She was wearing a new gown, but not being in a festive mood, it was a relatively plain one in dark green dull ribbed satin. Appropriate for the day, where a few hours ago she might have chosen yellow or sky blue. Or nothing at all.
The doorbell clanged and the sound of low voices came from below. Male, but that meant nothing. Men might come if they wanted to further their acquaintance with Edmund. She would have to disappoint them.
The male voices came closer and she recognised her husband’s tones, although not what he was saying. The door muffled their words. She stood as they entered, pasted a welcoming smile on her face, one she was far from feeling.
“Ah, my dear,” said Edmund, as if nothing had happened that morning. As they would with company. The man who followed him inside the room was a stranger to her.
Unlike his mental signature. This was an immortal, she recognised with deep shock, and one of great power.
Working every part of her hard-won social skills, she smiled and offered her hand.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Edmund said. “Although in truth I have barely met the man myself. My dear, this is Amidei Massimo, Comte d’Argento. Comte, this is my wife, Mrs. Welles.”
He said the last words firmly. The stranger shot him a glance, his eyebrows going up, before he bowed over her hand with a grace that took her breath away. “Madam. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
The man was silver. Silver hair, like Edmund’s pale gilded locks, worn tied back, not a hair out of place. A coat grand enough to grace the ballrooms of London or Paris, in a mid-blue, with a waistcoat so finely embroidered and detailed it could be the epitome of the embroiderer’s art. His lace ruffles were best Brussels, and a sapphire glittered at his throat.
He was cold, this man, calculating. His pale stare swept over her, assessing her. He would have spoken more, but the maid chose that moment to knock and enter with her heavy tray of comestibles. By silent mutual consent they waited until the maid had left and Portia had dispensed the tea. Nobody took any of the little cakes and delicacies on offer.
Portia found it hard resisting the probing mind of the newcomer. He pushed so hard he caused pain, but when she winced and lifted her hand to her forehead, Edmund said sharply, “No!” and the pressure went.
Edmund touched her elbow and helped her to sit before taking his place beside her. She’d have shaken him off, but she needed his help while her head was still whirring with the invasion. It scared her. That beings this powerful existed made her more than apprehensive of what lay ahead.
Finding her tea-dish, Portia took a deep draught of the hot liquid to settle her.
Tellingly, d’Argento didn’t apologise. “These are difficult times,” he said, his voice faintly tinged with an Italian accent. If she hadn’t known his name, she might have said Spanish, but d’Argento was an Italian name. “I needed to know who and what had—Welles in her thrall. You’re a minor immortal?”
“She’s my wife,” Edmund said steadily. “She is under my protection.”
“So you know who you are now?” d’Argento said. “You are aware that you are one of us?”
“I owe my loyalty to no one except for my wife.” Edmund spoke flatly, but the determination rang in every word.
“You really are married?”
“As of yesterday, yes, we are.” Edmund took her hand. She let it rest in his, but didn’t return his warm pressure.
She put her tea-dish and saucer back on the small table by her side and achieved only a slight wobble. The presence of these two men made her nervous, but anger simmered under her apprehension. She shouldn’t have to feel like this, especially in her own home. Right then she decided to learn more about her own powers. Perhaps she could hone one to perfection, put all her efforts into that.
D’Argento groaned and closed his eyes. “Yesterday!” He opened them. “I’m sorry to drag you into this, ma’am. There is danger ahead, especially concerning your husband.”
“How so?” she asked.
Outside, the birds sang, the sheep baaed in the fields beyond the garden and everything sounded normal. Inside everything had changed, though whether they were approaching a new reality or something else, she wasn’t sure. “Something else” was vague enough to make her clench her teeth in frustration.
“You know of his family?” He glanced at Edmund, who met his gaze steadily. Were they communicating? If so, they weren’t letting her in.
Edmund leaned back, resting his arm along the back of the sofa in a proprietorial manner. “She knows enough. What I know. That my mother is a conniving Ancient and my sister is safe from her. I went abroad to discover who I was and how I could help Aurelia, who is mortal.”
“You should not have left her, because she is certainly not safe now.”
Edmund sat up. “How so?”
Jealousy streaked through her. Another woman, someone she didn’t know. Irrationally, because this was his sister. A woman she hadn’t known existed before yesterday. Someone her husband owed his loyalty and love to. The child inside her drummed her heels and insisted that he was hers, all hers. He had been, before yesterday and the revelations of this morning. Now everything had changed.
“You are needed, especially if you can control the power you were born with. Who unlocked it for you?” she asked.
“Venus.”
Shock streaked through her, and a sense of disbelief. “Venus? You—” What were the chances that he’d have preferred Portia to Venus if he hadn’t been enchanted? None.
Even d’Argento blinked. “I have been trying to persuade her to come to Britain for years. How did you know about her?”
Edmund bared his teeth in a grin. “I went to Paris, and there she was. She has a court, of sorts. Why should she come to Britain?”
