Chapter Eleven
“You could have at least changed your gown.”
Portia glared at her brother as they approached the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens. “Why?” she said. “You haven’t changed your jacket.”
“I’m a man. I have no need. Your position as a lady requires you to maintain the appearance of elegance at all times. And that means not wearing the same gown on consecutive social occasions.”
“I didn’t think you were so interested in fashion, Adam,” she replied. “Though perhaps, given the vast number of gowns you purchase for your hundreds of mistresses, it should come as no surprise.”
“Hundreds!” he scoffed. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Oh, forgive me, I forgot a man’s inability to understand proportion when it comes to numbers.”
He rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, when a man counts his mistresses, something akin to twenty is deemed not very many at all—but when a woman takes a single lover, she’s vilified as being too generous with her favors.”
“We’re not talking about lovers, Portia. We’re talking about your gown.”
“No, you’re talking about my gown—which nobody will be looking at, given that it’ll be dark in the gardens.”
“Will you at least promise to behave with decorum?” he said.
“Don’t I always?”
He linked her arm with his. “I’m only thinking of you, Portia. I wish I didn’t have to be so strict with you at times, but you often drive me to distraction.”
Did she imagine it, or was there a flicker of compassion in his voice? Surely her cold-hearted brother wasn’t in possession of a soul?
He steered her toward the crowd in the center of the gardens.
The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation and the buzz of animated voices.
In a corner, a small group of musicians played a merry air, and around the perimeter of the gardens, liveried footmen held aloft torches, which flickered in the cool evening air, casting a vibrant orange glow over the crowd.
Portia glanced across the gardens, and her gaze settled on a woman dressed in a shade of red that could only be described as scandalous. Her hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate fashion, dotted with diamonds and rubies, the value of which must be enough to rival most dowries.
Doubtless my brother has contributed in no small part toward their cost.
Portia gestured toward the woman. “I see Mrs. Scarlet’s here tonight. May I suggest a wager?”
“Ladies don’t enter into wagers.”
“I thought we could place bets on which gentleman’s arm she’ll be adorning tonight.”
His eyes narrowed, and she caught a flicker of guilt in them.
“Ah, brother, I see now why you’re reluctant to enter into a wager,” Portia said.
“Very well, I release you from your obligation toward me. I’m sure she’ll enjoy your company tonight more than I, and when you take her for an intimate walk among the rosebushes, she’ll express her enjoyment most vocally. ”
His jaw bulged as he gritted his teeth, but before he could admonish her, she caught sight of Whitcombe, flanked by his wife and sister.
“Ah!” she said, with exaggerated brightness, “it’s Eleanor, and she’s brought Olivia.”
Her brother let out a snort. “Another natural child. London is littered with them this Season.”
She slapped his arm. “They’ll hear you.”
“And what if they do? Whitcombe has no right to parade his father’s by-blow about as if she were a lady.”
“Why must you be so cruel?” Portia said. “Olivia’s a delightful creature, charming and kind.”
“I’m not disputing that, but there’s no denying the misfortune of her birth. No matter how much Whitcombe parades her about in Society in an attempt to marry her off, he cannot overcome such an obstacle. No respectable man of Society will want to wed a bas—”
“Hush!” she whispered. “Do you want Whitcombe to call you out? He’s a better shot than you.”
She approached the Whitcombes, hands outstretched.
“Dear Eleanor! What a delight to see you!”
The duchess took her hands. “You act as if you didn’t expect to see us, Portia.”
“I know you dislike crowds.” Portia turned to the sweet-faced young woman standing beside the duke. “Olivia, I’m delighted to see you tonight. We missed you in Hyde Park this afternoon, but I daresay you have many engagements now you’ve had your come-out.”
Olivia colored, and Whitcombe placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “My sister was a little…indisposed this afternoon,” he said, an undertone of anger in his voice.
“I see,” Portia said. “Well, Olivia’s among friends now—isn’t that right, Adam?”
Her brother, who’d been staring across the garden, resumed his attention on them and nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “A pleasure to see you—Miss FitzRoy, is that right?”
“It’s Miss Whitcombe,” Portia said, “as you well know. Why don’t you go and speak to your mistress instead, Adam? She’ll at least enjoy your company.”
He shot her a look, then nodded to Whitcombe. “I trust your sister does not display the same lack of decorum as mine.”
“Certainly not, Foxton.”
Olivia blushed and turned to meet her brother’s gaze, and Portia caught a glimpse of a redness about her eyes.
