Chapter Twelve #2
“Where did you go, Portia?” Foxton asked, his gaze wandering over Stephen, as if he were searching for evidence of transgression.
Stephen’s gut twisted with shame. Would Lady Portia reveal his weakness, that he’d been on the brink of madness and she’d spirited him away from the party to conceal it? What would the party think of being in the presence of a witless fool?
“We went searching for ices for everyone,” she said. “We were all getting a little hot. I asked the colonel to help me carry them.”
Her voice carried not even the slightest flicker of guilt at her deception. How was it that some individuals could utter a such a bald falsehood without the slightest impact on their conscience?
Foxton lowered his gaze to her hand on Stephen’s arm. “I see,” he said.
“Isn’t that right, colonel?” she said, turning her attention to Stephen.
Was it not enough that she could lie to her brother so convincingly that she wanted Stephen as an accomplice? No matter how she’d come to his aid earlier, nobody had the right to compel him into deception.
Foxton’s expression hardened, and Lady Portia fixed her gaze on Stephen, awaiting his response. He remained silent, and she withdrew her hand, her brow furrowed.
“Did you not say you wanted ices, Eleanor?” she asked, and Stephen caught the plea in her eyes.
The duchess tilted her head to one side as if in concentration, then she nodded. “Monty saw ices being sold earlier. Didn’t you, my love?”
“I beg pardon?” Whitcombe said, turning his attention from a group of jugglers across the path.
“Ices,” the duchess said. “Wasn’t there a man selling them near the main entrance?”
“Not that I know of, my love,” came the reply, “but I believe the proprietor of Gunter’s is here tonight.
I saw a sign beside the pavilion—near the fire-breathers, I think.
Perhaps they’re selling ices there. But surely you don’t want an ice, Eleanor—you’re still recovering from that cold you took when we went sea bathing. Dr. McIver said you were to take care.”
“If I recall, Dr. McIver said I should take plenty of fresh air, Monty.”
“Fresh air, perhaps, but not ices. Who the devil eats ices out of doors in the evening?”
“Our entire party, apparently,” Foxton said, fixing his cold stare on his sister.
“Well, I want one, at least,” Lady Portia said.
“As do I,” the duchess added. “Their brown bread ices are delicious.”
“Brown bread?” Foxton said with a sneer. “Who the devil would want to eat an ice that tastes like bread?”
“Perhaps someone with a discerning palate, Foxton,” Stephen said, catching the distress in Eleanor’s eyes. “I’ve tasted the brown bread ice cream myself and recommend it.”
“Do you like ices, Mrs. Scarlet?” the duchess asked.
The brightly attired peacock on Foxton’s arm turned her sharp-nosed gaze on the duchess, looked her up and down, then shook her head.
“I must beg to be excused from a discussion of ices, Your Grace,” she said.
“The consumption of an abundance of desserts is not a recommended practice for a woman who wishes to retain her figure. And I always find that an overly”—she lowered her gaze to the duchess’s neckline—“healthy figure is considered unattractive in some circles, for it is evidence of a lack of self-discipline and self-restraint, not to mention the expense of always having to have ones clothes altered.”
“Is it not better to enjoy life rather than deprive oneself of pleasure?” the duchess said.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the courtesan replied, her smile broadening to reveal gleaming white teeth.
“There are few among my acquaintance who understand the nature of pleasure as I do. But some things can be enjoyed a little too much. And, after all, as women, we have a responsibility to maintain our appearance to give pleasure to others. Is that not right, Foxton, darling?”
The duke nodded. “Quite right, Mrs. Scarlet. As insightful as ever.”
“Very well,” Stephen said, “with the exception of Mrs. Scarlet, who chooses not to have one, shall Lady Portia and I bring ices for everyone who deserves one?”
“None for my brother, then,” Lady Portia said. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Scarlet, would you? Or is it only members of the female sex who must deprive themselves of treats in order to keep a man’s attentions?”
“Do forgive my sister, Mrs. Scarlet,” Foxton said. “Perhaps we ought to take a turn about the garden.”
The courtesan nodded in the manner of a queen acknowledging a humble subject, then he steered her away.
“One ice each for my wife and me,” Whitcombe said, taking the duchess’s hand and lifting it to his lips. “I, for one, find much to admire in a woman who takes pleasure in devouring brown bread ice cream, especially when it’s smeared over—”
“Monty!” The duchess let out a squeal, her face turning bright pink as Whitcombe pulled her into his arms.
