by Jason
At least she did not to have to attempt this penniless.
She sadly folded the beautiful lace stockings and put them away in a drawer. Perhaps one day there would be a chance to wear them for Bryght without shadows.
She paused in the act of closing the drawer. If that became true, it would have to mean that she was misjudging him. She couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be to this flight then.
She couldn’t forget that he’d promised to drag her back by the hair if she ran off. She was aware of anger in him, perhaps the more dangerous for the coolness he used to hide it. She remembered their first meeting when his anger had escaped his control, and shivered.
She would not let fear rule her.
She did, however, wish she had a pistol.
* * *
At least Portia knew a way out of Malloren House as long as that door was barred rather than locked. She slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for any sound. The solid house was peaceful, though.
She had to pass Bryght’s rooms to get to the door to the servants’ stairs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if he really were calmly applying himself to whatever work he did. She hadn’t discussed it with him, but it did appear he was not entirely idle.
She gave herself a shake and hurried on. Just as long as he did not check her room before morning.
The unobtrusive servants’ door opened with efficient silence and she felt her way down the dark stairs to the bottom. There she paused for signs of people in the passageway, but most of the servants would now be in their beds.
She entered the corridor, found the door to the outer passageway, and was once more in darkness.
A few steps forward brought her to the outer door and her fingers found the bar across it. She let out a long relieved breath. The marquess had made sure it would be secure, but only against intruders.
Who, after all, would wish to escape this grand house?
She lifted the bar and set it aside, opened the door, and was outside in the chill dark. She hesitated a moment, aware that this might be the end of all chance of happiness.
But any chance had been lost hours ago, perhaps days ago when Bryght arranged for her brother’s abduction.
There was an icy damp that threatened rain, and Portia pulled her hood up. This time she went away from the square toward the mews, made a circuitous route to a nearby street, and set off for Fort’s house.
She was almost becoming accustomed to roaming London in the gloom, she thought wryly. In fact there would be some to relief in being set upon by thieves and put out of her misery.
She reached Abingdon Street without hazard, however, and had to consider her next problem—whether to try the front door again, or a back entrance. She shrugged and marched up to rap on the door.
It was the same footman, and his jaw dropped.
“Tell Lord Walgrave I am here.” Would the servant know that Miss Portia St. Claire had married Bryght Malloren today? Was that why he looked so astonished?
No, he was just dumbstruck at her boldness, but when she stepped forward, he let her in. He wore a sneer that said he knew she’d be out on her ear in a moment, but he allowed her into the house and led her to a tiny, bleak reception room. It was definitely the place to put unwanted visitors of the lower orders, but she was in, which meant Fort was at home.
The footman left, but in moments was back, looking rather resentful, to lead her to another room.
This was a handsome study, and Fort was there.
As soon as the door closed, he said, “What in Hades are you doing here?” He was simply astonished.
“I want to go with you to Overstead.”
He gaped. It was the only word for it. “But this is your wedding night!”
Portia’s face was hot. “What is that to do with anything? Bryght refuses to take me there. He says we are to go north. He won’t change his mind, so I am resolved to go alone.”
“But... but what have you done to him?”
Portia frowned at him. “Done?”
“Have you drugged him? You haven’t shot him, have you?”
At his alarmed tone, Portia bit her lip to stifle a giggle that would be part tears. “Of course not. I made it clear that I did not wish. ... He is far too much of a gentleman . . .” Tears threatened, to become a reality. “I have retired for the night.”
“ ‘Struth.” Fort was looking at her as if she were a loaded weapon. “And you want me to take you to Dorset, a three-day journey?”
Portia eyed him with disgust. “Why do I have the feeling I’m lucky not to be bundled back to Malloren House on the instant?”
“Because you are,” he snapped. “Damn lucky. We’re not children anymore! What do you think Bryght’s going to do if he discovers you’ve been here?”
Portia hadn’t really thought of that. “He’d never think there was anything untoward. . . .” She wasn’t sure what Bryght might think, but she held on to her resolve. “Fort, I need to get to Overstead. I must. But if I go on the stage, I’m afraid Bryght will overtake me before I get there.”
“He’ll overtake you sooner or later,” he said grimly, “and there’ll be hell to pay. By the sounds of it, you could go back now and he might never know.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Portia lied, chin high. “I have to know the truth about Oliver.”
Fort considered her a moment. “Well, if you have to know the truth, we had best go to Rothgar Abbey not Overstead.”
“The Abbey?”
“That’s where he’s been taken if he’s been taken anywhere.”
Portia considered, and realized that was true. “And you’ll accompany me there?”
“I wouldn’t let you go alone.” He suddenly smiled, and looked like the Fort of old. “I’ve always suspected my fate is to be killed by a Malloren, so why fight it? And I, too, want to know what they’ve done with Oliver. I have little sympathy for the fool, but outright murder I can’t accept.”
“Nor can I,” she said quietly, thinking bleakly of the long years ahead without Bryght. “Well, if we’re to do it, let’s go.”
