Chapter Eleven #2
Angela leaned close to her brother. “Stephen, why isn’t she Lady Olivia?”
Though she had lowered her voice to a whisper, the rest of the party had caught her words. Whitcombe’s expression hardened and Olivia colored.
“Olivia is a lady,” Portia said, stepping forward. “At least in every quality that matters. Dear Olivia, I hope to see more of you at your sister’s house party next month.”
“In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to get to know Miss Whitcombe a little better, Angela,” Colonel Reid said, steering her toward Olivia, and smiling as the two young women linked arms. He exchanged a glance with Portia, and her heart gave another little flutter.
“You see, Adam?” she said, turning to her brother. “There are some men who understand the true meaning of gallantry.”
His eyes darkened, but he before he could admonish her, a familiar nasal voice uttered an overly bright greeting.
“Foxton! How delightful to see you. And Whitcombe, of course.”
Sir Heath Moss approached, arm in arm with Lady Francis. He inclined his head to Adam, then bowed toward Portia and Eleanor.
“Lady Portia, Your Grace,” he said. “Charmed, I’m sure.” He turned his gaze toward Olivia and curled his lip in a sneer. “I see you’ve brought the whole family with you tonight, Whitcombe. Very charitable.”
“In what way is my husband charitable?” Eleanor said.
“In his more modern sensibilities, Duchess,” Sir Heath said, “which have extended to many of the choices he’s made in life.”
“Such as?” Whitcombe said, his voice growing quiet as he took his wife’s hand and drew her close.
Sir Heath stared at Whitcombe’s hand, then smiled, his pale gaze shifting to Eleanor.
“I have always spoken of my admiration of you, Duchess, and of the unexpected elevation in Society that your family has enjoyed—which is, I’m sure, down to the”—he lowered his gaze to her neckline—“the talents both you and your sister possess.”
“Do you intend to insult me?” Eleanor asked.
His eyes widened in mock horror. “On the contrary, Duchess, I have nothing but praise for you. Tell me, when shall we expect to see your sister-in-law gracing the dance floor at a ball? I noticed you and the duke at Countess Thorpe’s party last week, though Miss Whitcombe was absent.
Was she not invited? Earl Thorpe is such a stickler for propriety. ”
“My sister was not inclined to attend, Sir Heath,” Whitcombe said.
“Which was a great loss to the rest of us,” Portia said, extending her hand to Olivia.
“I trust you’ll be inclined to attend the next ball.
There will be many young men eager to dance with you, and with whom it would not be a sufferance to stand up for more than a minute or two.
” She met Sir Heath’s gaze and smiled coldly. “With a few notable exceptions.”
“Portia…” her brother growled, and she let out a laugh.
“Of course you’re not one of those exceptions, brother,” she said. “I’ve heard there are some women who can endure your company for a whole evening—even a whole night.”
He shot her a look that foretold of future admonishments. “Please excuse my sister, Sir Heath.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Foxton,” came the reply. “I’m fond of a spirited woman, am I not, Lady Francis?”
The lady blushed and curled her fingers around Sir Heath’s arm in a possessive grip.
Portia suppressed a laugh. Lady Francis was welcome to him. In fact, by keeping Sir Heath occupied in her bed, she was doing the innocents of Society a great service by removing the predator from their midst.
As was Lady Maybury, and the other bored wives whose husbands Portia had found herself facing at dawn while she earned a pretty penny—or rather, fifty pretty pounds—from Sir Heath’s cowardice.
“A-are you attending the house party at Rosecombe next month, Sir Heath?” Angela asked.
Whitcombe frowned, and Eleanor’s eyes widened in apprehension.
“Angela…” Colonel Reid whispered in warning, and his sister cast her gaze down.
“F-forgive me. It was improper of me to ask.”
“Your impropriety comes from kindness, Lady Angela,” Sir Heath said, “and for that, you can only be commended. You truly do live up to your name—as an angel.” He extended his hand, and she took it, coloring as he lifted her hand to his lips while Lady Francis scowled, turning her overly made-up face quite ugly for a moment.
Jealousy never became a woman well.
Including my own.
But the colonel’s gallantry toward Olivia was not borne out of desire—it was out of the kindness that was clearly a characteristic of the family. In that aspect, if nothing else, Portia could agree with Sir Heath. Lady Angela was an angel.
“I find myself quite overcome with so much beauty before me,” Sir Heath continued.
Lady Angela smiled. “You’re very gallant, Sir Heath.”
“Your admiration is something I believe I shall come to value greatly.”
Surely women didn’t fall for such a speech, uttered, as it was, with such obsequiousness?
“You value much, Sir Heath,” Portia said. “I’m convinced I heard that selfsame phrase used on Miss Bonneville. Do you perhaps keep a note of the phrases you deploy when attempting to flatter unsuspecting young women?”
“You think Sir Heath misguided in his gallantry toward me, Lady Portia?” Lady Angela said, a hint of frost in her voice.
“My dear Lady Angela,” Sir Heath said, giving her an indulgent smile, his teeth glittering in the torchlight, “we must forgive Lady Portia, for she is on her… How many Seasons is it, Lady Portia? Is this your fourth?”
“Her third,” Adam said, a hard edge to his voice.
“An unnecessary expense for you, Foxton,” Sir Heath said. “You have my sympathies.”
“Not every young woman can expect to find love in her first Season,” Colonel Reid said, and Portia’s heart soared at the warmth in his voice.
“You’re mistaken,” Adam said. “The purpose of a Season is to find a husband, not love.”
