Chapter 7 #2
She went over to the railings to enjoy the antics of the four young children. One young lad caught sight of her and waved shyly. Portia waved back. The nurse was watchful, but did not interfere and so Portia paused to wistfully enjoy the little ones.
There had been suitors for her hand, but none she had been willing to accept.
Her mother thought her unreasonable, but Portia needed to feel absolute trust in a man before she would give her life into his keeping.
She had expected Hannah to understand this after her disastrous first marriage, but Portia’s mother seemed to think that any man was better than none.
If Portia had accepted one of the offers, however, she might have had children of her own. Now her chances were gone, for she was past her prime and without any kind of dowry.
She had been resigned to her spinster state for years, but she had hoped to be aunt to Oliver’s children. She had thought to live on at Overstead, working to make the estate prosper, enjoying nieces and nephews. Her mother expected to be there to enjoy her gardens and her grandchildren….
One of the children looked up and Portia thought the child had noticed her distress. But the girl looked beyond Portia and shouted, “Zeno!”
Portia turned and found herself looking at Bryght Malloren across the width of the street.
It took a moment for her to notice the large dog at his side, dark silky coat shining in the sunlight.
The dog was still as a statue except for a lazily waving tail, but its bright eyes were fixed on the children.
The children were coming at a run.
The smiling nurse opened the gate, and they spilled out. The children ignored the man and lunged at the dog. It dodged. Portia gasped, thinking it must turn on the innocent tormentors, but she soon saw that this was a familiar game of tag.
The dog weaved and danced, and the children chased after.
“You like children?”
Portia swung back and found Bryght Malloren had crossed to her side.
“Of course I like children.” Her heart was pounding and she was sure her cheeks had turned brick red.
“There’s no of course about it. Little monsters, every one.”
“Your dog does not seem to feel so.”
“He considers these exercises a noble sacrifice in the cause of educating the young.” His tone was perfectly serious, but there was a devastating twinkle in his eyes.
Portia could not help but smile back. “He looks to me to be having a wonderful time, my lord.”
“Hush! He thinks he has us all fooled.”
Portia’s smile widened. He echoed it, and she wished he had not done that. It seemed so genuine, as if he, too, were delighted by this chance encounter.
It was all facade, she told herself sternly, but his expression was so warm that it could melt the coolest common sense into soggy idiocy.
He was dressed plainly today in a dark jacket, brown leather breeches, and black boots. His dark hair was simply tied back and a trifle wind-blown. He carried a tricorn and crop so he must just have returned from riding.
Unlike his satin and powder of the park, there was nothing about these everyday clothes designed to attract or impress.
The effect, however, was even more perilous.
Such simple clothes made him seem more ordinary, more the sort of man Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset, could be expected to know.
To like.
To love, even.
Good heavens, no. Never that!
“You live here, my lord?” This was to remind herself that no one who lived in Marlborough Square was ordinary.
“Yes, over there.” He gestured to the most magnificent house on this side of the square. “Don’t be too impressed, though. It belongs to my brother.”
“The Marquess of Rothgar?” High aristocracy, Portia. Remember that.
He raised a brow. “Have you been studying my family tree, Miss St. Claire?”
Portia turned away to watch the play—and to hide her reddening cheeks. “Certainly not, my lord. All the world knows such things.”
He must have moved closer, for his deep voice came from just behind her. “What else does all the world know?”
Portia swallowed, but kept her voice brisk. “Begging for compliments, my lord?”
He laughed, and moved round into her line of sight so she had to look up at him or be pointedly impolite.
Oh dear. If Bryght Malloren was handsome solemn, he was devastating when lit by laughter. He had placed himself so that they were too close, intimately close….
“I doubt,” he said softly, “that much the world has to say about my family could be construed as complimentary.”
“They say you are rich.”
“But what do they say of how we make our money?”
“They say you intend to marry it.”
The words were out before she could stop them. Portia wished a convenient hole in the ground would open up for her.
“Don’t be uncomfortable,” he said. “It’s true. What choice do we poor second sons have?” But he took her hand and his thumb rubbed gently against the back of it. They were both gloved, but that did not seem to lessen the power of his touch.
“Hard work?” she queried, far more breathily than she wished.
