Chapter Seven
It’s really not my day.
Cursing his rotten luck, Stephen shrank back into the shadows.
Not only had he disgraced himself in front of a lady, whimpering like a babe at the sound of the fireworker’s entertainment, he now found himself in a compromising position with her in the library—in front of her brother.
Like all men, he understood what was required of him in such situations. Even if there were no fault on either side, he’d be required to do the honorable thing.
Though, he had to admit, there were worse women for whom he’d be forced to do the honorable thing.
The tenderness in Lady Portia’s eyes belied the brittle superiority of ladies of her station, and the soft tone of voice when she’d taken his hand and brought him back from the brink of hell spoke of a far superior woman.
A woman with whom even the most hard-hearted man could easily find himself falling in love, to the point of his own destruction.
Her eyes glittered with anger as she placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not a footman you can order about, Adam,” she addressed the man in the doorway, whose powerful frame filled the space. “I’ve”—she glanced back toward Stephen—“we’ve done nothing wrong.”
“We?” the man said, a mocking tone in his voice. “Then what were you doing?”
“Discussing Shakespeare.”
“Seriously?”
Lady Portia let out a huff. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Adam. Didn’t you once say that Shakespeare’s works were books to have on one’s shelf to give the appearance of gentility, but were not something one actually read? At least, not something you’re capable of reading?”
“That’s no way to talk to me, Portia, given the situation I find you in.”
The man’s voice—deep and rich—sounded familiar. Then he stepped forward and the candlelight illuminated his face.
Shit.
The Duke of Foxton.
Lady Portia’s brother was the Duke of bloody Foxton?
In which case, no matter what Stephen said in his defense, he was done for.
Foxton wasn’t known for a forgiving nature—quite the opposite.
Which perhaps explained his appeal to the opposite sex—too many women were drawn to a rake in the hope that they might tame him.
But more often than not they were savaged, their hearts and reputations ripped to shreds.
In fact, Foxton was the very sort of man with whom Stephen wanted little to do—the sort of man he needed to protect his sister against.
“I beg your pardon?” the duke said, taking a step toward Stephen.
“Adam, leave him be,” Lady Portia said, catching his arm. “Or would you call out everyone who expresses disappointment on your entering a room?” She let out a sharp, cold laugh. “If you did that, you’d be dueling with almost every soul in Town—except the women you’ve not ruined yet, of course.”
Stephen flinched in anticipation, but, rather than the anger he’d expected, the duke gave a cold smile.
“Ah, so that’s it?” he sneered. “You’ve decided to carry out your threat to ruin yourself in the hope that I’d demand this fellow here offer his hand?”
“Of course not,” she retorted. “I’ve no intention of marrying him, or anyone else.”
Rather than the sense of relief at being released of any obligation, Stephen felt a pang of disappointment. Her spirited defiance of her domineering brother warmed his blood, and his breeches became a little too tight.
“I apologize for my sister’s behavior,” Foxton said. “I trust you’ll show discretion and speak nothing of what transpired here tonight? I shall of course say nothing. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Lady Portia snorted, and Foxton’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Will you not at least reveal yourself?” the duke said. “You’ll not be in any trouble with your mistress.”
Dear Lord, did the duke think Stephen a footman?
Stephen moved forward, and Foxton drew in a sharp breath.
“Colonel Reid!”
“You know him?” Lady Portia said.
“Of course.” The duke’s lips twisted into a smirk.
“Made a fool of yourself with the younger Howard girl, didn’t you?
Trotting after her like a lovesick puppy, then after she rejected you, you went sniffing after her sister before she fled London under a cloud of gossip.
” He tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps my sister’s not at fault here.
Scandal follows you around like a cloud of flies.
Are you here to sniff around the sister of a duke? ”
“Adam, sometimes you can be an utter arse,” Lady Portia said. “The only man who’s been sniffing around me, as you so elegantly put it, is that horrid Moss creature. And, to be frank, any man you feel the need to deter me from is, by definition, more favorable in my eyes than a man you’d recommend.”
“You don’t trust my judgment?”