“Because this is where the disaster happened. This is where most of the gods were spawned thirty years ago.”
“Thirty-one,” Edmund reminded him. “What has happened to my sister?”
D’Argento nodded. “You’re right, the rest can wait. She needs you. She’s become embroiled with one of the most dangerous men in London. The Marquis of Stretton, otherwise known as Bacchus.”
Edmund sucked in a breath. “A mad drunk?”
D’Argento’s finely cut lips tightened. “He is a friend of mine. If you want to put it that way, then yes, some people would have it so. You may evoke frenzy if you wish. So can he, so you should understand his abilities better than most, even other immortals.”
Edmund glanced at her, the first time he’d done so since they sat down. “I will have to go to London.”
The words came as a death knell to Portia. “Should I order the servants to pack?”
This time he turned to her and despite her slight resistance, which he must have felt, took both of her hands in his. “Just for me. Stay here, my love, at least until I know it’s safe. I’ll send for you. You are much safer here, out of the reach of my mother and my sister’s—admirer. I won’t tell anyone you’re here. Your father will care for you.”
“I am to go home?” Bitterly she saw the happy life she’d anticipated burn to ashes before her eyes.
“This is your home. Stay here, if you please. Your father’s house lies between this one and the nearest town, and I have woven what protections I can around this building. People who are not our friends will find the atmosphere uncomfortable, even unpleasant. The more antagonistic they are towards you, the worse they will feel. It’s the best I can do.”
“As the god of love.”
A smile flickered across his lips. “Indeed. Please, sweetheart. I swear I’ll send for you as soon as I can, but I need to know you’re safe.”
D’Argento didn’t say a word, didn’t move, but all the same she was acutely aware of his presence. He was waiting for Edmund’s reply, which was already decided. Still, she had to say one
thing. “After one night?”
“Because of that you have made me yours. I will be true to you as long as memory endures—I swear it.”
At that moment, Portia believed him.
That evening, when she went to bed in the blue room on her own, she found a sealed note. When she broke it open, it took her a moment to read it.
My love,
This is only a token of how I feel. The house is in your name, and the marriage settlement gives you a substantial part of my fortune on my death. Should anything happen to me, d’Argento will ensure you receive all honour as my widow. I will not die. I have too much to live for. Please never doubt me. I adore you. Last night wasn’t a culmination—it was a beginning. I will miss you more than I can say. Hopefully this will be over in a week. Then I will explain everything, I swear.
E
As she lifted the paper, a card fell out of the folds. Not Edmund’s, but d’Argento’s with a brief note on the back.
If you need me, I will act your friend.
d’Argento (Mercury)
She’d known he was important, but that? Surrounded by gods. Now she felt like an idiot for not recognising him. Of course the messenger of the gods would take on the task of tracking down her husband.
The card held the mortal name and a London address. When she went to the library and got out the map of London, she found it in St. James’s, close to the most fashionable part of London. She doubted she’d need it, but she couldn’t deny it helped to have fashionable and powerful friends. If he was a friend. The only thing she could be sure of was that she still loved Edmund so much it would hurt to part from him.
His sister needed him. Portia had to give way.
Chapter Ten
“Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t seen him for nearly a month?” The china ornaments above the mantel rattled.
Portia winced. “Please, Papa, lower your voice.”
They were in the downstairs breakfast parlour, and although Portia had given orders for more food, her father had found no difficulty in polishing it all off. Portia had discovered her appetite somewhat fugitive of late, but her father had no such qualms. She had done her best, but he’d noticed. He never missed anything where his daughter was concerned.
He slapped his napkin down by the side of his plate. “Talk to me.” The door opened, and a servant bearing a pot of hot coffee came in. Her father glared at Portia and she got the message. “Put that down and then leave us alone for a while.”
One of the advantages of her gift was that she could sense the presence of people nearby. So when the maid hovered on the other side of the closed door, she held up her hand and her father rolled his eyes, but nodded.
The maid left. Most would linger, hoping to pick up a juicy morsel of gossip, but they were relatively safe. Except for the knowledge they had kept hidden for thirty years or more. Her father had removed the memories from an importunate maid or two. Portia found the act intensely intrusive, but she could do it if she had to. After her husband effectively lying to her, not telling her of his identity, then leaving for a month with only one brief note back to her, she didn’t know what to think anymore. If she asked for her father’s help, he’d give it, and there’d be hell to pay.
She wanted to ensure she had a grudge, that something else hadn’t happened.
He father reached for the coffeepot. “There’s a ball at the assembly rooms in Dover tomorrow. I think you should go.” It wasn’t a request, even though he was courteous enough to put it that way. “You should show yourself as the happy wife. Otherwise, the gossip will get worse.”
“What gossip?” That was the first she’d heard. She’d gone through the tedious bride-visits, saying that her husband had gone to see his mother in Scotland, who had been taken ill. It was the best she could come up with, and it had quietened people, as far as she knew. They’d expressed their sympathy and passed on to other matters.
