Chapter Eight
The colonel’s eyes widened in surprise as Portia took his hand. She shot her brother a look of warning, then led her partner into the center of the ballroom, giving Sir Ambrose Cholmondeley-Walker a cursory nod.
She could have weathered Sir Ambrose’s insipid company for a dance, but it was more prudent not to dance with the man with whom she’d undertaken a business transaction only a few nights before.
He lacked the wit to recognize her—and, like all men who believed themselves the superior sex, he’d never consider the notion that the Farthing was a woman.
But all astute businessmen—or businesswomen—avoided unnecessary risks.
Let him dance with Lady Manby-Bresswell.
But the lady in question was already partnered with Sir Heath Moss, under the watchful eye of the lady’s husband.
Good. It might present another business opportunity for the Farthing if Sir Baldwin saw fit to call Sir Heath out. Beneath the veneer of arrogance, Sir Heath was a coward and a notoriously poor shot—which made him the perfect client.
The couples lined up, and Portia’s heart soared to see dear Mimi at the head of the line with her husband, the Duke of Sawbridge.
Nobody in the room, not even the snobbish Miss Peacock, would daresay anything untoward about Mimi’s reputation.
It was the benefit of being a duchess, and no matter how much Portia despised Society’s obsession with rank, that very same obsession saved her dear friend from ridicule and censure.
Colonel Reid stiffened, tightening his grip on Portia’s hand. She glanced up to see him staring at a couple placed further down the line—Earl Staines and his wife, formerly Juliette Howard.
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “There’s naught to be ashamed of, colonel,” she said. “You’re a man, and like all men, rejection and refusal is the price you pay for having the power of choice.”
“The power of choice?” he asked as the dance began.
She took his hand and stepped forward in time to the music.
“When it comes to anything—dancing or matrimony—my sex is required to wait to be asked,” she said.
“Your sex has the freedom of choice to ask, or more often demand, whatever you wish—a commission in the army, a dance partner, a wife, or a business opportunity. You may make your wishes and desires known at any time and Society will applaud you for it, whereas we are required to keep silent until the final moment, where we are only given two responses to choose from—yes or no.”
“Do not underestimate the freedom to say ‘no,’ Lady Portia.”
The despondency in his voice pricked at her heart, and she caught sight of Lady Staines dancing, of the adoration in her eyes as she gazed at her husband.
“Did you love her very much, colonel?” Portia couldn’t help asking.
Colonel Reid frowned.
“Forgive me,” she said. “My brother’s always admonishing me for speaking out of turn.”
He caught her hand, and they moved in a figure-of-eight motion to the music. “You’re an accomplished dancer, Lady Portia,” he said.
“You needn’t divert my question with flattery, colonel,” she replied. “You have my permission to refuse to answer my question. As you put it so eloquently, do not underestimate the power of refusal.”
“It’s not flattery when I speak the truth, Lady Portia. Did I not say that I despise deception and those who perpetuate it?”
She flinched inwardly at the undercurrent of loathing in his voice when her brother had mentioned the Farthing. Trust Adam to say the wrong thing at the wrong moment! Though, of course, Adam had no knowledge of her clandestine business activities…or so she hoped.
No—if her brother knew, he’d keep her under lock and key at all hours of the day, only permitting her out on a leash to be paraded around the Marriage Mart.
“Lady Portia? You seem distracted,” her partner said.
“In answer to your question: yes, I believed myself very much in love with Miss Howard—Lady Staines, as she is now. But I was merely blinded by her beauty. I am resolved never to trust a beautiful woman again. With beauty comes a lack of compassion.”
“And is that how you classify the women of your acquaintance, colonel, in terms of whether they are beautiful or not? And, by extension, you conclude that beauty and compassion are mutually exclusive?”
“Forgive me, Lady Portia. I did not mean you.”
Anger flared in the pit of her stomach. Though his suffering on account of his experiences at Waterloo should elicit compassion, his view of her sex was not to be borne.
“I thought you said you did not stoop to flattery,” she said, not bothering to disguise her irritation. “Perhaps my friend broke off your engagement because of your insincerity.”
Regret needled at her as hurt glimmered in his eyes. Not half an hour earlier he had been gripped by the nightmares of war, and here she was now, criticizing his gallantry toward her.
