Chapter 10 #2
He set one knee on the bed and leaned close to her. “Don’t tempt fortune, little one. I will make you burn again, my reckless Hippolyta and quench the flames, too. But not just yet.”
It was a promise, and Portia moved back.
Immediately, his hand slid around her neck, restraining her just inches away. “I won my bet, didn’t I?”
She wanted to say no, but honesty would not let her. “It will do you no good. I still won’t be your mistress.”
“Some fates cannot be avoided, petite. Remember that.” He released her and moved away.
Portia resolved to leave London on the morrow. At crack of dawn. On foot if necessary. With Fort here, the debt would soon be settled.
Fort!
Fort must have recognized her in order to have entered the bidding. How was she ever to face him? But she must face him in order to sort out Oliver’s problems and get them both out of the evil entanglements of London before it was too late.
Portia looked quickly at Bryght, who was putting on his clothes again.
Had he meant it when he said he’d give her the twelve hundred guineas?
It was an enormous sum, but would make all the difference.
Even if Fort wouldn’t help, the bank would surely take a mortgage for the remainder of the debt.
It would be much easier to pay it off, too.
She almost felt she should be grateful. Bryght had rescued her from worse men while leaving her virtue intact. By accident or design he’d solved her family’s problems, too.
Accident, for sure.
This whole event was probably part of his plan to seduce her.
He’d think after an experience such as this she’d be ready to accept any offer, even a dishonorable one.
If so, he had misplayed his hand. Tonight he had shown her that she could not trust her virtue and willpower once he turned his powers and skills against her.
That resolved her to avoid him forever.
She slid off the bed and straightened her twisted garments. She could almost feel again skillful hands roaming over her body with just two layers of cloth between them and her skin.
What would it be like skin to skin?
She shook her head. No.
Bryght was now dressed, though not nearly as neatly as he had been. He looked at her, then suddenly went to the bed and ripped off the sheet. He handed it to her and she gratefully wrapped it around herself.
But she didn’t want to be grateful to him.
He opened the door for her with courtly grace and she walked through expecting to have to face those evil, avid eyes again.
The entertainment was over, however, and the room had settled to other matters.
Drinking and gaming were going on, whilst on the dais, semi-naked women were striking lewd attitudes.
Portia turned quickly away. They, too, were acting sexual abandon just as she had done.
Except that in her case it hadn’t been acting, whereas in Bryght’s case it had. Portia realized she hated him for that.
A few people looked at her and grinned, but generally nothing was made of their emergence. A very fat, sour-faced man sat nearby. “I give you your victory, my lord,” said the man, handing over a slip of paper and eying Portia. “But it was a tame show. Damme if it wasn’t.”
Portia clutched the sheet closer, feeling fouled by the look in his eye.
Bryght merely said, “I recommend subtlety to you, Mr. Prestonly, next time you attempt a virgin,” and steered Portia past the man and into the corridor.
Mirabelle came forward. “Come along, my dear, and we will settle accounts.”
Bryght followed and Portia turned on him. “I want nothing more of you.”
“You need my help, Hippolyta.”
“I do not. If you had the sensitivity of a…a snail, you’d go away!”
“Toads? Snails?” He grinned lightly. “My dear, you need help with your money. If you take it home your brother will dispose of it almost immediately.” He turned to the madam. “I’ll handle it all. I’ll send you your cut, and pay hers into a bank. I’ll take care of Cuthbertson, too.”
Mirabelle’s brows rose. “You are going to ruin a very profitable little business, my lord.”
“I doubt you’ll starve. You will see her safely home?”
“Very well.”
Bryght took out a gold and enamel snuff box and delicately took a pinch. “And you would not care to spend time in the pillory, would you, Mirabelle, or be whipped at the cart’s tail?”
The madam’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Threats, my lord?”
“Promises. You must take great care of her, and no one must ever suspect who Hippolyta is.”
“I do not know, and have no wish to.”
“One day, you will.”
Portia looked between them in bewilderment. Why did Mirabelle look maliciously amused? “Far be it from me,” said the madam, “to sully such perfect bliss.”
“What are you talking about?” Portia demanded.
Bryght replied. “We’re talking about keeping your identity concealed.”
“No one would recognize me like this,” she protested, but then Portia remembered that he obviously had and so had Fort. She clutched the sheet tighter.
“No one will identify you,” said Bryght, “unless suspicions are raised.”
