by Colleen Ladd
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
If it weren’t for the coat, Portia might have thought it a dream, though she’d never dreamt so vividly, nor felt anything so powerfully, awake or asleep. But she had gone to bed with his coat still wrapped around her, the scent of him filling her heart, and woke to Ellie’s scolding.
“That boy ought to know better, keeping you up all hours. At least he had the sense to lend you his coat.”
Portia stretched luxuriously, so pleasantly sleep-muddled she didn’t even think to panic about what Ellie would make of the coat until after she realized her maid was talking about Tony. And thank heavens for that! Just one day ago, the sight of her mistress wrapped in a man’s coat would have sent Ellie into superstitious palpitations.
“Shall I take it in to him, my lady?” Ellie didn’t quite meet Portia’s eyes, her cheeks slightly flushed. Portia smiled tolerantly.
“No, Ellie. I’ll see he gets it back. No doubt Mr. Durose will be late rising today.” Portia glanced at the window, relieved to see by the angle of the sun that Ellie had woken her at her usual hour. She nonetheless rushed her maid through dressing and pinning up her hair while she consumed tea and toast with a ravenous appetite. Though she knew she’d only get it dirty, she couldn’t resist Ellie’s new creation, a morning dress of dusty rose that flattered Portia’s figure nicely if Ellie did say so herself (which she did).
Ashburne’s coat folded over her arm, Portia descended the stairs to meet him in the library, quite unable to stop herself wondering if he’d be in his shirtsleeves, thick black hair just brushing his crisp white collar. Or perhaps he’d be wearing a waistcoat, turning himself into a striking study in black and white somehow more solidly real than any man she’d ever met. She realized suddenly that she was short of breath and plumped down in the middle of the staircase to give herself a good talking to.
Portia had long suspected there was more to the marriage bed than the rather unspectacular activities Roger had rarely bothered to engage her in. The very fact that he was so eager to disport himself elsewhere made it clear there was some savor to the act she’d failed to grasp. That the women he tumbled enjoyed the experience—and surely they must, else why do it?—had given Portia to believe that the fault was her own. After last night.... For the first time, Portia suspected the failing had been Roger’s. The least of Giles Ashburne’s kisses had filled her with a desperate heat Roger had never inspired with even the most intimate of attentions.
Portia squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to think of those attentions and Ashburne at the same time. She may have been a widow, but she was not, she reminded herself sternly, free with her favors and lost to all propriety. Yet, her traitorous mind added.
Ashburne was in no position to marry, even supposing he would want to tie himself to her. As for Portia.... Marriage to Roger had taught her a few lessons, the least of which was that she never again wanted to tie herself to a man. There was no member of that sex not guaranteed to prove himself an unprincipled rake, however much of a gentleman he might have seemed before the wedding. A few minutes of pleasure were not reason enough to forget that.
Portia stood and marched herself the rest of the way downstairs. The library door was locked and she turned the key with a feeling of anticipation entirely out of keeping with the task she was there to undertake.
At first, she thought the library empty and her heart sank within her, but once she closed the door, Ashburne emerged from an alcove near the windows. Despite all her stern words to herself, she was disappointed to find him more correctly dressed than at any time since she’d first seen him. His coat and trousers were closer to charcoal than black, though not this time from dust, his waistcoat steel-gray, his cravat snowy white and perfectly arranged. He looked very proper and even more unapproachable than his portrait, though for different reasons.
“Good morning, my lord.”
Ashburne inclined his head stiffly. “My lady.”
His mood communicated itself to her, and Portia found herself saying, “Your coat, sir,” and extending it to him in the most awkward manner possible, when she’d meant to thank him prettily for the loan. She hoped she was not blushing.
He took the coat without touching her. “Lady Ashburne—”
“You’ve got started already, I see,” Portia said brightly. Actually, it was clear he’d worked through the night, for he was now on a new bookcase. Portia felt bereft to think he might have found the note when she was not there and berated herself for so selfish a thought. She seated herself next to the largest stack and took up the top book.