“I trust your judgment as much as I trust your literary intelligence.” She picked up the book from the floor. “Do you even know the story—who the lead character is in The Merchant of Venice? It was our mother’s favorite play.”
The duke shrugged. “I care not. But if you think I’ll let you make a fool of yourself because of your romantic sensibilities…”
She threw back her head and laughed, and Stephen’s heart tightened at the expression in her eyes. Ye gods, she was a beautiful creature when angry, but when she laughed, her beauty rendered her otherworldly.
Then she sobered and met Stephen’s gaze. “Forgive me, colonel,” she said. “Were you very much in love with Juliette Howard, or Lady Staines, as she is now?”
Stephen’s cheeks warmed with shame at the memory of how he’d trotted after Juliette, mesmerized by her beauty, with no consideration of her character—and then how he’d fancied himself in love with Juliette’s sister merely because she reminded him of her.
But in the months since he’d shown himself to be an utter fool, his eyes had been opened to the superficiality of Society and its obsession with beauty—at least beauty on the surface.
The ugliness of war, the broken bodies and stench of death, had taken root in his soul, bleeding into his very essence and changing him forever.
Men like Broom, with their cheerful optimism, could weather the horrors of war.
But not me. I’m weak, unworthy of the uniform I wear.
“There’s no shame in it, colonel,” Lady Portia said.
Dear God—had he spoken aloud?
“In what, sister?” the duke said, frowning.
“In falling in love. The rules of our Society prevent men and women from discovering enough about each other to make an informed decision as to whether they will be happy partnered for life. And men, as the weaker sex”—she shot a look at her brother—“will always value a woman based on her appearance. Juliette Howard is an exceptionally beautiful creature, but she is happy with Lord Staines. The two of them are a perfect match, therefore she could never have made you truly happy, colonel.”
“What nonsense you utter,” the duke said.
“So speaks a man who cares little for a woman’s happiness.”
“A woman’s happiness!” he scoffed. “Your needs are simple—a secure home, a strong husband, and a position in Society. I daresay Lady Staines is happy, given that she’s been elevated from a commoner’s daughter to an earl’s wife.
” He glanced at the door. “Perhaps we should return to the ballroom before we’re missed—to preserve my sister’s reputation. ”
Stephen nodded. “Of course.”
The duke offered his arm to Lady Portia. She hesitated and his expression hardened, then she sighed and linked her arm with his and they exited the library.
“Colonel, I trust you’ll say nothing of what transpired in here tonight,” Foxton said.
“Of course,” Stephen replied. “Nothing untoward happened. Besides, I have more to lose than she.”
Lady Portia glanced at him, and Stephen’s heart ached at the compassion in her eyes.
The duke chuckled. “Hardly,” he said. “You’re a man and should have nothing to fear from a little scandal, at least not compared to a woman. With that attitude, how the devil did you survive Waterloo?”
“Adam!” Lady Portia snapped. “It’s not the done thing for a man who languishes in the comfort of his townhouse to question the character of those who risk their lives for their country.”
“But—” he began, but she interrupted.
“Colonel, I sympathize on your having endured the rejection of someone you loved—or at least believed yourself to be in love with.”
“Rejection!” the duke scoffed. “I wouldn’t stand for such treatment.”
“That’s because you’re a rake, brother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment—shouldn’t I, colonel?”
Lady Portia saved Stephen the need to respond. “Yes, you would, Adam,” she said. “But rakes only amuse in fiction. I prefer to live in reality. Residing in fiction will only result in ruination and despair.”
“Aye,” Stephen said. “I loathe any form of deceit. Anyone who is not who they seem is deceiving the rest of the world.”
“A little subterfuge can be forgiven if the objective is honorable,” Lady Portia said. “Don’t you recall the Phoenix?”
“The Phoenix?” Stephen asked.
“An infamous thief,” the duke said. “How he escaped the gallows, I’ll never know.”
“Rumor has it that he was a she,” Lady Portia said.
“I trust you’re mistaken,” Stephen said. “No woman in possession of her wits would undertake such a dangerous venture.”
Her eyes flared with indignation, then she looked away.
