by Jason
The block-headed wretch actually seemed to think he was doing her a favor! “Fort, I’m going to refuse to go through with this, and you are not to interfere.”
His gray eyes turned cold and resolute. “If you aren’t married within the week, Portia, Bryght and I will cross swords over it. I give you my word. And I will do my best to kill him.”
“Fort, you can’t!”
“I’m the mighty Earl of Walgrave. You’ll be astonished at what I can do.” With that, he bowed and moved away, leaving Portia in sick despair.
If she remained resolute, not only would she risk bearing a bastard, but she would condemn either Bryght or Fort to death.
The unbearable pain of that forced honesty upon her. She loved Fort like a brother, but if it came to the terrible choice she would see him dead rather than Bryght.
She loved Bryght with a depth and intensity that approached madness.
And, disastrous though it promised to be, she was going to marry him on Wednesday.
Then Lady Willoughby announced that there would be dancing before the recital. Somehow—and Portia thought she detected Lord Rothgar’s hand—it was arranged that Bryght and Portia start the dancing with a minuet.
“I do not have much practice at this,” she warned him.
“I do. Trust me.”
And in this, at least, she did.
The music started and he executed a perfect bow. Portia curtsied and concentrated on remembering the delicate, swaying steps that wove them together.
He was a beautiful dancer, adapting his steps to hers with ease, touching her only gently on hand or waist, but managing to guide her if she faltered.
Soon Portia relaxed and had no difficulty in keeping her eyes on him as correct posture dictated. She was entranced by the slight smile on his lips and in his eyes, a smile that seemed created for her alone.
Though they danced with complete propriety, she began to remember another dance—the dance of love. Her skin longed for a naked touch, her mouth for the taste of him. It became hot in the room, and yet she felt shivery, as if with a fever. . . .
The music stopped. Portia came to herself with a jolt and looked around, wondering what she had revealed. But they no longer danced alone. Elf was partnered by Fort, Nerissa by her husband, and other couples had taken to the floor, too.
Bryght raised Portia’s hand and kissed it, most improperly, in the palm. “I knew there would be occasions for ducking behind an arras. I don’t suppose . . . ?”
She snatched her hand away as Elf came over with Fort close behind, hilarity sparkling in her eyes. “Lud, that was becoming so interesting I thought we had best provide distraction. I dragged poor Fort into the dance, even though he would have preferred to stand apart looking dark and mysterious.”
Fort would have objected to this, but Portia exclaimed, “I was just acting a part!”
“Yes, but what part?” demanded the mischievous Elf.
“Elf,” said Bryght, “behave yourself. We are here to cast decency and decorum over scandal and a hasty marriage.”
“Phoo to that. We are here to cast a romantic glow over it.”
“Then,” said Fort coldly, “you should not contribute suggestive remarks, Lady Elfled.”
“Lud,” declared Elf, “you are beginning to sound just like your father!”
Then she moved away to greet a friend, leaving Portia and Bryght with a seething earl.
“She needs a firm hand,” said Fort between his teeth.
“Try it,” said Bryght, “and learn to live one-handed.”
Fort took a precise pinch of snuff. “I would not dream of it. I am only interested in gentle, well-behaved young ladies.”
Bryght’s hand went to his dress-sword. “If you’re suggesting my sister isn’t—”
“Bryght!” Portia put her hand over his. “I’m sure Fort meant no such thing.”
“Of course not,” said Fort, dusting his fingers with a silk handkerchief. “I was referring more to age. A young bride has so many advantages.”
Bryght’s hand didn’t leave his sword. “Are you insulting my bride now? She is of an age with my sister.”
Fort reddened. “Devil take it! I’ve no desire to insult Portia. I’m talking about my preferences. Portia is fortunate to be making such a fine marriage at her age.”
Portia would have liked to skewer him herself. “I regard a fine marriage as more than rank, Fort.”
“So do I,” Fort said cynically. “Rank and money. Which allows me to hope that you and Oliver will make life hell for the Mallorens.”
With that he stalked off, and in minutes left the affair entirely. Portia could only be glad of it.
Other than that small contretemps, the evening progressed as planned. Portia danced with a number of men, then sat by Bryght to listen to excellent music, then sat with him and the Trelyns to eat supper. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was well and happy, that all was harmony, and that the strange stories circulating had been malicious rumors.
At the end, however, she found she was to return to Trelyn House.
“No!” She turned instinctively to Bryght.
“There’s no help for it,” he said quietly. “They are sponsoring your wedding, and as far as the world is concerned you have never left their protection. Nerissa cannot harm you.”
“She is vicious and spiteful.”
“Only with words. Ignore her.” Then he added with a smile, “I’ll send over a pistol if you’d like.”
Portia refused to smile at his teasing. “After all this effort, I don’t want to end up a murderess.”
He kissed her quickly on the lips. “Good. I’ll sleep easier beside you.”
The mere thought had Portia’s face flaming.
Bryght escorted her down to her chair and she remembered something else. She turned to him. “I know we must marry, Bryght, but can we not delay matters? I would like my family at my wedding.”
