruled by her passions. She would have solid defenses in place, and be determined to have nothing to do with a rakish gamester. She would doubtless leave immediately for the country, and he could hardly go to Dorset to pine at her gates.
As he went to lock the jewels in the safe, Bryght pondered the fact that he had never considered how his foolish kindness to her brother might have appeared. No wonder she had bristled with hostility on every occasion.