Portia bent her head over the volume, so aware of Ashburne’s eyes on her that she was unable to take in a full breath until she heard him begin to move about behind her. While she searched, Ashburne returned most of the books he’d already handled to the shelves. The tidy stack of questionable notes that had been on the stand by his chair was also gone. Portia thought it unnecessarily fastidious of him, especially when he’d never previously shown any concern about the mess he made of the library, but discovered how wrong she was when Tony’s voice rang out in the great hall.
Portia jolted to her feet, her book sliding unceremoniously to the floor. She’d forgotten to lock the door! Her eyes flew desperately to Ashburne, who jumped down from the library stairs while she ran for the door, reaching it just as Tony pushed it open.
“There you are! I should have known you’d closet yourself in the library.”
“Tony!” Portia exclaimed, hearing herself breathless and unable to do anything about it. She pressed her hands to his chest and tried to step out the door, wishing she was tall enough to block his view of the library. “I thought sure you’d still be abed. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” Tony stood his ground without seeming aware she was trying to push him out. It was only when Portia realized he showed nothing but curiosity that she thought to turn around and realized that Ashburne was no longer in sight. The man was quicker to vanish than an actual ghost. Though personal experience assured her that Ashburne was no longer in the library, or at least nowhere he could be found, Portia wouldn’t feel easy in her mind until she got Tony away. She could not bear to think of Ashburne trapped in some tiny room like the one upstairs, unable to leave until they cleared out.
“I’m certain Mrs. McFerran could be convinced to shirr you some eggs.” Especially if she wanted Tony out of Ashburne’s hair. “Let’s go see.” Portia winced at her cow-handed effort, but Tony appeared not to notice.
He wandered into the library, surveying the stacks of books that still surrounded her chair despite Ashburne’s efforts. “Just what are you up to, Portia?”
“Nothing. A little... project. Nothing that would interest you.”
Tony seated himself on the couch and smiled at her. “I’m interested in everything you do, sis. It’s been too long since our paths coincided.” He patted the couch next to him. “Come, sit with me. We haven’t talked in ages.”
“We talked for ages last night. I thought you were hungry.”
“I’m beginning to think there’s something here you don’t want me to see.” Tony stretched to reach the book she’d dropped when she heard him coming and leafed idly through it. “You haven’t taken to writing penny dreadfuls to eke out the pittance Roger left you? Or are you looking for a secret treasure map?”
Even to herself, Portia’s laugh sounded forced. “Of course not.”
“Pity. The problem with you, Portia, is that you’re far too prosy for your own good. You need a little adventure in your life.”
“I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you.”
“I hate to break it to you, sis, but figuring out whether to plant turnips or cabbage is not adventure and dealing with a house full of mice is a mere nuisance.” Portia itched to ask him what he thought of being haunted and shot at, but managed to keep her peace until he said, “I don’t know why you married that dastard, Portia.”
“Because,” Portia said on a
sigh, “I fancied myself in love with him, the more fool I. I thought you were hungry.” She was decidedly not in the mood to discuss Roger, especially not somewhere Ashburne might hear.
“I am.” He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. “Get that gargoyle of a housekeeper to bring something in, why don’t you? I’m comfortable here.”
Portia scowled. “You’re impossible.” If she kept at him, Tony would only dig his heels in harder. A strategic retreat was called for. She would think of a way to budge him while he ate.
She hurried to the kitchen to order Tony’s breakfast and tell Mrs. McFerran to keep Ashburne away, then rushed back to the library. God knew what kind of trouble Tony would find if left to his own devices. She only hoped the housekeeper, who she had left scowling into her cooking fire, would not think poisoning Tony’s breakfast a good expedient to keep him out of Ashburne’s way.
