Chapter 6
Portia watched Bryght Malloren stroll away, wishing there was somewhere nearby to sit down.
“Well, that will have attracted Society’s eye,” said Oliver. “But I wish you hadn’t behaved quite so boldly, Portia. Staring up at him like that…”
Heat flooded Portia at the thought of the spectacle she had just made of herself. “I did no such thing,” she declared, fanning herself vigorously with the mask. “Or at least, if I am to look at such a man whilst he talks, I have little choice. He is far too tall. It was all perfectly innocent.”
But she lied. There had been nothing innocent about that encounter at all.
Oliver was not impressed by her words, either. “Just bear in mind that the aristocracy marry among themselves, and younger sons like Bryght Malloren don’t marry at all except for money and land. How could they support a wife?”
At the tables, Portia thought. Except that Bryght Malloren loses. She summoned a light laugh. “Marriage? Who speaks of marriage?”
Oliver ignored her comment. “And sometimes they hunt for sport.”
Portia shivered, for she feared Oliver had Bryght Malloren’s intent exactly. If only she could understand why he would choose a poor squab such as herself as prey.
“See,” said Oliver. “He is now paying court to Mrs. Findlayson.”
Portia looked at the vivacious raven-haired beauty, swathed in a cloak of red velvet lined with dark furs. Five handsome specimens hovered around her like gaudy moths at a flame. Or like hawks on the hunt, more like. Bryght Malloren was certainly no fluttering moth.
But then, Mrs. Findlayson did not resemble any common type of prey.
Who, in fact, hunted whom?
“Which gentleman is Mr. Findlayson?” she asked.
“I told you, she’s a widow, and looking to use her first husband’s money—he was a tea-Nabob—to buy a grand second husband. Bryght Malloren stands high in the bidding.”
Now why did that news give Portia a stab of agony?
“And anyway,” Oliver continued, “a husband don’t hang around his wife in public. It’s not done.”
Portia glanced around, seeing similar scenes everywhere—ladies preening, and gentlemen flirting, but none presumably with their proper partners.
So much for fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. He must have thought her ridiculous.
For her part, Portia thought Society’s ways disgusting and frightening. If she married, she would not want to shame herself with other men, and she would be devastated to see her husband flirting with other women. Oliver was right. They had no place here except as spectators.
She suddenly remembered Maidenhead, and a letter. A letter, doubtless, from one of these women to one of these men. But not her husband. And that relationship had not been mere flirtation.
Had Bryght Malloren been the lover involved? But why then had he seemed so shocked? And yet he could not be the husband.
Perhaps he was a betrayed lover. A woman who betrayed her husband would not balk at deceiving her lover, too.
Perhaps, Portia thought with a start, Desiree was Mrs. Findlayson, the woman he was courting. The knowledge that his intended wife was so lewd would certainly shock a man, and had there not been mention of tea in that letter?
She glanced back at the scene and saw the widow laughing merrily at Bryght Malloren, her hand placed intimately on his chest. Portia wanted to snatch that intrusive hand away. If Bryght Malloren had been shocked, she thought tartly, it would appear he had made a good recovery.
Portia dragged her eyes away angrily. The man was no concern of hers, and she was no schoolroom miss to run mad over a virtual stranger!
However, now it seemed that everywhere she looked there were men and women behaving in an immodest way.
She saw a woman allow a man a kiss on the lips whilst others nearby applauded.
And only look where that man’s hand rested!
The scene in the park definitely resembled a flock of predators, and the chatter was beginning to sound just like the shrieking cries of birds of prey.
If she could not return to the simple, decent life at Overstead, then she would welcome Manchester. There were no such immoral goings-on there.
Oliver was saying something else, about money and Mallorens. “I beg your pardon,” Portia said. “I did not hear you.”
“I said that I’d lay my money on the Findlayson being Lady Bryght before the spring. She’d be a fool not to snap him up. He stands in line to be marquess if his brother dies.”
“A somewhat unlikely event, I’d think. And she’d be a fool to trust her money to a man who will throw it all away at the tables.” Then Portia realized what she had said and wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry, Oliver….”
“No matter,” he said stiffly. “It’s the truth, though at least it was my own money.”
But all our lives went with it, she thought bitterly, and all my work on the estate, and mother’s beautiful gardens….
