Chapter Three
Lady Portia Hawke slid into the seat opposite her brother. A footman approached with the plate of deviled kidneys and placed it before her.
“Thank you, Charles.”
Her brother frowned and sliced through his bacon, his knife scraping against the plate.
“What now, Adam?” she asked. “Am I not permitted to thank the staff?”
“It’s not your civility I take issue with, Portia,” he said, taking a bite of bacon. “It’s your lack of propriety…”
“And what of yours?”
“We’re not discussing my behavior,” he replied, his eyes darkening with anger. “My behavior does not risk bringing the Foxton title, or the Hawke family name, into disrepute. Yours, unfortunately, does.”
Portia resisted the urge to pull a face. Her brother always carried an air of menace about him, a layer of brutality concealed beneath his perfectly tailored exterior.
Which, for some unfathomable reason, women were attracted to. Perhaps they relished the prospect of danger—the thrill to be had from throwing themselves at the mercy of a demon.
Or perhaps they believed him a wild beast whom they could tame—which she would have laughed at had her position in life been cause for jollity. But, as his sister, she was at his mercy, and there was nothing to relish from her situation in life.
Except for the occasional dawn—and dusk—when Lady Portia Hawke transformed into a different creature altogether, one who exposed the weaknesses of men, and beat them at their own game.
“Why do you smile, Portia?”
She glanced up to see his gaze focused on her. “Because I’m enjoying my breakfast,” she replied. “Charles, please pass my compliments to Mrs. Winston—these kidneys are delicious.”
“Thank you, Lady Portia, she will be honored.”
“You’d have done the cook greater honor had you arrived at breakfast on time,” Portia’s brother said. “Perhaps there was some fault on the part of your maid.”
“It wasn’t Nerissa’s fault,” Portia replied. “I went for an early walk and she accompanied me. We returned just as your…guest was leaving.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Portia caught a sheen of discomfort in his expression.
“Yes, brother,” she said. “I find it somewhat ironic that you see fit to lecture me about decorum when we saw your mistress—or should I say one of your many mistresses—leaving our home, by the front door, if you please, for all of London to see, after presumably having spent the night in your bed.”
“Do not speak of such things,” he said with a growl. “It’s not becoming of the sister of a duke.”
“Even if that duke is free to do what he pleases, no matter how improper?”
“There’s no impropriety in my behavior, Portia.”
“Why, because you arrived at the breakfast table before seven?”
“No, because I’m a man.”
A knot of anger tightened in Portia’s stomach and she sliced her knife through a kidney, imagining it to be her brother’s heart.
“So I must abide by different standards to you, Adam, because of my sex?”
“Precisely.” He picked up his teacup and took a sip. “While you are unmarried, you’re required to behave, in order to secure a husband. After your marriage you must also behave to avoid casting any disgrace on your husband’s name. Whereas I—”
“Whereas you may do as you please?”
“Careful, sister,” he said, his lip curling into a smirk. “You’re sounding bitter.”
“We are equals, brother. I—”
“We both have rank, Portia, but that does not make us equal. Your rank brings with it the duty to secure a respectable marriage. My rank enables me to do as I please.”
“So my rank is a burden. But yours is a privilege—one that you should not abuse, even though you do.”
He set his teacup aside. “You ought to be careful, sister. There’s nothing so undesirable as a lady who answers back.”
“Except a man who indulges in the advantages of power, without the accountability.”
“You think I have no accountability?” he asked, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with anger. “My entire life is governed by duty and responsibility—responsibility to the title and the estate—”
“A responsibility you delegate to your steward.”
“—and a responsibility to the trustees,” he continued, ignoring her interruption. “Each month I must present myself to them to justify the funds I spend. I’m beholden to them for our very survival.”
“As I’m beholden to you,” she said, aware of the bitterness in her voice.
“I must come to you cap in hand if I want to do anything, or go anywhere. My world is restricted by the boundaries that you place around me. My life is dictated by the single objective placed before me—that of securing myself a husband, to whom you will relinquish your ownership of me at the altar. Even my fortune is nothing more than a financial inducement to tempt a man into marrying me, and it’ll pass to him to spend as he pleases.
Brother, I am not, and never will be, free. ”
“And you think I am?” he scoffed, before resuming his attention on the plate in front of him. “If so, then you’re less intelligent than I give you credit for.”
“I thought you placed no value on such qualities in a woman,” Portia said, slicing through another kidney, and wincing as the knife scraped against the plate. “Did I not overhear you say that a woman’s intellect was an impediment to her charms?”
“There’s no place in Society for an intelligent woman.”
“Mrs. Scarlet is not unintelligent,” Portia said. “She’s astute enough to ensure that she has several protectors rather than give men such as you exclusivity over her body, because she understands that men such as you are not to be trusted.”
“Cerise does not belong in Society,” he replied. “And I must remind you of the need to refrain from speaking of matters that are inappropriate for a young woman of your rank.”
With a sigh, Portia resumed eating her breakfast.
There was no arguing with him. And perhaps he was right.
