Chapter 5
Portia stopped dead. “Bryght Malloren?”
“Encountered him last night,” said Oliver, still in the manner of one about to reveal a joke.
Portia resisted the urge to turn and stare after Lord Bryght. He had looked very different in fashionable finery. For some strange reason, the knowledge of who he was had actually speeded her heart. It could not be fear, for it was impossible for him to attack her here.
“What happened?” she asked unsteadily, forcing herself to move on. “Did you fall into an argument with him? Oliver—not a duel…”
Oliver laughed. “Of course not. In fact, I paid him back for upsetting you and for attacking me. It was from him that I won all that money.”
Portia clapped her hands. “Oh, well done!” But that flash of satisfaction immediately faded. Even as she greeted two more of Oliver’s friends—one plump, one slender—she was growing uneasy. Oliver had said that he and the Mallorens did not move in the same circles, so how had they come to play?
Was Bryght Malloren a professional gamester—a hawk? He was, after all, just a second son. She knew him to be capable of wickedness. She would not, however, have thought him a cheat….
Oliver was relating his great success to his friends.
“Does Lord Arcenbryght gamble a great deal?” Portia asked.
The plump young man answered. “Bryght Malloren? Plays all the time, dear lady, and has the devil’s own luck. I tell you, Upcott, if you won from him last night you’re a walking miracle.”
Oliver’s eyes shone. “Well, I did, and at bezique. That takes some skill. If he’s lucky, perhaps the secret to beating him is to stick to games of skill.”
His friend shook his head. “I’ve heard of him winning at piquet, ecarte, and whist. Devilish sharp man. But then, all the Mallorens are.”
“And quick with their swords,” said the slender one, whose long neck and jerky movements reminded Portia of a nervous chicken. “I’d keep out of Lord Bryght’s way, if I were you, Upcott. Dangerous men, the Mallorens.”
“He insisted on playing with me,” said Oliver with an air. “I would have carried on, too, but he called an end to it after losing so much. If he wants his revenge, I’ll not refuse.”
Portia bit her lips to smother a protest. Bryght Malloren sounded exactly like a hawk. She glanced over to where he had paused to converse with a group of men, and promptly had some strange thoughts about birds.
Birds of a feather flock together, or so they said.
In this grand setting Oliver’s friends all appeared to be lesser species—nervous chickens, pretty finches, or pigeons who puffed up their chests and strutted about in search of crumbs.
Bryght Malloren’s friends, however, were predators—strong, self-assured, and sharp of beak and claw.
She could imagine their eyes to be like the eyes of the hawk when seeking its next meal.
And hawks preyed upon chickens and pigeons, especially at the gaming table.
The two young men minced off on their high-heeled shoes. Portia was hard put not to giggle at how much they did look like a chicken and a pigeon pecking their way around. She had to tell Oliver, and they ended up stifling laughter.
“But they’re good fellows,” he said. “Truly.”
“They give good advice, at least. I think you should avoid Bryght Malloren.”
He flushed. “Don’t fuss, Portia. The chances of gaming with him again are small, but if he wants his revenge I can hardly refuse. It would look as if I only played to win.”
Portia stared at him. Why on earth would anyone play to lose?
Before she could frame this question, they were approached by another couple of strutting pigeons.
Portia tried to put bird images out of her mind before she embarrassed herself by a fit of the giggles.
The thought of hawks quickly sobered her, so that she could attend to the conversation and learn more of gaming lore.
She soon gathered that Oliver was right. In London all men were expected to play, and to seem to care whether one lost or won was the height of bad form. It was also clear that Oliver’s friends were not aware that he had lost all.
As the young men talked she saw that they were impressed that Oliver had played against Bryght Malloren—win or lose. Merely speaking to a Malloren would be an event for them.
So why, she wondered, had Lord Bryght played against Oliver?
She made the mistake of glancing over at the man just as he looked across toward her group. He caught her look and raised a brow. Then he bowed farewell to his friends and came over. Though he, too, wore fashionably heeled shoes, he managed not to strut or mince at all.
Portia’s heart-rate increased with every smooth step he took. This was ridiculous! He was a bully and a gamester, the type of man she abhorred above all.
He was powdered and wore snowy lace at neck and wrist. His earring was a large pearl.
When added to his gold-braided green silk and white stockings it should all have removed the sense of darkness that she had retained from their first meeting.