Portia shivered. “You knew.”
“It was the name.”
“Fort knew.”
“I told him.” Before she could demand an explanation of that, he said, “No one will guess the truth if you behave as normal.”
She stared at him. “Just go home and act as if this had never happened?”
“What else? Very little did.”
“Very little? It doesn’t seem that way to me!”
He just smiled in a way that made her want to shoot him. “Mirabelle will make sure you are safe.” He bowed to her with elegance. “A bient?t, petite.” With that he returned to the company.
Portia watched him go with a sense of loss, for despite his words, he would not see her again soon. She was leaving London.
Mirabelle took Portia to her parlor. “Twenty percent to me, and three hundred to Cuthbertson. Your share of Bryght’s bid, my dear, is one hundred and eighty guineas. Hardly paltry for such light work.”
Portia thought with satisfaction that it was a great deal more, and even from the briefest acquaintance with the fat man, she knew Bryght was correct. She need feel no guilt at taking his money, though her conscience insisted that the wager had been less than honest.
Mirabelle took Portia to the bedroom. “You will want to dress.”
As soon as she was alone, Portia looked in a mirror, wondering what she would see. She saw a wild-haired stranger who had panted for Bryght Malloren. She shuddered at the memory, spat out the plumpers, tore off the mask, and unpinned the long, black wig.
There, her hair rather tightly dressed to her head, was Portia St. Claire again. Or was it? Portia St. Claire did not have such reddened lips—and the redness now was passion more than paint. She did not have such knowing, darkened eyes. She did not reek of a sultry perfume.
Portia ran to the wash basin. She scrubbed her face of paint, then stripped off the tawdry silk and adornments. As best she could she washed all trace of perfume from her skin.
Her shift still stank of it and so she left it off, and put her petticoat and stays against her skin, despite the itch they caused. She pulled on her sensible cotton stockings and her dimity gown and returned to the mirror. There at last was Portia St. Claire, spinster, of Overstead Manor, Dorset.
Still, at least, possessed of most of her virtue.
Bryght wanted to stay with Portia and see her home, but she was stretched to the breaking point. It was hardly surprising. He was feeling fragile himself. Quite apart from an uncomfortable state of arousal, he had been plunged into a depth of emotion he had not thought possible.
Had he ever thought he had been in love with Nerissa? Nothing he’d felt for her had been like this. Nerissa had been desirable for her beauty, her supposed virtue, and her eminent suitability to be a wife. His choice of her had been made on purely logical grounds.
Portia was simply necessary, and his feelings toward her had all the subtlety of a starving man’s feelings toward a roast of beef. If it hadn’t been for the voyeurs, he might not have found the strength to leave her untouched.
It was better, safer, to let Mirabelle see Portia home, and it would reinforce his disinterest in Hippolyta if he returned to his card game.
As he threaded his way through the noisy room, however, problems swirled in his head. Cuthbertson needed to be handled but any open move against the man might cause questions.
Something had to be done about Oliver Upcott.
Bridgewater would have to be notified that Bryght’s ability to support him further was lessened.
Plague take it, but it was a mess, so why was he finding it hard not to grin like a perfect fool?
He casually took his place at the card table, aware of intrigued looks from his friends. Nothing was said, however. Prestonly glowered at him, and though Bryght smiled back, his feelings about the man were similar. Perhaps he could take Prestonly for the rest of Portia’s five thousand pound debt.
That would be satisfying.
But at the end of a few hands, Bryght had actually lost a little. He called a halt and ordered wine, taking the opportunity to rise from the table and move a few steps away.
Could he trust Mirabelle to take care of Portia properly? She surely knew the perils of crossing a Malloren….
Andover joined him. “What was all that about?”
Bryght sipped the port. “A wager.”
“Indeed?” said Andover skeptically. “Of your own making. It’s not like you to take a man like Prestonly seriously.”
“I had my reasons.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Andover, too, sipped his wine and mischief glimmered in his eyes. “I think of a hopeless gamester, a sister, and one of Cuthbertson’s debtors….”
Bryght flicked him a glance. “Think no more.”
Andover blinked. “My dear, my mind is a perfect blank. But a thought does intrude, alas. How are you going to guard against the next time?”
Bryght tapped a finger against his glass. “That had occurred to me.” He shrugged and returned to the table. “Let us resume, gentlemen.”