Perhaps Adam was right when he said she was too prickly a creature to reside in a man’s heart.
Not that her brother knew anything of hearts.
The dance concluded, and Colonel Reid offered his arm to escort Portia to the edge of the ballroom, steering them toward their host and hostess.
“Countess Thorpe,” Portia said. “Dear Henrietta—a most delightful evening.”
“Lady Portia,” the countess said, dipping her head in greeting, “I was most upset to see you not dancing earlier when there were so many gentlemen unpartnered, but I applaud your choice of partner this time. Colonel Reid’s talents on the dance floor are renowned, are they not, colonel?”
Portia’s partner dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You are most kind, countess.”
Their hostess offered her hand. “I find myself disappointed that dear Angela was not with you tonight. I trust she is well.”
A spike of jealousy stabbed at Portia’s heart. Was he courting another?
The colonel took the countess’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My sister is not ready for a public occasion just yet.”
His sister…
Portia drew in a sharp breath, then felt her cheeks warming as Earl Thorpe fixed his gaze on her, a flicker of knowing in his eyes.
How was it that some men were able to penetrate a woman’s defenses with a single glance?
Portia would have called the earl the most formidable man in the room—were it not for the presence of her brother, who always seemed to be in the periphery of her vision, watching her with his disapproving sapphire gaze.
“I trust you’re not hiding Angela from the world, colonel,” Henrietta said. “A wide-eyed young woman’s behavior must be tempered, of course, for her own safety, but she will chafe under too much restraint. You are at least permitting her to venture outside?”
“I’ve taken her to Hyde Park,” he said, his expression softening with brotherly love. “She was particularly fond of the swans, and I plan to take her again.”
“Excellent! I cannot abide the notion of an older brother behaving as if he were his sister’s gaoler,” Henrietta said, glancing in Portia’s direction.
“You could have brought her here tonight, for my balls are hardly public occasions. Though, I admit, there are one or two guests among the party whom I invited merely for the sake of appearance than out of friendship.” She exchanged a glance with Portia then fixed her gaze on the figure of Sir Heath Moss, who was escorting Lady Cholmondeley-Walker toward the terrace.
“Henrietta…” the earl warned, and she let out a snort.
“Pshaw, Giles!” she said. “I’ll be polite to the face of those I dislike to maintain propriety, but you cannot expect me to speak dishonestly when among friends.
” She gave a warm smile. “Colonel, you must take supper with us some time and bring your sister. I’ll not countenance any response other than your acceptance. ”
“Then it will be my pleasure to give it, on behalf of us both.”
“Excellent!” she cried. “Now, please excuse us.”
Their hosts continued circulating around the ballroom, and the colonel let out a sigh.
“Henrietta’s a formidable woman,” Portia said. “I pity anyone who dares say no to her.”
“She’s been very kind toward my sister.”
Portia sighed. “I’d have liked to have a sister. But I have been cursed with an overbearing older brother.”
“He loves you, I am sure, Lady Portia,” he replied. “An older brother will always wish to protect his sister, even if he must assert himself when that sister is spirited and headstrong.”
“Is your sister a troublesome charge?”
He shook his head, and a gentle smile curved his lips. His eyes softened to the color of warm chocolate, and a little pulse of yearning fluttered in her center at the love in them.
“Perhaps a little headstrong,” he said. “She has yet to lose the youthful enthusiasm for everything. I fear that I should caution her more.”
“You fear for her?”
“London’s no place for an innocent.”
“But she has a loving brother to keep her safe,” Portia said. “I envy her in that.”
“You have a brother.”
“But he’s not you, colonel.”
A spark of desire flickered in the depths of his eyes.
“You do not act in the manner expected of a woman of your rank, Lady Portia,” he said, a hoarseness in his voice.
“In that I am not a… What did you call it?” She cocked her head to one side and lifted her forefinger to her chin, frowning in mock confusion. “Oh yes, that was it—a haughty miss who cares nothing for others.”
To his credit, he blushed. “You weren’t meant to overhear that.”
“You do surprise me,” she said, smiling. “I trust you’ll make sure your sister does not overhear when you’re criticizing our sex. You wouldn’t want her to be influenced by such sentiment.”
“Which is why I have engaged a chaperone to care for her—that, and for her safety.”
“Has she no female relatives to chaperone her?”