Very much to Portia’s surprise, Mrs. McFerran brought in a tray so quickly the water could hardly have had a chance to boil for tea. Perhaps, like Portia, she hoped Tony would agree to take himself off once he was fed. Tony took his tray to the library table, threw open the drapes “so he could see what he was eating,” and made himself comfortable. He then proceeded to make Portia very uncomfortable, throwing out questions between bites, curious as a cat about the Hall and everything she’d done since she arrived.
He had eaten half his breakfast when Clary burst in.
*****
“Oh!” Clary exclaimed, turning a virulent shade of red that actually looked good on her. “Beg pardon!” She dropped a neat curtsey, wobbling a little as she rose out of it. She was properly attired for once, the turbulent sea-green of her riding habit perfectly in keeping with her personality.
“Lady Clarissa!” Portia moved to take Clary’s arm. “Whatever are you doing here? Come, my dear, let’s move to the morning room where we can be comfortable.”
Clary didn’t budge from staring at Tony, who’d jumped up from his incomplete breakfast and was staring right back. He cleared his throat. “Why the rush, Portia? Your best bonnet’s not on fire, is it?” Clary giggled. Tony grinned. “Go on, sis. Do the honors, won’t you?”
Portia squeezed her eyes briefly shut. She was as good as dead. If Ashburne didn’t kill her, Ransley would. “Lady Clarissa, may I present my botheration of a brother, Mr. Antony Durose? Tony, this is Lady Clarissa Seabrooke, niece to his grace, the Duke of Ransley.”
Tony made an elegant leg, bowing over Clary’s fingers. Portia thought it a bit much, but the chit appeared quite taken. “Enchanted, my lady. Portia, you shall have to get used to my rusticating, for I’m certain to get into a great many fights when I return to university. My fellows,” he said to Clary, as if he were exchanging confidences, “will never believe that such beautiful blossoms grow in the country, and I shall have to defend your honor. Frequently.”
“You had better not,” Portia said over Clary’s giggle. She supposed she ought to be grateful that Tony had such a salubrious effect on Lady Clarissa. The chit might be displaying a new line in bubble-headed giggling, but at least the painful shyness she’d shown around Courtland wasn’t in evidence. Tony was doing rather too good a job of it, however. The last thing any of them needed was for Clary to develop a tendre for the dratted boy. Portia deftly freed Clary’s hand and led the young lady to the couch. “Now, my lady, what’s brought you here today?”
“I’ve come for my lessons.” Clary twisted on the couch and smiled unselfconsciously at Tony, who naturally came over to sit in the nearest chair. “I’m hopeless, absolutely hopeless when it comes to society. Your sister’s kindly offered to teach me.”
Tony clearly thought to make some witty remark at Portia’s expense, but changed his mind at Portia’s glare. “I’m quite certain you’ve been misled, Lady Clarissa,” he said gallantly. “You don’t appear at all hopeless to me.”
“You haven’t seen me racketing around the neighborhood on my horse.”
Portia bit back a sigh, wondering for the first time if Ransley had it right—perhaps if Clary never had a come out.... But no, even a duke’s niece needs must marry and she could hardly make an acceptable match buried at Tynesfield. Courtland was the closest thing to a marriageable man in the area, sad to say, and a house party would be disastrous, even were it not completely out of the question after what had happened to her unfortunate cousin. If someone didn’t take a firm hand with her, Clary would thoroughly ruin her own chances, either through timidity or by demonstrating her singular lack of concern for propriety.
“You should see Gunpowder,” Clary proved Portia’s point by adding. “He’s a great gun.”
“I’m sure he is.” Hearing Tony’s gently amused tone, Portia became very concerned indeed. As dearly as she loved her brother, she could not pretend he had anything to recommend himself. Ransley could hardly approve a fellow not yet out of school, without title or money. Their grandfather had settled an income on Tony contingent on his managing to graduate university without being sent down, but it would not be any great amount. He’d have enough to keep himself, and if he were clever in his dealings, he might make something of it, but he was no great catch, even had his connection with the Ashburnes not put him beyond the pale as far as Ransley was concerned.
