Chapter Six
As Portia made her way to the library, she passed a window and glanced outside.
A burst of light filled the sky, followed by an explosion, then it shattered into a hundred stars that lingered in the air for a heartbeat.
Almost like the dandelion heads she used to pick as a child.
Then the lights dispersed, like dandelion seeds in a gust of wind, radiating outward then dissolving into the ink-colored background.
She entered the library and closed the door, and the cheering and laughter faded.
But the explosions continued, deep in pitch, such that she could almost feel them vibrating in her bones.
Two candles beside the fireplace cast a warm yellow light across the wall that flickered and danced.
After each explosion outside, a flash of light filtered through the curtains, illuminating the gold embossing of the rows of books that lined the walls.
A faint scratching sound came from the opposite end of the room. Portia caught her breath and cast her gaze about, but she saw nothing save the shadows that grew deeper in the corners. Most likely a mouse had taken refuge from the Thorpes’ housecat, seeking respite in the darkness.
Perhaps that’s what I am, a mouse seeking refuge from predators in the shape of hungry suitors desperate to win me—or, rather, my title and dowry—with soulless flattery.
Why did every man she’d met seem to think that flattery was the way to her heart?
Every man except one—the brooding specimen she’d encountered at the hospital whose only redeeming feature was his devotion to Captain Broom, the merriest soldier in all England.
Heaven, deliver me from the male sex!
And where better to seek deliverance than a library?
Particularly this one. Earl Thorpe was renowned for having an excellent library—even Portia’s brother remarked on it.
Among the historical and theological works and journals was a collection of literary and artistic works that had expanded over the years, courtesy of the countess.
And, unlike most members of Society, the Thorpes were known to actually read their books.
Portia approached one wall and ran her fingertips along the spines, tracing the outlines of the titles embossed in gold leaf. She smiled to herself as she traced the name of the author.
William Shakespeare.
She continued along the row until she found the title she sought.
The hand of providence, perhaps—how else could she have found that very work in a room that must house five hundred books at least?
Clutching the book like a prized possession, she crossed the floor and settled into an armchair beside one of the candles, then she opened the book and flicked through the pages to the passage she sought.
Another explosion sounded in the distance, together with a cheer.
Then she heard it—a long, low growl.
The skin on the back of her neck tightened with apprehension.
It was no mouse. Nor was it a cat.
Holding the book in one hand, she picked up the candle, then approached the corner from where the sound had come. Her stomach clenched in fear as a shadow shifted in the darkness, moving slowly back and forth.
“Is someone there?” she said, unable to temper the tremor in her voice.
The fireworker outside let off another explosion, and a long, low moan came from the apparition in the corner. With a shriek, Portia stepped back, almost losing her grip on the candle.
You fool!
What would her brother think of her, frightened of a shadow?
She held the candle aloft, and the shadow dissolved to reveal the figure of a man.
Crouched in the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, he rocked back and forth.
“Sir?” Portia asked.
He made no response, and she moved closer.
“Sir, are you well?”
The rocking ceased and he lifted his head. Soft brown eyes stared ahead, dark against the pallor of his face, which was surrounded by a thick mane of honey-blond hair, and a shock of recognition coursed through her.
It was the man from the hospital.
“Colonel…” Curse it, what was his name? She’d thought of him as Colonel Crabby, after cursing the Almighty for always blessing the handsomest men with the sourest temperaments. But perhaps he had a reason for his poor disposition—a reason that gave rise to his suffering now.
He closed his eyes and mumbled to himself.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Portia said. “I did not hear you.”
The mumbling continued, and she caught a single word…
Battle.
Then another explosion echoed outside and he flinched. His eyes opened, glazed with fear.
“They’re shooting,” he groaned.
“No, sir, it’s merely a—”
“Death!” he interrupted. “They’re dead because of me. I can see them…” His head jerked to one side. “Bodies—surrounded by bodies…everywhere.”
“There’s no battle here,” Portia said. “You’re in Earl Thorpe’s library.”
He shook his head with a frantic, jerking motion, and she reached for his sleeve. As soon as she touched it, he jerked away, falling back against the wall. His eyes widening, he shuffled backward until he was pressed against the wall, and lowered his head, staring at the floor.
“Colonel…” she began, and he flinched.
“Begone, demon!” he cried. “I’m destined for Hades, but you’ll not take me yet.”
Reid! That was it.
“Colonel Reid!” Portia cried, and he jerked his head up.
“H-have I seen you before?” he croaked.
“At the hospital,” she said, “visiting the wounded soldiers, including your friend.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes and he tilted his head to one side. Then his gaze began to shift out of focus.
“You’re not at the mouth of Hades, Colonel Reid,” she said, “and I’m no demon. I’m a mortal woman.”
“N-no…”
Portia crouched beside him and set her book on the floor. “Colonel, may I take your hand?”
His lack of response she took for assent, and she slipped her hand in his.
For a moment, it lay limp and unresponsive, then his fingers curled around hers, his touch solidifying as, perhaps, did his awareness of his surroundings.
She caught her breath as a fizz of want bubbled in her center at the feel of his skin against hers.