“It’s been a month. He should have sent for you by now, they’re saying. So make yourself ready tomorrow, and I’ll send the carriage for you.”
So she had no choice. Apart from the new gown, she had a very strong feeling that she had returned to what she truly was. The last month had been a dream.
Sitting between her sisters in the carriage, her parents opposite them and a room booked at the inn for her, the cycle seemed to have come full circle.
The nights were getting lighter now, but her father still preferred to spend the night in Dover after an assembly. It was an open secret that he liked to meet his associates in his nocturnal activities and carouse with them. Her father’s appetite for carousing was as large as his appetite for other matters. His only singularity was his devotion to their mother. He would watch nubile young women dancing for his pleasure, but that was as far as he went. Portia wasn’t supposed to know, but her naturally inquisitive nature had driven her downstairs to the source of the noise one night, where she’d discovered what carousing meant. Her furious father had packed her off to bed, and while she’d never tried that experiment again, she had crept out another night. And found Edmund.
She would stay in that little room until the morning. Even if she was dying, she wouldn’t leave.
Millicent and Anthea were unnaturally silent on the subject of her marriage. Thankfully Portia hadn’t had to lie to them, as she had been for the last month to everyone else. Yes, she’d heard from her husband, and yes, he was fine, but he needed to attend his sick mother. She was on the road to recovery and Portia expected him back shortly. He wrote every week. If she’d said every day people would have watched the road, commented on his devotion and she didn’t want that.
She had to prepare herself to tell them he wouldn’t return.
Because she hadn’t heard from him. Not a word after the first letter to tell her he’d arrived safely in London. That was all. Only prevented from setting off by her promise, she had waited. No more. After tonight, matters had to change. She refused to wait any longer.
Frantic notes to Edmund and then to d’Argento had resulted in one letter—from d’Argento. He’d told her to stay where she was, that her husband was dealing with a dangerous situation and that he or Edmund would send for her when it was safe.
If she appeared in the middle of a dangerous situation, then she might cause more danger. Enough was enough. She would play the obedient little wife no longer.
After settling her bag in her room and smiling at her reflection, just to practice her expression, she went downstairs.
The usual people had attended and a few strangers to make the affair interesting. Peter solicited his usual dance and Portia knew melancholy when she felt his mood. She was beyond him now, married to someone else. He’d courted her for years. It wasn’t his fault that she’d found him less than fascinating. Then a man had appeared and swept her away to his castle on the cliff.
For one night.
Peter was returning her to her mother’s side when a stir, people chattering a little louder than usual, rippled through the assembled gentry.
Portia turned around to see a vision. An example of perfect beauty.
A woman stood in the entrance to the ballroom. She was dressed in a magnificent gown of white and silver brocade, diamonds glittering under the frill of ruffled lace circling her throat. Her hair was powdered. A golden strand gleamed in the light of the chandelier when she turned her head to smile at her companion, a young woman, almost as beautiful as the first one. Not quite.
The woman radiated beauty, exuded it as if it were a perfume, filled the air with it. Even Portia lifted her head and preened a little, although heaven knew she’d had little reason to do so in the last month.
As if drawn by a magnet, the woman turned her head and met Portia’s gaze across the crowded room. Her blue, blue eyes regarded Portia coolly, and the unmistakeable sense of an immortal drilled its way into her brain.
Shock held Portia rigid. This was Venus. The woman hadn’t hesitated to send her presence winging into Portia’s mind. The woman by Venus’s side smiled and raised a carefully plucked brow. This was his mentor?
“You’re the duchesse?”
“More precisely the Duchesse de Clermont-Ferrand. Yes, I am. And this is Susanna, the woman Edmund is contracted to marry.”
Silence fell, then murmurs, rippling like a stone dropped in a pond.
Portia stuck up her chin. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Edmund Welles is my husband and has been so this last month.”
“Where is he?”
She refused to answer such ignorance, even if this woman was a duchesse. “That is not your concern, ma’am.”
“I didn’t spend the last months painstakingly teaching him what he needed to know in order for him to take off with a village wench.”
Yes, the duchesse knew Portia was an immortal, but to the goddess of love, Portia was an insignificant speck of dust. She wasn’t. She was her own person and she would not be swept aside. “May I introduce my father, ma’am? This is Sir Mortimer Seaton.”
The duchesse shot him a glance, and then lingered. Her father, while retaining the appearance of a middle-aged man, was still a comely one, too vain to become overweight and bald as many of his contemporaries had. He’d allowed his hair to grey, but covered it with the customary wig most of the time. He bowed, then straightened, offering his hand to the duchesse.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He was covering his identity, only letting her know he was immortal. Let her think I’m a village yokel, he said, deep in his daughter’s mind.
Yes, that was best. Let surprise be an ally. A powerful ally.
The duchesse smiled graciously. “Pleased, I’m sure.” Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than necessary in a subtle flirtation her father would accept, but not take forward. Portia had seen him play this game before.
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 15