“Heaven forbid.” He pulled slightly on her hand, pulled her toward him.
He wouldn’t! Not here, where people could be watching from any of a hundred windows.
“And they say you make it at the tables,” she snapped. This was as much to remind herself as to accuse him. He’s a gamester, Portia. The sort of man you most despise.
“All the world games.” He was still drawing her gently into his arms and, alarmingly, she lacked the will to resist.
But just then the swirling group of dog and children swung past, and Zeno performed a sharp turn to circle Bryght and Portia. In following, one child slipped and sprawled onto the ground with a wail.
Portia broke free of Bryght to help the child, but he was ahead of her. He swung the little girl smoothly to her feet, then crouched down at her level to straighten her hat on her short, mousy hair. “No great harm done, I think, little one.”
“I’m muddy,” the child said with a sniff.
“It’ll wash.”
“I hurt my hand.” The girl held out her right hand, which was scraped a little on the ball of the thumb.
Bryght took it and gave it serious study. “Mainly mud, I think. Shall I kiss it better? Or shall I kiss your hand as a gentleman kisses the hand of a lady?”
The girl, who was about five, looked at him in a surprisingly coquettish manner. She was undoubtedly destined to be a minx. “Properly,” she said, extending her hand, palm down in quite the right manner for a lady.
Bryght took the muddy paw and brushed a kiss over the knuckles, then rose to his feet.
He gave a sharp whistle, and Zeno evaded a clutching hand and trotted over to his side.
The flushed, excited children would have followed, but their nurse controlled them.
Bryght sent the girl to join them and they all disappeared into one of the houses.
At the last minute, the children turned to wave and Bryght waved back, grinning.
“Little monsters?” Portia queried, aware that her heart had just suffered a serious blow. He might be an aristocrat, a rake, and a gamester, but he liked children and was kind to them. She didn’t think she would ever forget him kissing the hand of a tearful infant.
“I’m waving them on their way,” he replied. He fondled his dog’s ears. “Miss St. Claire, may I present Zeno, the most stoical of dogs.”
The dog had indeed reverted to a stationary pose and an attitude of endless resignation.
Portia extended her hand, and when the dog showed no sign of objecting, stroked his silky head. “He’s beautiful.” As beautiful as his master, she thought, for in their dark leanness and fine bones there was a similarity. “What is he?”
“A Persian Gazelle Hound. There being no gazelles nearby, he feels no duty to exert himself.”
Portia addressed the dog. “Zeno, I think your master slanders you. You do not have the look of a sloth.”
“Nor do I,” said Bryght, “and yet am I not an idle, purposeless creature?”
Portia glanced up guiltily. It was as if he’d read her mind. He did look too alert, though, too strong, and too healthy for the life he supposedly led. “I do not know you, my lord.”
It was supposed to re-create the proper order of things, to remind both him and herself that they were strangers from different orders of society.
But he said, “That can be corrected, Hippolyta.” There was something in the tone, something in his eyes, that shivered along her nerves. “I would like to know you better.”
Know? As in the biblical sense?
Portia took a step back. “My lord, stop this.” She bumped up against the hard railings, trapped and reminded of Maidenhead. How could she have forgotten that violent encounter?
“Stop what?” He was all innocence, the wretch.
Portia raised her chin. “I do not want your attentions, my lord.” Even saying it sounded ridiculous and she thought he might laugh.
Instead, anger flashed in his eyes. “You refuse my attentions without even discussing the matter, Miss St. Claire?”
“Yes. There is nothing to discuss.”
“It seems to me that there is a great deal to discuss.”
“No!” she protested, thoroughly alarmed by how little she wanted to repulse him. “There is no price you could offer, my lord, that would persuade me to be your mistress.”
He stared at her and now he looked just like her moonlight marauder—capable of attack. Portia earnestly prayed that a hundred eyes were watching this encounter.
But then the anger was leashed. “How very insulting,” he drawled.
His cold eyes studied her, from her neat hat to her sturdy shoes, and all the while his crop tapped against his glossy boots.
“What if I were to pay all your brother’s debts, Miss St. Claire?
Would that weaken the shackles on your virtue? ”
Portia felt her eyes widening. “He owes five thousand guineas!”
“Is he worth five thousand guineas?”
“His estate is.”