“Portia, truly, it would not be wise. After Nerissa’s meddling and Fort’s rashness any delay would start new speculation. We can travel to your home for our wedding trip.”
“Perhaps if the fastest messenger were sent, Oliver might be able to be here in time.”
“Do we know where he is?”
“I suppose he might be on the road, but if a messenger rode to Dorset and asked along the way . . .”
“You think he went to your home and is now returning?”
There was something strange in his tone that she could not interpret, but the chairs were ready and she had to go. “Please,” she said. “I would like someone from my family at my wedding.”
He settled her in the chair. “Then of course, I will send the messenger. Good night, my bride.”
As Portia traveled to Trelyn House, she achieved a state of balanced resignation. She had burned her bridges when she surrendered to Bryght. She had lost her virtue, she could be carrying his child, but more importantly she had let down some barrier in her mind and soul.
She could no more put him out of her mind and life than she could Oliver or Fort, but her feelings towards him were not those of a sister.
Her battle now must be to make their marriage work despite the gap between their ranks, and his mad taste for speculation.
The next morning, having committed Portia to marriage, Bryght found himself able to attend efficiently to business at last. As he read through the reports and documents, his conscience occasionally pricked him for trapping Portia but he suppressed it. He could make her happy, but left to herself she would probably have run off into more danger to escape him.
He understood her misgivings, however.
He paused in the middle of a complicated letter about currency transfers to wonder how he could persuade his bride that his business dealings were not the road to ruin. Since her father had ruined himself through investments, it would not be easy. It would help if his affairs were in the relatively healthy state they had been before he’d plunged deep into
Bridgewater’s affairs. Now, details could support her fears that he was headed for bankruptcy.
Perhaps if he took her north to see the work . . .
He turned back to business. He’d concentrate now on getting her to the altar. In time, she’d see that he could be trusted.
Reports arrived from the servants who were watching over Portia’s affairs. Cuthbertson had apparently fled the country. Moreover, the hawk had left a number of creditors behind, some the type who would be as cruel as he if they got their hands on him. That revenge would have to suffice for now.
He frowned over one report from Dorset, for it told him that Portia’s mother and sister had left to visit Manchester, and Sir Oliver had only paused at his home for an hour or so before riding on. As a result, Bryght’s man had lost track of him.
Bryght cursed. He definitely didn’t want Oliver Upcott on the loose and gaming again. He hoped his man had tracked him down by now.
To keep his word to Portia, he had sent off a new messenger last night, ordered to head for Overstead Manor at all speed with a wedding invitation. Even if Upcott were there he’d never get to London on time, but he had kept his word. As it was, Bryght suspected that Portia’s brother had fled the country, leaving her to cope alone.
Well, if true, it made paying Upcott’s debt less hazardous, and redeeming the estate should warm Portia’s heart a little. He sat back to contemplate her resistance. At times he was convinced that she felt as passionately as he. At others, such as when she had claimed not to love him, he had doubts.
Was it possible to love a woman desperately and not be able to win her? He need only look at the Trelyns to see that miserable situation.
At least Portia was no Nerissa. If she disliked him, she’d tell him so. Hell, if she took lovers, she’d doubtless tell him that, too!
Grinning at the thought, he went out to visit his thorny beloved to find out who her brother’s debt-holder was. This time they were permitted privacy.
She did not look quite as haggard as at her worst, but she was clearly not a glowing bride. He noted ruefully how warily she regarded him and discarded any notions of kissing her.
“I wondered if you knew the name of the man who won Overstead,” he asked her.
“Why yes. It was a Major Barclay.”
“Barclay . . . ?” Bryght felt he had fallen into a theatrical performance. After all this, the debt was held by his friend?
Her eyes turned sharp. “A familiar of yours?”
Bryght was for once unsure what to do and say. He did not like to be dishonest, but he couldn’t give Portia cause to flee now. “I think I may know the man,” he said as calmly as possible, then deflected discussion toward some minor matters of their wedding.
He took his leave as soon as possible before he gave himself away. Hell and the devil, what would happen when Portia discovered Barclay was one of his closest friends?
As Bryght was leaving Trelyn House he was found by one of his running footmen with an urgent message. When he read it, he cursed under his breath, ready to tear his hair out.
He headed for Barclay’s rooms and demanded, “Why the devil didn’t you tell me you were the one who won Upcott’s estate?”
“Why should I?” asked his startled friend. “Deuce take it, Bryght, I’m not the sort of man to boast of such foolishness.”
Bryght took a deep breath. “Upcott is my future wife’s half-brother.”
“Good lord, I had no idea. Is he here for the wedding?”
“No. I just received word that my plague-ridden people have exceeded their orders. They’ve kidnapped him and carried him off a prisoner to the Abbey!”
“Heavens above! Why?”
“The devil only knows. They seem to have decided he was trying to flee the country to avoid paying a debt to me.”
Barclay suddenly chuckled. “You’re looking decidedly ragged, my friend.”
“I feel it. Not unreasonably, Upcott resisted. He’s somewhat battered and is walking with a limp. Even were I to restore him to his sister’s loving arms, she’d hardly be pleased with me. Look, sign me over that debt.”