“We can’t leave now.” Fort was looking out of the window. “It’s started to rain, and there are clouds over the moon.”
“What?” Portia went over to look for herself, but saw immediately that he was right. “I can’t stay here all night!”
“You should have thought of that earlier. I always knew your crazy starts would lead to trouble. Of course,” he said, “perhaps we can get you back into Malloren House . . .”
Portia actually considered it before saying, “No. But when will we be able to leave? We have to leave before morning!”
He let the curtain drop. “Even the high nobility can’t control the elements, Portia. If the clouds clear, we can travel. If they don’t we have to wait for dawn, but we should be able to make some kind of start then. You’d best stay in here. I’ll tell the footman to keep his mouth shut.”
Portia sat down on a chaise feeling chilled and weary. As long as she was active she could put off thoughts, but now they returned to torment her. If only she had been able to surrender to Bryght, surrender to her husband and the marriage bed. If only Oliver’s disastrous affairs had not intervened.
But without Oliver’s disastrous affairs, she doubted she would ever have even met a Malloren.
It was Oliver’s debt that had taken them to Maidenhead. Doubtless that wild meeting had caused Bryght to approach her in the park. That and his gaming with Oliver.
What, she wondered, had caused him to game with Oliver? She knew him now and really could not believe him a hawk. Perhaps it was just as Bryght said, and one gentleman could not refuse to game with another.
It would have ended there, however, if not for Oliver and Cuthbertson. After the brothel, it was as if Bryght had been pursuing her.
Fort came back into the room and Portia looked up at him. “You bid for me at Mirabelle’s.”
“Yes.” He looked away, making the excus
e of checking the fire.
“What would you have done if you’d purchased me?”
He turned to face her. “Probably more than Bryght Malloren did.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have left you to Steenholt or D’Ebercall, but there was no getting out of there without a riot. I admit, I’d have probably just tried to make it quick for you. It would not have occurred to me to trump up a wager like that. You might consider,” he added rather severely, “that you owe the man this wedding night.”
Portia ignored that. “Trump up a wager? What do you mean?”
“I gather Bryght forced that wager on the sugar planter. The man’s been heard to mutter that it was underhanded, but at least he doesn’t suspect that you were not what you appeared.”
The wager that saved her had been Bryght’s inspiration?
“I gather it was a virtuoso performance,” Fort said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back and enjoy even more of the same?” Portia sensed that he really wanted her to. Perhaps it was just to save his own skin, but perhaps it was to save hers.
“I cannot,” she said, but she wondered just what Bryght would do when he caught her.
“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Why don’t you lie on the chaise and rest. I’ll call you as soon as it becomes possible to travel.”
He left her alone, and despite her tangled thoughts Portia even managed to doze. Fort woke her to say they could set out. “The visibility’s not perfect, but the moon is clear. We can go, if we go slowly, and I think we’d be better on our way.”
Portia agreed, shivering at being woken in the chill morning hours. Shivering perhaps with fear. She was beginning to truly dread a meeting with her husband and as Fort said, it could not be put off forever.
Like death, it must be faced one day.
Her heart said Bryght would never hurt her. But if she thought him capable of killing Oliver, she had to think him capable of hurting her.
“What time is it?” she asked, wrapping her cloak around her.
“Nearly four. We’re going to steal out to the mews like robbers.” He flashed her an encouraging grin. “Lord, this reminds me of some of our youthful adventures.”
She grinned back for him, but she feared it was a feeble effort. “How far is it?” she whispered as they crossed the hall. “How long will it take?”
“It’s about thirty miles to the Abbey, so I’d say five to six hours if the roads are fair.”
“So we might be there by nine? What will we do when we arrive?”
“Demand admittance. I am a connection, and an earl.”
“But . . .”
“Shhhh.”
They tiptoed through the kitchen, by the lowly kitchen servants sleeping on mats near the fire, then he eased open a door into the garden. It did remind Portia poignantly of some of their childhood escapades. How innocent they had been then.
Even though the moon was clear, the garden seemed bleak and dark. Portia shivered in the chill air. “I don’t think humans are supposed to be about at this time of night,” she whispered.
“If we were to drive by St. James, you’d find the place very much awake. Some people scarce see daylight at this time of year.”
“Which is proof of the rottenness of London.”
The coach was waiting. They climbed in and the coachman set the four horses into motion.
Fort looked at Portia with a puzzled frown. “I’m at a loss as to why Bryght Malloren was willing to marry you. He’s just the sort to spend the night gaming, whereas you think that despicable. You have nothing in common.”
“I know that,” said Portia, hands gripped tight. “I suppose he felt obliged to.”
“Devil a bit. That business at Mirabelle’s made marriage less likely not more.”
“Probably. I was thinking of Lady Willoughby’s.”
“Ah, yes. But there was nothing to that really until I decided to force his hand.”
She looked at him. “Do you not regret that now?”
“No. It gets better and better.”
