Chapter Five
“Sister, your dance card is not full.”
Portia glared at her brother. “Am I not to be granted some respite, or would you have me sprain my ankle from fatigue?”
“Sir Heath Moss is eager to dance with you again.”
“One dance with that rake is more than enough for any woman to stomach. I wouldn’t want to be seen to encourage him by agreeing to a second dance.”
Besides, at dawn tomorrow, she would be taking Sir Heath’s place in a duel against Lord Maybury.
It wouldn’t do to spend too much time with the man in case he recognized her.
The hunger in his eyes was, she assumed, merely animal lust, but it was best not to rely on it being the spark of recognition.
“A man as popular with the ladies as he does you great honor asking for a second dance.”
Portia snorted. “His popularity, as you call it, is purely due to his looks, which he uses to his advantage.”
“Granted, he’s a little wild, but marriage to the right woman will settle him.”
Portia’s stomach tightened with nausea. Sweet Lord—surely her brother didn’t mean to shackle her to that reprobate?
“I beg to disagree, Adam,” she said. “His idea of the right woman is one with a title and a large enough dowry to fund his excesses. He only associates with you because of your higher rank.”
“Are you saying you dislike him because he’s only a baronet?”
“I dislike him because he’s a rake and a bully, with a reputation for compromising innocents.”
“I’ve not heard of any such reputation.”
“You wouldn’t, seeing as you’re a man,” Portia said. “He’s known to have bedded half the married women in the ballroom tonight.”
“I’ve always found him an amiable fellow.”
“Of course you do, given that each time you see him, it must be like looking in a mirror.”
She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip, while his eyes darkened in anger. Most likely she’d pay for her defiance, but if she’d already earned her punishment, she might as well indulge in the crime a little further.
“I wonder, brother, if the two of you compare notes on the innocents you’ve ruined? Do you keep a tally in the bet book at White’s? The first man to lift the skirts of twenty maidens wins half a crown?”
“Don’t be so crude. It’s unbecoming in a woman of your station.”
“So is ruining myself with a footman,” she retorted, “but I’ll do just that if you persist in partnering me with Sir Heath.”
“Then you’d have to marry him,” he replied. “If you ruin yourself, I shall walk you down the aisle, in chains if need be, to the man of my choosing. There are plenty who’d be prepared to take a titled lady for a wife even if she’d been soiled by another.”
“Why, you—”
She raised her hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist. His grip firm and unyielding, he lowered her hand with measured slowness.
“Sister dear, we cannot have you insulting our hosts with your behavior.”
“I hate you,” she spat, snatching her hand free, and he let out a sigh.
“You may hate me, Portia, but I only act out of love for you,” he said.
“You’ve no income, save that which I provide, and the trustees will only release your fortune on your marriage.
Therefore, you have no means with which to support yourself without a loving brother or husband to take care of you. ”
“But it’s not—”
“Not fair?” he said. “I know that. But it’s the world in which we live. Find yourself a kind and generous husband and your position will be considerably better than mine.”
“I have no need for a husband.”
He let out a laugh. “You have some secret income that I know nothing of?”
A ripple of apprehension threaded through her. “Of course not,” she said, averting her gaze to prevent him from seeing the falsehood in her eyes.
“Then what are you speaking of?” he asked. “Is there something on your mind?”
“My mind is my own, brother,” she replied. “But I’ll tell you this for free: I despise men who boast of their prowess—men who seem to think a woman will be tempted by his tales of his virility.”
“Then perhaps I ought to partner you with Lord Devereaux. He’ll never regale you with tales of his virility. In fact, he won’t speak at all.”
He gestured toward a corner where a man stood apart from the rest of the company, clutching a glass in his hand.
His whole form exuded hostility. His attention, which was fixed for the most part on his drink, occasionally was diverted to the rest of the company, when his dark gaze swept across the ballroom before returning to his glass.
The only acknowledgment he gave of the presence of another creature was a polite nod to their hostess.
“His disinclination to speak is an advantage,” Portia said.
Almost as if he’d heard, Lord Devereaux lifted his gaze to hers, then he frowned and looked away.
“Sadly,” she added, “it comes with a permanent state of sour-temperedness.”
“Then the two of you have much in common.” Almost as soon as her brother spoke the words, regret glimmered in his eyes. “Forgive me, sister,” he said. “I only speak out of my love for you.”
“So you have said, at least twice. But I judge a man by his actions, not his words.”
“Then let me act and make amends for being such an overbearing brother,” he said, offering his arm. “It’s almost time for the entertainment. I hear Countess Thorpe has employed a fireworker.”
“A what?”
“Come and see,” he said, leading her toward the terrace. “It’s all the fashion this year.”
“Come, mes amis!” a bright voice trilled.
Henrietta, Countess Thorpe, glided toward the terrace, arm in arm with her husband, and Portia suppressed a pang of envy at the tenderness in Earl Thorpe’s expression as he looked at his wife.
Henrietta was something of a harridan—in fact, it was she who’d introduced Portia to the delights of marksmanship—and yet she had found a husband who loved her in spite of her tomboyish ways… or perhaps because of them.
The company followed, among them the Duke of Sawbridge and his new duchess. The man once labeled as the worst reprobate of the ton turned to his wife and kissed her—thoroughly tamed and completely in love.
The entire company seemed to consist of people in pairs. Everyone seemed to be one half of a happy couple—or if not completely happy, then at least satisfied with their partner.
Everyone except me.
Portia spied Sir Heath Moss’s blond head among the crowd. He turned to face her, and his handsome face broke into a smile. He moved toward her, and she withdrew her arm from her brother’s.
“I’m in need of a little solitude, Adam,” she said. “I’ve had more than enough of Sir Heath Moss for a lifetime, let alone an evening. I know my reluctance to marry disappoints you—everything about me disappoints you—but shackle me to him and you’ll be condemning me to a life of misery.”
“Don’t you wish to be loved, Portia?” her brother asked, his voice softening.
“What do you know of love?”
“Perhaps nothing,” came the reply. “But look at Sawbridge over there. Do you not wish to be loved as he loves his duchess?”
“And who among the posing peacocks here tonight do you think capable of loving me as much as Sawbridge loves his wife? Mimi is one of the more fortunate women of my acquaintance.”
“But she endured much before she found happiness.”
“Yes,” Portia replied, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “All at the hands of men. For every Mimi, I’ll wager there are a thousand women who fell into ruination and despair and never found redemption.”
“That fate does not await you, Portia,” he said. “I’ll make sure of that.”
“Why must I depend on you to ensure my happiness?”
“Because I’m your brother, and I’ll never forsake you.”
“No matter what?”
He nodded.
At that moment, an explosion sounded outside, together with a flash of light in myriad colors. A ripple of “oohs” and “aahs” threaded through the company, followed by gloved applause.
“You’re missing the show,” he said.
“Then don’t let me detain you,” she replied. “You can occupy Sir Heath better than I.”
He let out a huff, but did not attempt to stop her as she exited the ballroom. As she reached the door, she glanced back to see her brother catch Sir Heath’s sleeve, thereby preventing him from following.
Perhaps her brother did love her after all—at least enough to give her respite from the company of rakes. For tonight, anyway.
But what of tomorrow?