The magic of the day shattered. Portia turned her back upon the Findlayson group so that she wouldn’t be tempted to so much as glance at Bryght Malloren.
Bryght flirted with Jenny Findlayson, but his mind was on Portia St. Claire.
It had been simple curiosity that had taken him to her. The woman on Upcott’s arm had looked so ordinary and yet had to be his sister. He had wondered if his fascinating was entirely a figment of his imagination.
Seen up close, she had still appeared ordinary, for she was no beauty and her clothes were not in the latest style. It had soon become clear, however, that beneath the prosaic surface she was the woman who had challenged him, fought him, and tried to shoot him.
Today she had no pistol, but she had confronted him with wit and a sharp tongue, and they were as intriguing. Moreover, the glimpse she had given of her home and family had touched him.
London Society would doubtless count him cynical, and in many ways he was, but he understood family bonds.
He had been born into a happy family and raised with love.
His parents had died when he was thirteen, however, when the new marquess had only been nineteen and the twins grubby seven-year-olds.
Relatives had immediately stepped in to take care of the younger ones, but Rothgar had refused to allow them to be fostered elsewhere.
He had held the family together and built close ties between them.
He had even arranged his inheritance in such a way that the younger sons found employment and profit in the business of the marquisate.
Rothgar had created and nurtured strong bonds among his family, and Bryght understood without explanation Portia St. Claire’s need to keep her family afloat and happy.
In the Mallorens, however, the load was shared. None of them was a burden. Bryght feared that Portia gained little support from her family and was leaned on heavily. He had been tempted to dig deeper, to find out more about the individuals, but he could detect a peril as obvious as that.
He was already more interested in Portia St. Claire than was wise.
By the end of their time together, even her slight build and unusual looks had appeal, and her fine-skinned face which showed every emotion had been enchanting him.
The ladies of fashionable London had perfect, creamy complexions; if they were not gifted with them by God, they found them in a cream pot.
Bryght was accustomed to it, though the fact that Nerissa Trelyn’s complexion was her own had been a significant attraction.
He had not cared before that Jenny wore a discreet layer of paint. Now he compared her artificial complexion with a fresh country face sprinkled with freckles, and found it wanting.
He was turning mad.
He was done with romantics, and if he married it would be to money. There was no place in his life for a woman like Portia St. Claire.
He had told the truth, however, when he’d said he was concerned about her. She was too forthright and natural for London, and too inclined to fight against the odds. If her brother was the hopeless gamester it would appear, the perils were terrifying.
Damn it to Hades, but he had no desire to be constantly fretting about the woman!
He looked up from Jenny’s teasing face and caught Nerissa Trelyn eyeing him.
He bowed.
She turned away, pretending not to have seen him.
Bryght saw a possible solution to his dilemma. What was the connection between Portia and Nerissa? If Portia was safe beneath the wings of the Trelyns, Bryght need never concern himself with her again.
He removed Jenny’s possessive hand and kissed it. “Alas, but I must leave you again, dear lady.”
“Indeed?” Her dark eyes cooled. “If you return to that red-haired dab, I will begin to think you insincere, my lord.”
Jenny clearly thought that threat would control him, but Bryght merely said, “That would be unfortunate,” and left her to interpret it as she wished.
As he crossed to where Portia stood with her brother, he prayed that Bridgewater not require large new sums of money. Before today, he had thought that making a practical marriage with Jenny Findlayson would be easy enough.
Now, for some reason, it was looking like a labor of Hercules.
Portia had blocked Bryght Malloren out of her mind so successfully that she was startled to hear his voice at her shoulder. “Miss St. Claire, a word with you, if you please.”
She turned warily.
“What, pray, is your connection to the Gloucestershire St. Claire family?”
Portia was so disordered by his return that she could hardly think. She managed to answer coherently, however. “That was my father’s family, my lord. He was a younger son of Lord Felsham.” She was pleased enough to let him know that she was not a complete nonentity.
“Then perchance, is Lady Trelyn a connection?”
Distrusting everything about this encounter, Portia frowned at him. “Lady Trelyn?”
“Oh come, Portia,” Oliver interrupted. “Nerissa Trelyn! You asked about her earlier.”
“She was a St. Claire before she wed,” said Bryght.