It did not. The gorgeous plumage could not disguise the predator’s body, and the artificial paleness of his hair gave his lean face even more dark beauty and strength.
Dangerous, Portia. Dangerous.
He bowed before her. “’Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.’” She had forgotten the power of his resonant voice.
She instinctively raised her mask between them. “You have the wrong play, my lord. My name is Portia.”
“Ah yes, the guardian of the door. And also the defender of mercy. ‘The quality of mercy is not strained….’ Does that fit better? I hope your brother conveyed my apologies, and that I am forgiven.”
Oliver had not mentioned any apology, but Portia didn’t say so. “I do not wish to speak of it, my lord.”
She was very grateful for the protection of the mask, but wished desperately that her unruly body was entirely within her command. Her heart was racing, she knew her cheeks were flushed, and her voice was not as steady as she wished.
He took no offense at her chilly manner, but turned to bow to her brother. “And Sir Oliver. Most enjoyable hand or two we had. We must re-engage one day.”
Oliver returned the bow, flushed with pleasure. “Of course, my lord.”
As Oliver introduced his friends, Portia forced herself to remain silent, but she hated to see her brother preening to be merely spoken to by Bryght Malloren. His two friends were acting as if a god had come amongst them.
Damn the Mallorens anyway. All this wretch was was a gamester. She breathed deep and slow, commanding herself to icy calm. What she needed to do was find out this man’s intent toward her brother.
The wretch turned back to her, not obviously discouraged by the smooth white mask between them. “You are fixed in London at the moment, Miss St. Claire?”
“For a little while, yes, my lord.”
“London is greatly favored. I confess I found our last encounter unforgettable.”
Portia almost answered that honestly, and told him what she thought of their last encounter, but she forced a neutral answer. “I too have not forgotten, my lord.” She added a dart. “I hope your letter proved to be all that you expected.”
Something flickered in his eyes. It could be admiration or anger.
In the sunlight she realized his eyes were remarkably fine.
They were a hazel that could flash green on occasion, or catch the sun with flecks of gold, and they were framed by rich dark brows and lashes. It was hard to ignore eyes like that.
A quizzical widening of those eyes told her that even the mask could not hide the fact that she had been staring. She looked away, grateful that it at least hid her blush.
Then Oliver said, “Bless me, Portia, there’s no need to actually use the mask.”
Reluctantly, she let it fall. “There is a chill wind at the moment.” She directed a meaningful look at her unwanted companion.
He did not take the hint. In fact his eyes glinted with knowing amusement. “May I hope you are enjoying London, Miss St. Claire, despite the chilly weather?”
“It is very interesting, my lord.”
“You may have an opportunity to see the king and queen today.”
“That would be a great honor, my lord.” Since he wouldn’t take the hint and go away, Portia felt obliged to look at him, and was immediately trapped.
It was not fair that any man be so beautiful. Beautiful as a fine horse, or a hawk on the wing, or lightning searing across a storm-dark sky. She hastily looked away and knew her cheeks were pink.
He was a gamester and a wretch.
“Now what can I have done to offend you, Hippolyta?” he murmured.
She turned to face him. “I will thank you not to use such names to me, my lord.”
His eyes laughed at her. “Why not? It’s the fashion. Is it not, gentlemen?”
The pigeons adoringly cooed their agreement.
“If you do not care to be the queen of the Amazons,” he continued, “or the queen of the fairies, what persona do you want? What quality do you wish me to praise?”
Portia wished he would just go away. “I would wish to be admired for my inner qualities, my lord—my wisdom, or my virtue.” She put especial emphasis on the last word, for she could not feel at all at ease with his attentions.
“Virtue is so dull,” he complained. “I will call you Minerva then, the goddess of wisdom.”
“I would much rather you not,” she snapped.
“But to go always by your own true name is to be intolerably provincial. Is it not, gentlemen?”
“Oh aye, milord,” they agreed in unison.
“Indeed it is, Portia,” added Oliver.
Portia gritted her teeth. “Then perhaps I am intolerably provincial, my lord.”
“Alas, perhaps you are.”
Portia felt a strong desire to hit him over the head with her mask, but suspected that might be his intent. She had the infuriating feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
He smiled. “But fresh country manners are often pleasing to the jaded palate of London, Miss St. Claire. I predict that you will do very well. It must come in the blood.”