Portia’s face burned with anger. “That was a cruel thing to say. It wasn’t like that at all.”
He shrugged in an off-handed way that she instantly despised. “And yet it has a ring of truth to it. There are so few heiresses available for marriage this year. Pickings are slim. Lady Scott did you a great favor in killing off your competition.”
Portia glared at him. “I can’t believe you would say that. Those ladies were my friends.”
“They were your rivals. Competition. It is the truth, no matter how unpalatable you claim to find it.” He scowled. “Tell me, were you so desperate to be his duchess that you didn’t care that Montrose did not even take the time to bother to court you?”
Portia had noticed and in the few hours since she had accepted she was already a little disappointed in herself. She could have taken more time to give the duke an answer. But with his impatience so obvious and her parents expecting her to say yes anyway, she had been persuaded to accept immediately.
“Tell me he courted you with sweet words and stolen kisses? Poetry? Anything to prove you had reason to give yourself to a man you barely know?”
They stared at each other, and a chill went through her. It pained her that Wade asked the same questions she asked herself, since Montrose had first called on her to propose. “Yes, I might have eagerly accepted Lord Montrose’s proposal, but I insisted on having the banns read so we could know each other before the marriage takes place. I did not make a rash decision, but a considered one.”
“I beg to differ, but what does it matter what I say? When did it ever?” Wade shook his head. “You do what you like anyway. Go back to the ball, Portia, and bask in the adulation of the masses. Go back where you can learn to be as dull and as ordinary as all the rest.”
She punched her hands to her hips. Lord Wade simply could not be happy for her, no matter what she said. She shouldn’t have to explain herself. Stubbornness, however, kept her there. She would not let him have the last word. “I will never be dull or ordinary.”
“You will be.” He shrugged. “Go back where it’s safer.”
“I am safe with you.”
“Safe with me? You really have no sense, do you?” He snorted—but then he moved suddenly toward her. Her back hit the wall, and he stopped. His expression was grim as he caged her between his outstretched arms and lowered his head. “You have not the faintest idea about me, or what I hoped for you. Montrose will have the chore now of holding back the lecherous scoundrels nipping around your skirts like hungry dogs. You do little to stop them coming back for one more attempt to get you alone like this. I warn you, though; Montrose is as rigid as they come. He will not forget or forgive any indiscretions, should you be caught in another man’s arms.”
Portia gaped. “You’re jealous. Jealous that he is a duke.”
Wade drew back suddenly. “I’m not jealous of his title.”
She didn’t believe him. “He can’t help that he was born to be a duke. My parents approved him, so surely my friends can, too.”
He should his head. “I am not jealous of his title or his blasted money. Your parents have no idea what they’ve done to you. He will destroy everything I—” He winced. “Everything that makes you who you were always meant to be.”
Portia shook her head. “You knew all along I could never marry just anyone or defy my family wishes. A duke is as high as I could hope for, and they couldn’t be happier. I have to think of my family, my sister.”
“You could have done better,” Wade bit out. “You should have thought of yourself too.”
He stormed off before she could call him back.
Chapter 5
Julian shook Sullivan’s hand perfunctorily once his old friend had settled into the hack but looked away quickly again. He was not in a good mood, however Sullivan’s note had lured him from his home where he’d been brooding over Portia’s decision to marry so suddenly. He couldn’t believe she’d chosen Montrose over all other gentlemen vying for her affections. “You wanted to see me.”
“And a good morning to you, too.” Sullivan frowned as he looked about the hack with obvious distaste and settled his hat on his lap rather than beside him on the stained seat. He was dressed very well today, much better than he used to, and naturally far above Julian’s years-old attire. Julian feared it wouldn’t take him very long to notice the differences between them were poles apart. “What happened to that ramshackle contraption you usually get about in?”
“It finally fell to pieces, so I’ve ordered a new one,” he lied, smoothly he hoped. His old carriage was perfectly sound, it was just living elsewhere now. “In the meantime, I’ll make do with what’s easiest to hand.”
“I never thought you would be without the old beast.”
“Well, I am.” He’d reclaimed twenty pounds for the carriage and another ten for the matched pair of horse that pulled it. He missed having a carriage of his own, even if it was ancient and the horses pulling it had been old and plodding. It was small comfort that at least the horses were probably better off where they were now.
“Clare told me she admired that rickety thing. She used to tease me about not having one of my own at first, too. Said she liked me better for not pretending I had a fancier one. For being honest about my circumstances. You were right about that…and so many things then. You were so good to us.”
Julian’s smile felt forced because he was still sad that Clare was gone. She had been an Original. Portia was an Original, too…or could have remained one if she were marrying anyone else. He pushed aside his bitter disappointment before it took hold again and tried to feel enthusiastic about the day. “So you’re back in London.”
“Yes, as you see, I’ve leased a house on Upper Brooke Street—for the season and next year, too, I think. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me in the coming weeks.”
So Sullivan was in London for a reason, most likely hunting a new bride. Julian wished him well. “I’m glad of that. Hardly anyone interesting comes to London anymore.”