Barclay’s pleasant face fell. “Bryght, I wish I could. Walgrave purchased the note off me yesterday.”
“Fort? Damnation. She must have asked him for help.”
“It can’t matter, can it?”
Bryght contemplated a very ugly vase. “I don’t like it, but at least he’s as determined on this marriage as I am.” He turned back to his friend. “Don’t speak of this, please.”
“Of course not. It was a lesson to me not to game with pigeons even when they insist. Damned embarrassing to have a man stake his estate, but what could I do? Refuse to play with him?”
“No, of course not. But I’ll be happy enough not to take part in such matters again.”
“Not to game again?” echoed Barclay in astonishment.
“Part of my wedding vows.” Bryght picked up his wineglass. “Come, toast my happiness.”
“With pleasure,” said Barclay, “but—forgive me for mentioning it—isn’t keeping your brother-in-law under lock and key likely to cast a shadow on your future?”
“If Portia finds out, it’ll be more than a shadow. The worst of it is I still don’t know what to do to solve the problem. I can’t have him constantly gaming away his property.”
“Put him on a ship?”
“Out of sight, out of mind? I don’t think Portia has such a convenient memory. She wants him at her wedding.”
Barclay chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in such a tangle. What will you do?”
Bryght drained his glass. “Get married first. The rest is for later. But if you care to oblige me . . .”
“Yes?”
“You could go down to the Abbey and keep an eye on things. The family are all away, either here or down at Steen’s place. My men had their orders, but they appear to be getting carried away. I don’t care to think they might have locked Upcott in the cellars. You could make sure they’re tending his wounds with loving care. On the other hand, you could prevent him imitating his sister and climbing out of windows.”
Barclay chuckled. “Remarkable woman, your future wife.”
“I think so. Can you leave now?”
“I’ll miss your nuptials.”
“That’s the idea,” said Bryght with a wry smile. “The last thing I need is for Portia to be introduced to Major Barclay, close friend of her husband’s. At least, not before the knot is tied.”
The next day—and far too soon—Portia found herself preparing for her wedding.
At least she had hardly seen Nerissa. Once assured the wedding would go ahead, her cousin had thrown herself into the arrangements with enthusiasm, and appeared to be enjoying herself mightily. It appeared that Nerissa’s love of entertainment and display had overwhelmed her bitterness. Or perhaps it was just the destruction of that letter that had her so merry.
On the other hand, Nerissa was cunning. Her enthusiasm for this wedding was convincing Lord Trelyn that she had absolutely no interest in Bryght Malloren. He was once more the proud, indulgent spouse.
Portia had moments when she positively longed to go to the earl and tell him all she knew about his wife. She wasn’t sure she would be believed, however, and it would be an act of pure spite.
Portia had just finished her bath and was drying herself when Nerissa came into the room preceding a maid carrying a large cloth bundle. “See!” Nerissa declared, and unraveled the linen herself to reveal the dress made out of the embroidered silk.
Portia was clutching her towel for modesty, but she stared at the lovely gown.
“It is perfect for your wedding!” Nerissa declared.
“It is too fine. It is an evening gown.”
“Nothing is too fine for a wedding. I wore silk embroidered with silver and pearls. Chastity Ware wore the most ridiculous confection of white lace. When one thinks . . . but no more of that. You must wear this gown. The king is to be pres
ent, you know.”
“What?” Portia clutched the towel more tightly.
“Oh yes. You are to be married in the Chapel Royal. Rothgar’s work. He is determined to cover you with respectability. Oh, and there was another package. From Bryght.” She dispatched the maid to find it then turned to Portia with a smirk. “Judging from the seamstress who sent it, however, I am not at all sure it is proper.”
“Then I will not wear it.”
“No? You are going to vow obedience, Cousin. Shouldn’t you perhaps anticipate the wedding?”
Portia fought it, but at the words “anticipate the wedding” color rose in her face. She turned away to dry herself further.
“I wonder if you are still a virgin,” Nerissa mused behind her. “Rumor says that Bryght did not deflower little Hippolyta at Mirabelle’s. But what happened when you went running to him two days ago?”
Portia ignored her and sat at the dressing table, still swathed in the towel. She would not take it off in front of Nerissa. She unpinned her hair.
“As the matron present, perhaps I should prepare you for the dreadful shock of the marriage bed.” Nerissa came up behind so that Portia could see her beautiful, wicked face in the mirror, and smell her cloying perfume—a perfume that took her back to Maidenhead and a diabolic intruder.
How could she ever have imagined that her rashness that day would lead to this?
Nerissa smiled. “Does your silence mean you prefer ignorance? Or that you are no longer ignorant?”
Portia made herself meet the avid eyes. “It means that I need no assistance of yours in my marriage.”
“You have experienced his bed?”
“No, I have not,” Portia said, strengthened by the fact that it was true. “Until I chased you, I had never entered Bryght’s bedchamber.”
Nerissa’s brows rose. “But what wonders are to be revealed! It will go better, though, if you are well prepared.” She leaned forward, so her face was next to Portia’s, and even slid her hand onto Portia’s bare shoulder. “Ignorance is not bliss. I have some most instructive books concealed from Trelyn.”