Intelligence was an impediment to a woman in her position.
Better that she could walk blindly into matrimony and accept the bit and bridle placed upon her with little understanding of the loss of liberty.
Better that she were to value nothing more than a comfortable home, the ability to bear a man’s heirs, and enough pin money to purchase a few pretty gowns to alleviate any despondency.
Silence stretched around the room, punctuated by the scraping of cutlery.
At length, her brother nodded to the footmen, who began clearing the plates.
“I give you more freedom than I am required, Portia,” he said, his voice softening.
“Perhaps, in your own way, you believe that, Adam.”
“I permit you to indulge in your little fancies,” he said. “Your wounded soldiers, for instance.”
“I thought tending to the sick was an acceptable occupation for a lady. Or are we supposed to merely throw a handful of coins at a hospital and let others do the work to avoid sullying our own hands?”
“Are you visiting the hospital later?”
“Don’t feign an interest in my life, brother. It does not become you. But yes, I’m assisting Dr. McIver today.”
“That charlatan! His overly modern ideas are, I hear, a danger to the profession.”
“I suppose you heard that from Dr. Lucas?” Portia let out a mirthless laugh.
“His idea of a cure is to cover the patient with leeches and be done with it, or to relieve a soldier of his limbs rather than use what little talent he has to treat an injury. Whereas Dr. McIver has written several papers on the treatment of fractures to ensure that young men are not maimed unnecessarily by those who profess to be experts in a field of which they understand very little.”
“I take it you’re championing your one-legged captain again?”
Portia bit her lip to suppress the rage swelling inside. “Captain Broom is a hero,” she said. “I doubt you would have acquitted yourself quite so well at Waterloo, whereas he—”
“Spare me your praise of Captain Broom,” Adam interrupted. “I fail to see how a man can be considered brave merely because he has one limb fewer than the rest of us. I only hope you’re not setting your cap at a man like that.”
“Stop it!” she cried. “He has more goodness and courage than the whole of your acquaintance put together. He has a fiancée, if you must know, and as soon as he returns to Yorkshire, they are to marry.”
“Assuming she still wants him.”
“Believe it or not, brother, not everyone is as shallow as you. Why wouldn’t his fiancée still wish to marry him? A loyal, dependable young man who risked his life to fulfil his duty to his country. Better that than a profligate duke who spends his days gaming and cavorting with whores.”
He set his teacup down with a clatter. Though she was likely to pay dearly for her taunt, it was a price worth paying for the pleasure of rattling him.
“And then there’s your other fancy,” he said. “Marksmanship is no occupation for a lady.”
Her stomach twisted in fear. Surely he didn’t know?
“Marksmanship?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Archery, or whatever you call it.”
Portia’s heart rate settled and she suppressed a sigh of relief. “You have some skill with a bow, brother,” she said, “or are you permitted to practice that skill because of your sex? And there are plenty of archers among our acquaintance. Lady Thorpe, for one.”
He rolled his eyes. “That hoyden. Thorpe gives his wife too much freedom—”
“Which perhaps explains why she’s happier than most Society wives. Her husband is not a heartless blackguard and he does not keep her in chains. It is fortunate for her, then, that she did not marry you.”
Portia’s brother rose to his feet, pushing his chair back, and she winced at the sound of wood scraping against wood.
He dropped his napkin on the table. “This conversation is over.”
“Why, because I have placed a mirror before your character and you dislike what you see?”
“No, because I’ve better things to occupy my time with than a discontented, sour-tempered female.”
“So you’re off to indulge in brandy at White’s to boast about your conquests and maybe compare notes on Mrs. Scarlet’s particular talents with the likes of Sir Heath Moss?”
His left eye twitched.
“Of course, brother,” she added, “like it or not, you will have to enter into the marriage state one day and temper your excesses.”
He shrugged. “And?”
“Then perhaps you’ll know what it’s like to be imprisoned.”
“A man is only imprisoned in a marriage if he has the misfortune to fall in love with his wife.” He issued a bow, clicking his heels together. “I shall bid you good day.”
He approached the doors, and the footmen pulled them open.
“Adam,” she called after him.
He turned at the doorway and raised his eyebrows.
“One day, brother, that stone in your chest that passes for a heart will soften, and you will fall in love. And then you shall know what pain is.”
“Dear sister,” he said, “I, as you so frequently point out, am not in possession of a heart. At least not for women. But you are right in that the duty of matrimony comes to us all. I am generous enough to fund your third Season, but I shall expect to see you engaged to a suitable man by the end of it. Failing that, I shall, myself, find a suitable man to take you off my hands.”
He turned his back and exited the breakfast room, the footmen closing the doors behind him.
Portia gripped her teacup, her knuckles whitening as she tightened her hold. What satisfaction would she get from flinging it across the room! But her brother would only laugh at her—and she’d be damned if she gave him the satisfaction, or gave the footmen more work in clearing up the mess.
I shall find a suitable man to take you off my hands.
Portia permitted herself a grin.
“Not if I’ve shot them all, brother.”