Sullivan laughed. “If I know you at all, you’ll soon be pointing out the most outrageous ladies I should know.”
“What few are left, that is,” Julian lamented. “Sadly, our murderess, Lady Scott, culled the best of the flock.”
“I read about that business in the papers. His grace was most concerned about the situation.”
Julian had been, too. He’d been close enough to Lady Scott on that final night to hear just how deranged she’d become. It was no wonder her godson, Lord Carmichael, had fled London. The question on everyone’s lips was how long he would stay away. Julian hoped not for long, because Carmichael was a man he had admired, though there’d been no reason to tell him at the time. “How is Northport these days?”
“The same.” Sullivan pursed his lips a moment before he spoke again. “Concerned for the future of the duchy.”
Sullivan was never an easy man to read. What he didn’t say often spoke volumes to Julian. If the duke hadn’t changed—and Julian doubted he was capable of that—he was worried about the succession again. “Is he pressing you to take another wife already?”
“How did you guess?”
“Your face. It’s been a year since Clare died, which isn’t long enough to grieve for her. You’re here, where you vowed never to be again.” Sullivan began to nod. “It was a miracle you married the first time you know,” Julian noted.
Sullivan was an oddity. Although he was handsome and titled, he had not always been sure of himself. He might seem confident and charming to acquaintances at a ball, but the closer a lady got to claiming his heart, the more nervous and evasive he tended to become. It had been absolutely necessary for Julian to meddle in Sullivan’s courtship of Clare, too—even if doing so had forever put her out of his reach.
“Only thanks to you. I owe you a debt I can never fully repay,” Sullivan assured him.
Julian turned a withering glance on Sullivan. Yes, he was adept at steering friends toward happin
ess, but powerless to secure his own joy. He expected nothing for his efforts on behalf of others and preferred they not know or mention any help, too. “I did nothing but tell the truth,” he cautioned.
“You did more than that, and you know it.” Sullivan glanced down. “I may need your assistance again, I’m afraid. It is difficult to imagine anyone could take Clare’s place.”
He brushed lint from his knee, hiding his irritation. “I doubt you should consider another woman as Clare’s replacement, because there could never be another woman like her.”
“You are right. I know you are.” Sullivan rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded. The situation has my tongue tied in knots. I called on Miss Hayes yesterday, and at the first mention of Clare, I could scarce get another word out.”
Julian grunted in sympathy. At least coming to London did not sound like it had been Sullivan’s choice. No doubt the duke was pulling his strings once more.
The last time Julian and Sullivan had been in London together, they’d vied for the affections of the same woman. Clare Johnson had chosen with her heart, even if she became a countess by marrying the impoverished Lord Sullivan. Julian had been very envious at the time, but what was the point of holding a grudge now? They’d been in love.
Sullivan was watching him closely, so Julian shrugged away his unhappiness. “Did you have someone in mind already?”
“Not really. It is all so terribly uncomfortable. The wealthiest will always marry the most titled. It’s hard not to know where I should focus my attention first, even if my heart rebels.”
Julian let his gaze roam over Sullivan’s attire. Judging by the fine quality of his garments, he’d found time to visit a tailor and boot maker already. He was very well turned out. The ladies in want of a title would be panting after him soon enough. He could take his pick of anyone. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to suit your needs.”
“I don’t think I’m in any rush, but coming to London will appease his grace for a little while.” Sullivan grinned. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” Julian glanced out the window, heart sinking though the floor of the carriage. Last night had not been a success, as far as claiming a wife was concerned. Quite the opposite. He had the worst luck of anyone when it came to women.
Sullivan tapped his fingers against this knee. “You know, I thought I saw a flare of interest in your eyes at the Birch Ball for a certain lady with dark hair.”
His stomach knotted. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Surely you remember how fetching Miss Hayes looked that night. You could barely take your eyes from her.”
Julian glanced out the window. “She was a friend.”
“Well, that is excellent news. You hardly like anyone.”
“Indeed,” Julian agreed, grimacing slightly.
He was still stunned about her sudden engagement, even though he should not be surprised. She had shown her true colors finally. Her family had always been clear that they wanted a title for Portia, the higher the better and he’d wrongly believed that Portia would have had the strength to defy them. That she would make a different choice. That she would marry for affection rather than social gain.
“She seemed quite lively. Clare would have enjoyed her company, I think.”
Sullivan was grinning at him, unaware, of course, of Julian’s disappointment. He hated that once again he’d gone home empty-handed, and lost to someone with a higher title.
“Yes, I liked her very much,” Julian snapped, and then took a deep breath. “Better than anyone I’ve met since Clare.”
Sullivan blinked at the ferocity of his tone. “I say, is there an understanding between you?”
“Of course not.” Julian sighed as the carriage drew near their club. “She’s just become engaged to marry Montrose. You remember that fine gentleman, don’t you?”
“My God, is she a fool?”
He shook his head. Montrose was everything Portia should loathe in a husband. Controlling and cold. Montrose would sour her every waking moment. He would make Portia ordinary enough to conform to his exacting expectations while he did as he pleased. The snobbish dullard played by the rules, with no exceptions. “She will not enjoy being married to him,” he murmured. “Shall we go in?”