“Miss Whitcombe is much better behaved than I could ever be,” she said, “aren’t you, Olivia?”
“Y-yes, Lady—”
“I’ve already told you to call me Portia. We’re friends, are we not?”
Olivia nodded, and Portia took her arm.
“Take no notice of my brother,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ve heard him speak a civil word to anyone, save a few male friends.”
Olivia managed a watery smile.
“Are you enjoying the Season?” Portia asked. “I found my first rather trying—far too many parties and balls—so I spent most mornings prostrate in my bedchamber with a headache.”
“That, at least, is a problem I’ve not had to face,” Olivia said.
“And the ceaseless chatter!” Portia added.
“Some ladies must consider their desirability to be in direct proportion to the number of fatuous remarks they make about the weather, the cut of each others’ gowns, or whether it is altogether too nouveau riche to issue invitations to a ball on paper edged in gold. ”
“I-I confess, I’ve not been subjected to many such fatuous remarks,” Olivia said. “At least not to my face.”
Her eyes glistened with moisture, and Portia’s heart ached to see her expression.
No wonder Olivia had been absent that afternoon.
No doubt she’d been subject to the cruelty of the ladies who circled the waters of the ton like predators on the lookout for lesser beings to rip apart with their put-downs.
“Well, nobody cares what they think,” Portia said. “At least nobody of any merit. If the witless ladies of Society see fit to exclude you from their conversations, it’s their loss.”
“Perhaps, but I fear I’m letting my brother down. He wanted my first Season to be a triumph, but not even the sister of a duke is acceptable in Society if she’s a bas—”
“I’m sure your brother cares only for your happiness,” Portia said, casting an envious glance at Whitcombe, who was gazing at his wife with devotion. “You’re fortunate in that, at least.”
“Oh, he’s the best brother in all the world!” Olivia said, turning her adoring gaze on Whitcombe. “And I love Eleanor as a sister. But not everyone in London is as kind. I know I’m less than them, but I wish it were not so.”
Portia’s heart ached for the resignation in Olivia’s tone. Why must the world be so cruel as to blame a person—usually a woman—for the circumstances of their birth? And why did Olivia feel she had to accept her status as being less?
Then her heart gave a little flutter as the familiar, tall figure emerged from the crowd, arm in arm with the delicately featured debutante she’d met in the park that afternoon.
“Colonel Reid”—Whitcombe inclined his head in a bow—“and Lady Angela. A pleasure.”
“A pleasure indeed,” Eleanor echoed. “Lady Angela, I was beginning to fear your brother had changed his mind and you weren’t coming. May I introduce my husband’s sister, Miss Whitcombe? Olivia, this is the young woman I told you about, Lady Angela Reid.”
Olivia dipped into a curtsey, and Lady Angela tilted her head to one side, then glanced at the duke. “You’re His Grace’s sister?” she said. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Olivia.”
“It’s Miss Whitcombe,” Olivia said, blushing.
“But I thought a duke’s sister was—”
“Miss Whitcombe,” Colonel Reid said, extending his hand and issuing a broad smile, “a pleasure to see you again.”
“I-I don’t…” Olivia stammered, but he continued.
“Don’t you recall we were introduced at the Royal Academy exhibition, where your sister-in-law’s portrait of you graced the walls and was, in my opinion, the finest exhibit in the room?”
Olivia glanced at her brother, her eyes widening, and Eleanor came to her rescue.
“Colonel, you flatter my talents,” she said. “I’m not so conceited as to consider my little pencil sketch to rank among the work of some of the finest artists in the country.” She glanced at Olivia. “Perhaps it was the subject, not the artist, whom you were praising.”
He bowed to the duchess, then took Olivia’s hand and lifted it to his lips. Portia tempered the little spike of jealousy as he brushed his lips against Olivia’s fingers. He was a handsome enough man in his usual brooding attitude, but when he smiled he was rendered godlike.
And she found that she didn’t at all like seeing that smile turned toward another woman.
“You underestimate your talent, Duchess,” he said to Eleanor, “but you are correct in your recognition of your sister-in-law’s beauty.”
He resumed his attention on Olivia. “I trust you’ll favor me with a dance when next we meet at a ball, Miss Whitcombe.”
She glanced at her brother. “I—I do not know when I’ll next be attending a ball.”
“Well, mind you reserve a space for me on your dance card before it fills.” He smiled again, then released her hand. “Perhaps you might visit us for tea some time? My sister would appreciate widening her acquaintance, and you’re just the sort of young lady I’d like her to get to know better.”