“The two ought to go hand in hand, surely?”
“Colonel, with that attitude, your family may find itself in for a very expensive few years,” Adam said. “Young women don’t fall in love. They succumb to the occasional childish infatuation, but they soon grow out of it.”
“Since when have I suffered a childish infatuation, brother?” Portia said. “Or were you perhaps referring to the unfortunate debutantes who’ve fallen at your feet? I wouldn’t call that a childish infatuation—I’d call it a sickness of the mind.”
“Then perhaps you’re destined never to fall in love, Lady Portia,” Lady Angela said. “But I hope to fall in love.” She directed a shy smile at Sir Heath, who bowed once more.
“Bravo, Lady Angela!” he said. “An admirable attitude, one that will yield you much success this Season.”
Lady Francis’s scowl deepened. “Ought we to take our leave, Heath?” she said, her tone petulant. She dug her fingernails into his arm. “You promised to buy me ice cream. It will all have melted if you persist in speaking to everyone we pass by.”
“I doubt that,” Eleanor said. “They keep it cool with blocks of ice.”
Lady Francis shot her a look of spite.
“Duty calls,” Sir Heath said. “But I hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company another time”—he glanced toward Portia—“perhaps when we’re not in the company of those who would be jealous of a young lady whose beauty surpasses theirs.”
Lady Angela blushed and inclined her head while he kissed her hand once more, then took his leave. Shortly after, Lady Francis could be heard expressing discontent with everything—the gardens, the cold…and the company.
“I wonder what he finds attractive in her,” Portia said.
“For heavens’ sake!” her brother snapped. “Why do you persist in speaking out of turn?”
“It’s not anything you don’t discuss at White’s,” Portia said. “But perhaps she’s very…talented. Isn’t that how you men describe a woman?”
“Are you jealous of her, Lady Portia?” Lady Angela said.
“Angela, that’s enough,” Colonel Reid said. “You’d do better to find friendship with Lady Portia than Lady Francis—or Sir Heath Moss, come to that.”
“I think—” Angela began, but Olivia interrupted.
“Lady Angela, shall we take a look at the jugglers? I’ve never been able to fathom how they can keep all those batons in the air without dropping them.”
“May I, brother?” Angela said.
The colonel nodded. “Of course, but at first you must apol—”
“I’d recommend the fire-breathers, also,” Portia interrupted. “I saw them near the pavilion. You know the way, don’t you, Olivia?”
Olivia nodded, and the two young women made their way toward the building across the lawn.
“I commend you on having such a sensible sister, Whitcombe,” Colonel Reid said. “She’ll be a steadying influence on Angela, who I’m afraid is a little impulsive.”
“I’m sure she’ll grow out of it,” Eleanor said. “How old is she, eighteen?”
“She’s not yet sixteen, Duchess.”
“Then you must guard her closely.”
“I intend to,” he replied. “There’s nothing so precious as a woman’s virtue. Except, perhaps, her honesty and civility. Angela ought to have apologized for her incivility toward you, Lady Portia.”
“An apology obtained by request is no true apology,” Portia replied. “Besides, there’s no need for her to apologize. I often speak out of turn.”
“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day,” her brother said.
“Which is your opinion, Adam,” she retorted.
“And the opinion of everyone here, no doubt.”
“My opinion, Foxton, is that your sister speaks perfect sense,” Colonel Reid said.
Though it was dark, she could sense his nearness as he shifted closer, and her breath hitched at the faint aroma of masculinity.
She moved toward him until she brushed up against his jacket, and the aroma intensified—deep, woody spices and an earthy scent of the outdoors, like a fresh spring meadow.
Then a hand touched hers. She caught her breath at the sensation of the callouses on his fingers brushing over her skin.
Had those hands wielded a weapon, defending his life and the lives of others on the battlefield?
Had they touched other women to elicit the same sensations that now swirled deep in her belly?
“I commend you for championing Miss Whitcombe earlier,” she whispered. “Duke Whitcombe’s desire to further his sister’s acceptance into Society is one of his most admirable features—that and his love for dear Eleanor, of course.”
“It’s a pity that, in our world, Miss Whitcombe and others like her, such as young Gabriel Staines, are in need of a champion due to their birth.
You are also to be admired, Lady Portia, for coming to their defense.
” He lowered his voice, and the gravelly tone resonated in her bones.
“In fact, I find much to admire in you.”
She let out a low whimper, and he curled his fingers around hers then brushed the palm of her hand with his thumb. How could such a simple touch cause a fizz of need to ignite in her veins?
She leaned toward him, inhaling his rich scent, then tilted her head back. In the darkness, she could not tell whether he was smiling.
Please let him be smiling.
She closed her eyes, imagining the expression in his eyes were he to smile at her—how the warm chocolate color would deepen to rich mahogany, perhaps punctuated with glimmers of golden light.
Then a cheer filled the air as the crowd surged forward.
A bright light soared into the air, before igniting into rainbow-colored stars.
An explosion filled the air, resonating through her body, as if the earth vibrated beneath her feet.
Then the fireworker set off another explosion to “oohs” and “aahs” from the crowd.
Portia turned to the man beside her, but when the shower of light illuminated his face, there was no softness, no smile, but an increasing horror—a fear so primal that her heart froze to see it.
His face glowed whitely in the diffused light, and his eyes were a black as night, as if they had absorbed all light, and all hope. And reflected in his eyes, she saw…
Her gut twisted with fear.
In his eyes, she saw the shadow of death.