“Would you like to see him?” Clary asked with all the enthusiasm and discretion of a schoolroom chit. “He’s right outside.”
“Lady Clarissa—”
“We can’t have that.” Tony turned a deliberately blind eye to Portia’s speaking look. “There’s no one else to tuck him up in the stables while Lady Clarissa makes her visit, now is there?”
“Oh, he doesn’t need to be in the stables,” Clary assured him. “Come see.” She hopped up and raced out the door.
“Tony....” Portia laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“She’s a green girl and she doesn’t understand.”
Tony gave her a look. “I don’t think you understand. I like the chit.”
“Her guardian—”
“Is no doubt a dragon. They all are. I’m sure I can turn him up sweet.”
“I doubt your smile will have any charms for the Duke of Ransley. He despises the Ashburnes.”
“Why?”
“Because he believes Roger’s cousin, Giles, killed his ward.”
Tony stared at her. “Hell and damnation. The fellow at the head of the stairs?”
“How did you—”
“I can read a brass name plate, sis. I’ve learnt that much at Oxford. But you’ve forgotten one thing.” Tony dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I am not an Ashburne.”
“I doubt that will make one speck of difference to Ransley.” But Portia was speaking to an empty room.
“Hell and damnation, woman! Can’t you keep your own demmed family in check?”
Portia spun around, her heart racketing in her chest, but the library was empty. She closed the door and planted her hands on her hips. “Come out, sir. I won’t talk to thin air.”
A bookcase swung silently open to reveal Ashburne, his expression thunderous. Portia quickly went to pull the drapes. While she was at it, she caught a glimpse of Tony and Clary strolling around the side of the house, Gunpowder in tow. Obviously he’d convinced her to repair to the stables, if only to see his own ‘prime goer.’ She needn’t have worried that one of them would spy Ashburne through the windows. They were so engaged in conversation, they wouldn’t have noticed a fire-breathing dragon. Portia sighed, remembering how she’d wished for some young gentleman to help Clary overcome her shyness.
This was not what she’d had in mind.
“How delightful,” Ashburne said acidly. “Your brother and Ransley’s ward. That will surely solve all our problems. All you need do now is inform the duke. I’m certain he’ll be overjoyed at the prospect of allying his house with mine.”
“Stop.” Portia wanted to put a hand o
n his arm, but didn’t dare. She forced herself to take a slow breath so she could calmly say, “That’s not what’s got you in the boughs and we both know it. There’s no point in cutting up at me, my lord. You know perfectly well that if Tony hadn’t charged in and driven you off before Clary came, she would certainly have stumbled upon us.”
“You’re not making the best case for yourself, madam.” Ashburne picked up the book Tony had left on the couch and tossed it on the table. “Lady Clarissa’s tendency to barge into my house without so much as a by your leave is as much your fault as Mr. Durose making free of it. And now, in case you’ve failed to notice, he’s taking her around to the stables, where she will no doubt be making the acquaintance of my horse!”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. This is intolerable, madam. I did not come back so I could sit in a demmed hole in the wall and nibble away at my library like the demmed mice. Every minute I’m here, my life and everything I hold dear is in jeopardy. Every minute brings me one minute closer to the moment when—”
Mrs. McFerran burst without warning into the library. “The Duke of Ransley, my lord!” she gasped. “He’s here!”
*****
Ashburne said something singularly rude, which Portia sincerely wished she dared echo, and retreated behind the bookcase. Portia followed Mrs. McFerran into the great hall, locking the library door behind her.
“I saw him from an upper window,” the housekeeper whispered. “Himself coming up the drive in his curricle.”
“All right, Mrs. McFerran. I’ll take care of it.”
Very much to her surprise, Mrs. McFerran gave her a relieved look and scurried off to the kitchen. Portia hadn’t thought she sounded all that reassuring. She certainly didn’t feel it.
She took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and opened the door. “Yes, Your Grace?”