Then she chided herself. Now was not the time to succumb to desire, no matter how his strong-featured face had slipped into her dreams in the nights since she’d first seen him at the hospital—his brooding demeanor in contrast to Captain Broom’s more congenial disposition.
What had Dr. McIver said?
Some men suffer as much as those whom the war has maimed.
In fact, perhaps they suffered more—their injuries were not visible and therefore ignored and laughed at by an uncaring world.
What horrors had this man witnessed to cause such suffering?
“Colonel Reid, do you remember me?”
He lifted his gaze and his eyes began to focus, the wildness in their expression fading, to be replaced by a sheen of shame.
“Colonel,” Portia said, lowering her voice to a gentle whisper, “tell me what you see.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be a fool.”
At that moment, another bang sounded outside and he flinched, his forehead creasing in pain. She lifted his hand to her lips, and he drew in a sharp breath. Warm brown eyes fixed on her, then darkened to the color of mahogany as he slid his fingers across hers, interlocking their hands.
“The battlefield…”
“No, colonel,” she whispered. “We’re in a library. Tell me what you see.”
He blinked and shifted his gaze. “A candle,” he said.
“Very good. What else?”
He blinked, slowly, and his chest rose and fell in a deep breath.
“Books,” he said. “Hundreds of books—lining the walls.”
“Can you describe them?”
He paused, then nodded. “Row upon row, the spines glistening in the candlelight, green and gold. No—red.” He looked to the book at Portia’s feet.
“Ah, Shakespeare. The Merchant of Venice.” Then his lips curved upward.
“Portia,” he said. “Are you Portia come to life from the page? Are you in my mind?”
“I am no character in a play,” she replied. “Nor do I exist only in your imagination. I’m Lady Portia Hawke. Do you not remember me?”
“Lady Portia…”
For a moment he stared at her, then recognition filled his gaze and he colored.
“Dear Lord—what you must think of me!” he said. He tried to rise, then fell back, and she caught his hand.
“Sir, you’re unwell,” she said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t attempt to stand until you’re feeling better. May I bring you something? A brandy, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“I understand your distress, colonel,” Portia said. “Did you fight at Waterloo alongside Captain Broom?”
Shame flickered in his eyes and he looked away.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in experiencing distress after a war,” Portia said. “I cannot imagine what you must have experienced.”
“I’m not injured, Lady Portia,” he said, his voice hardening. “A bout of weakness is all I’ve endured tonight. It will not happen again. Now, permit me to stand.”
He tried to move, and she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I see no weakness,” she said. “I’d sooner call it weak to deny your pain—even that which is not physical.”
At a further explosion outside, he flinched, and she squeezed his hand.
“Our hosts are entertaining the guests with a fireworker,” she said. “It’s all the fashion this Season—or so my brother says.”
“Why are you in here, then?”
“To seek respite from the crowds.”
Another bang came, followed by a volley of explosions and a distant cheer.
“I think perhaps the fireworker is approaching his finale,” Portia said, as the explosions increased in intensity.
He stiffened, and she sat next to him, curling her fingers around his.
“I prefer to wait somewhere quiet until the entertainment is over,” she said, while he continued to shake. “A ball has three purposes, does it not? Music, dancing, and conversation. I think fireworkers are best suited to public entertainment, don’t you?”
“I-I suppose so.”
“Perhaps Countess Thorpe intends for her guests to enjoy a quieter mode of entertainment near the end of the evening,” she continued. “I saw the Duchess of Sawbridge among the guests. She’s fond of Bach, and has become quite the proficient. Perhaps she’ll entertain us over supper.”
“S-Sawbridge?” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. Her attempt at Society conversation was at least diverting his attention from the noise outside.
“He’s something of a reprobate, you know,” she added.
“I’m sure you heard the rumors. Not that I applaud the spreading of gossip—I leave that to Lady Francis.
Have you had the fortune, or otherwise, of being sat next to her at the supper table?
She’s too apt to poke her nose in the affairs of others.
Eleanor has sketched a particularly wicked likeness of her, with the nose a little too long. ”
His eyes flared with recognition. “E-Eleanor?”
“The Duchess of Whitcombe,” Portia said. “Perhaps you know her? She’s not fond of loud noises either. Or crowds.”
“Y-yes, I know her.”
“Then we’ve at least one acquaintance in common.”
At that moment, footsteps approached in the corridor outside, and the colonel let out a curse. “Bugger.”
“Hush!” Portia whispered. “It’s likely Sir Baldwin Manby-Bresswell attempting an early visit to the buffet—though, given his portliness, I’d have expected the ground to shake under his weight.”
He let out a snort, and his eyes twinkled with mirth.
“That’s better,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder whether you knew how to smile. Your face hasn’t cracked, so you must have smiled before.”
A final cheer rose in the distance, followed by applause.
“Ah,” she said. “Perhaps the entertainment is done and it’s time for supper. Shall we return to the ballroom?”
She rose to her feet, and he followed suit. At that moment, the library door was flung open and a dark silhouette filled the doorway.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” a voice roared, and Portia’s stomach twisted in apprehension as she recognized the voice.
She rose to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her gown. “Brother, I’m—”
“Be quiet!”
Adam stepped into the library, the candlelight picking out his chiseled features and the cold fury in his eyes.
Sweet Lord.
She was ruined.