“Wait.” Sullivan put his hand up. “Don’t say you asked her to marry you and were refused.”
“No, and I am glad I did not take the trouble.” Julian signaled the driver to stop before the club and alighted quickly. He’d no wish to discuss Portia with Sullivan. Certainly not on the street. Any right-minded woman would choose a duke over a mere viscount. But he was bitterly disappointed that Portia was not the daring woman he’d believed her to be all these years. He’d been blinded by his own hope—a foolish fantasy that she might finally care about him.
And if not him, then there were finer gentlemen in London than the Duke of Montrose.
Sullivan grabbed his arm before they could enter the club. “Wait. If you like her as much as I suspect, why did you not ask for her hand? I am certain I saw a sparkle in her eyes, too.”
“There was definitely no sparkle in her eye for me. For you, perhaps, and any gentleman she considers handsome. Portia Hayes has known me long enough to make up her mind about my appeal, and she has never offered the slightest encouragement.”
Well, perhaps once…but the next day, she’d accepted Montrose, so it didn’t count.
“What have you done to win her?”
“Too much to name.” He’d protected her, even from herself sometimes. He’d been willing to bleed for her if necessary, too. What a fool he’d been to think he had any chance. “I need a drink.”
Sullivan did not release him. “What you need to do is what you recommended to me. Seduce her!”
Julian laughed bitterly. “It worked for you because Clare was already enamored and was being foolish about your lack of fortune at the time. She had no parents to please. Now, you’ll not have to jump that fence for any lady ever again. Once society has discovered your pockets are still full to the brim, as I assume they must be, the ladies will be flocking to lie down and offer themselves on a platter. I, on the other hand, will not have the same luck.”
“Are you saying you’re truly hunting a bride?”
Julian shook his head angrily. “It’s none of your damn business if I am or not.”
“What about Miss Hayes?”
Julian calmed himself. Portia. There wasn’t a thing he could do about her now but forget she existed. He’d done it with Clare; he could do so again, too. “Do you want to drink together or not?”
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed on him. “We’ll drink on my account. About time I put something on it.”
“Good.” Julian stalked forward into the club, unaccountably angry with Sullivan for no good reason. It was not Sullivan’s fault that Clare had died and left him with all her money. It was not Sullivan’s fault that ladies would prefer to marry a richer man than Julian could ever be.
At this hour of the day, a number of groups had formed around small tables in the club. They found a spot out of the way of the noisiest members and requested drinks for both of them. Julian did not care what he drank, but Sullivan requested the very best the establishment could offer.
Sullivan glanced around while they waited for the footman’s return. “The place hasn’t changed much since I was here last with you.”
“The day you proposed to Clare.” Julian nodded slowly, remembering the occasion. He accepted a drink from the footman and raised his glass. “To your late wife.”
Sullivan lifted his, too. “To the love of my life. May she and our son be forever at peace.”
Julian nodded, but his stomach twisted bitterly and his eyes stung anew. He drained his glass and signaled for refills to fight the emotion. He was of a mind to get drunk. The first time in a long while he’d felt that way.
“I say, is that Lord Sullivan I see,” s
omeone exclaimed suddenly, and Julian groaned as he recognized the voice as belonging to another old school friend—Lord Grigg. “By Jove, it is! What are you doing back in London, Lord Sullivan?”
Sullivan was drawn to stand and moved away a few steps. Lord Grigg was in line to be a duke one day, too. Much like Montrose, Lord Grigg thought himself a god among men of lesser rank. Julian kept his seat and sipped a second drink as Sullivan was drawn farther away by Grigg to meet mutual acquaintances across the room. Julian should have expected this to happen; he requested a paper and another round to pass the time.
He was sipping his forth drink when Sullivan came rushing back.
“Sorry,” Sullivan mumbled, glancing at the table full of glasses with obvious surprise. Julian’s were empty; Sullivan’s were lined up in a neat row. “Looks like I have some catching up to do.”
“You were always a popular devil, and a slow drinker, too,” Julian murmured without any real malice. The drink had mellowed him enough to put his losses in perspective. As long as he drew breath, there was still hope. But he would have to look elsewhere for a suitable wife and forget about love. “Future dukes are always much in demand. Grigg wasted no time pulling you away.”
“People really don’t change, do they,” Sullivan said with a scowl for the far side of the room. He tossed back one drink and reached for another to sip.
Julian scowled. “I assume by that remark you will be the recipient of a dozen or more invitations to private engagements that will scandalize the ton, should they learn about them.”
“Indeed, that was the suggestion,” Sullivan confirmed as he sat back. “However, I’m only interested in being with my real friends.”
Real friends who hadn’t talked in years? Real friends who knew each other’s business front to back? Julian missed those days, but he couldn’t bear to share his troubles. “There could be pretty women there.”
“Not the sort who interest me.” Sullivan finished his glass and snatched up the next in line. “Besides, we can talk about women later. I have a feeling this afternoon will turn into a full day of spirited indulgence. You and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Lord of Sin Page 5