“Well, whoever he—or she—was,” the duke said, “they stole a number of precious heirlooms a year or so ago, and evaded justice.”
“Only it wasn’t theft,” Lady Portia said. “It was redemption. Those heirlooms belonged to another, and the Phoenix returned them to their rightful owner.”
Surely she wasn’t defending the perpetrator of a crime? Or perhaps she knew more about the identity of the Phoenix than she cared to admit. After all, no man knew precisely what women talked about when they indulged in their tea parties and afternoons of gossip promenading in the park.
“Very well, then,” the duke said. “What about this masked duelist—the Farthing, or whatever he calls himself. Surely you cannot leap to his defense.”
Lady Portia stiffened, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes.
“The Farthing?” Stephen asked.
“A man who serves cowards,” the duke said, his voice laced with contempt. “A duelist who profits from dishonor, acting as a proxy—for a fee, of course—for men who are too weak to face up to the consequences of their actions.”
Stephen shook his head. “A man who takes payment for killing others?”
“Is that not the same as a soldier, colonel?” Lady Portia said.
Ye gods! Perhaps there was some truth in the maxim that a woman’s place was in the home, if she harbored such notions.
“It most certainly is not, Lady Portia,” he said, unable to temper the vehemence in his tone.
She flinched. “I meant no offense.”
“Forgive me, Lady Portia, neither did I—but soldiering is a necessity to maintain the peace. No soldier takes enjoyment from shooting another man, even if that man is the enemy. A soldier who takes pleasure in killing does not deserve his uniform, and anyone seeking to shoot another at dawn in the name of honor does not deserve to be called a man, let alone a gentleman.”
“Perhaps the Farthing’s intention is to prevent death,” she said.
“I doubt that,” Stephen said. “He sounds like the very worst of reprobates, profiting from such activity.”
“Pay no attention to my sister, colonel,” the duke said. “Women know little of such things. But I must disagree with you on the matter of fear. A man who fears is a coward, and the militia is not in need of cowards.”
“There’s no cowardice in admitting one’s fear,” Lady Portia said. “Quite the opposite.”
“How so?” Stephen asked.
She turned her sapphire gaze onto him, and a spark of need ignited in his heart.
“Courage—true courage—is admitting to your fears and still sallying forth into battle. I daresay each and every soldier at Waterloo experienced fear at some point.”
They neared the entrance to the ballroom, where the guests milled about the floor.
“Ah!” Foxton said. “The dancing’s about to resume. I trust you’ll not disappoint me again tonight, sister.”
Lady Portia frowned, but Stephen caught a flicker of despair in her eyes.
“Perhaps, Lady Portia, if you’re not engaged, you might partner me for the next dance,” he said.
“Partner you?” Foxton raised his eyebrows.
“I submit myself to the prospect of your rejection, Lady Portia,” Stephen said, offering his hand.
“Sir Ambrose Cholmondeley-Walker wishes to dance with you, sister,” Foxton said. “That’s why I came to find you. He made such a point of asking me.”
“Then he ought to have asked me first, given that you’re not the one who’d have to dance with him,” she retorted. “You may be my gaoler, Adam, but you’re not my owner. Besides, I cannot think of anything worse than dancing with a man with whom it would be impossible to enjoy a conversation.”
“How so?” Stephen asked.
She met his gaze and grinned, and his heart was lost. “With a name like Cholmondeley-Walker, each time I address him, I’ll have run out of breath before I can make my point, and the dance will be over.”
“Portia,” the duke warned. He fixed his gaze on Stephen, disapproval in his eyes.
Stephen backed away. The pain and humiliation of Juliette Howard’s rejection still ached, and, as any professional soldier understood, some battles were lost even before the first shot was fired.
A weak soldier still suffering from the nightmares of war was no match for the Duke of Foxton with his reputation for ferocity and strength of will, and nor was he a match for the sister of such a man.
But, before he could withdraw completely, Lady Portia took his hand, and he caught his breath at the fizz of need as her warm fingers slid against his.
“Colonel, it would be my pleasure to dance with you.”