Portia turned to look out of the window. She knew this journey was taking her straight to disaster, but she had never had any other choice.
Twenty-four
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Like most coach journeys it was tedious and gave too much time to think. Portia sat looking out at the moon-silvered landscape wondering when Bryght would realize she was missing, and what he would do.
Any and all prospects terrified her.
The best possibility was that he might chase after her to Overstead, which would give them plenty of time to investigate matters at the Abbey. If everything turned out to be innocent, she would just await her fate.
If not, and if Oliver was still alive, she would have to rescue him and take him to safety. But where? Could she hide from Bryght if he chose to seek her?
And he would have to seek her. What would the world say if his possibly-mistreated bride disappeared within hours of the ceremony?
Perhaps the best hope was that he would never want to see her again. Then she could even return to Overstead and look after it for Oliver. If Bryght didn’t tell the world their marriage was an empty shell, she wouldn’t, and their living apart would not surprise the cynical world of the aristocracy.
Unless he wanted children.
Unless she was carrying his child.
She imagined bearing a child only to have it torn from her and taken to be raised by its father. The law would allow it, and perhaps Bryght would think it a just revenge.
If she were pregnant, perhaps she would flee the country ...
“What’s the matter?” Fort said. “It’s too late for second thoughts now.”
“I know. It’s other thoughts that torment me.”
“Of Bryght Malloren? You’re not as cool to him as you try to pretend, are you?”
She turned to him. “Would you be willing to kiss me?”
In the shadowy coach she could not see his expression, but she sensed wariness. “Why?”
“Perhaps I just need comfort.”
“Then you should have stayed with your husband.”
“Even if he has killed my brother?”
After a moment, he said, “You are not seeking comfort.”
“No,” she sighed, “not exactly. I need to know. . . . Bryght is the only man who has really kissed me. I need to know.”
After a moment he laughed. “Well, I’m likely to get skewered for what they think I’ve done, so why not?” He took her hand, tugged her against him, cradled her head and kissed her.
It was the same business of lips and hot breath, and it was not unpleasant. It was Fort, and Portia liked Fort. But there was something missing, the something that excited her senses and drove her wild. She would not be carried beyond wisdom by this.
When he tilted her further back and his hand traveled to cover her breast, she broke free. “No, Fort.”
His hand moved over her breast in gentle suggestion. “Perhaps I could persuade you . . .”
“No,” she said again, firmly but calmly, though her heart was speeding.
Still he didn’t let her go. “It would quite please me to cuckold a Malloren. Especially if I were the first.”
Portia shuddered and pushed at him. “Stop it, Fort. I won’t be part of your feud.”
“You already are. Has he had you yet?”
Portia realized she had leapt into a deeper pit than she’d imagined. “That’s none of your business. Think what you’re doing.”
He jerked as if she’d hit him, but his hand still rested on her bodice. She was grateful it was high and modest, but still felt soiled.
“I’m causing problems for the Mallorens. My life’s cause.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Because they killed my father.”
Portia gently removed his hand from her bodice. “What happened?”
She thought he wouldn’t speak, but then he said, “He wasn’t entirely sane, you know. He was
brilliant, but unbalanced. It was through the Mallorens that I discovered what was wrong. . . . When Cynric Malloren decided he wanted to marry Chastity, it became a cause for Rothgar, and nothing and no one was allowed to stand in his way.”
“Bryght said that your father created that scandal over Chastity.”
“That’s true. But there was no need to destroy father. And,” he added softly, “there was no need to make me their tool.”
Portia took his hand and looked him in the eye. “What happened, Fort? I heard that your father died of a seizure.”
“It was cleverly hushed up. He died of a pistol ball while trying to kill the king’s mother. I fired the pistol. . . .” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the squabs. “He was raving by then, driven mad by Rothgar, and by the destruction of his plans. I couldn’t let him kill Princess Augusta. She was innocent, and it would have ruined the family entirely. . . .”
Portia squeezed his hand. “You cannot entirely blame the Mallorens.”
He opened his eyes then. “I can blame them enough. And I rather begrudge you to Bryght. I gather my kisses do not have the potency of his.”
“Bryght has never been intent on rape.”
“I wonder. If you don’t give in to him, he will force you one day. How else is he to get children? And he needs children. That way, since Rothgar will not marry, he controls the marquisate from the grave.”
Portia thought of children, children taken from her, and wanted to weep for all of them. “Don’t impose your own twisted thinking upon Bryght. Don’t hate so much. You will hurt yourself more than you could possibly hurt them.”
He turned away. “I have no choice. Don’t worry, though,” he added lightly. “Tempting though it is, I won’t rape you in the cause.”
Portia huddled away and looked out the window again. Bryght had warned her that the enmity between the Wares and the Mallorens ran deep, but she had not realized the truth of it.
That Fort could even contemplate raping her for vengeance terrified her.
She watched moon-touched fields and trees roll by and prayed for safety, prayed too that Oliver was safe. Not only would it ease her fears about Bryght, but it would not further fuel this inferno.