Stephen’s heart fluttered with envy. Was there ever a couple so much in love?
Plenty of husbands and wives gave the appearance of happiness—or at least satisfaction—yet took no genuine pleasure in each other’s company.
Foxton and his mistress, for example, seemed very pleased with themselves, but there was little to no joy in the duke’s eyes.
Perhaps Lady Portia could be forgiven for wanting to deceive her brother. To have one’s entire life dictated by such a man was not a state to be envied.
As they approached the pavilion, Stephen spotted a sign erected at the far end of the facade depicting a pineapple placed atop a vase, bearing the legend J Gunter, ices.
“There they are,” he said. “Whitcombe spoke the truth.”
“Good for Whitcombe,” Lady Portia said.
She began to withdraw her arm, and Stephen caught her hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I-I ought to have helped you back then with your brother, but I cannot bear any form of deception.”
“Then you won’t survive long in London Society. In any case, I was only trying—”
“To help me, I know. And for that I’m grateful, believe me. But I abhor any form of dishonesty, and I cannot bear the notion of your having a trait I dislike when I admire you so much.”
“If you think to ingratiate yourself by flattery, colonel, I—”
She let out a gasp as he pulled her close.
“Can’t you see it’s not mere flattery, Lady Portia?
” he said. “I’m a soldier. I have no time for deception or the petty niceties of drawing room conversation.
I see little merit in speaking anything but the truth, and if I cannot speak the truth, then I have no wish to speak at all.
I do not flatter you because you’re beautiful.
I admire you because, more than anyone of my acquaintance, you see me.
I-I cannot fathom how you understood what I needed when I…
” He paused, the memory of the battlefield threatening to rise once more.
Then slim fingers curled around his hand and a thrill rippled across his skin.
“Stephen, look at me.”
He met her gaze, letting the cool blue of her eyes fill his senses and soothe his soul, until the image of the battlefield faded. The anger in her expression had gone, replaced by compassion and understanding and a tiny spark that swelled his hope.
A spark of desire to match his own.
He drew in a sharp breath to temper the surge in his manhood.
“I must apologize also for my sister, Lady Portia.”
“Angela? For what?”
“She was most uncivil toward you earlier. I fear her naiveté makes her prone to flattery.”
“The kind that men such as Heath Moss employ to entrap the innocent?” She smiled. “It matters not. She has a big brother to keep her safe from harm. She’s young and spirited, that’s all—as we all were at that age. I love the freeness in her soul, her enthusiasm for life.”
“But she must learn to be more guarded.”
“She will,” Portia said. “There comes a time when our eyes are opened more fully to the world about us, when the unbridled enthusiasm we have as children is tempered by the need to survive in a world of those who would judge us, or seek to take advantage of us for their own purposes.”
“Such as those who would deceive us,” Stephen said.
“Men such as Sir Heath, for example—fair in face, gallant in demeanor, yet his gallantry does not come from his character, but from a desire to persuade others that he is to be trusted. He behaves very differently when in the company of men compared to when among your sex.”
“As do all men, colonel.”
“Then I apologize on behalf of all of my sex.”
“I fear the majority of your sex is past redemption—though there may exist one or two notable exceptions.”
A smile played on her lips, and his heart gave a little jolt.
“You are blessed to have a sister,” she said. “I should have liked to have a sister.”
Perhaps, one day, you will.
He closed his eyes, letting the dream take shape in his mind—Lady Portia in his home, and his life, gently steering his beloved little angel, teaching her the meaning of true beauty…
When he opened them, she was staring at him, her lips parted in surprise.
Sweet Lord, he’d spoken aloud!
He drew her close, and the spark of desire in her eyes swelled. Her lips parted further. Sweet and plump—would they taste as sweet as he’d imagined in his dreams? Would she sigh with pleasure as he claimed them for his own?
“Stephen…”
Her soft, whispered words shattered his resolve, and he pulled her close then placed his hand on her cheek.
A whimper escaped her lips as he caressed her cheek with his thumb, relishing the softness of her skin.
He traced the outline of her mouth and she sighed, her warm breath fluttering over his skin, sending a bolt of heat through his veins.
He shifted his thighs as his breeches tightened, and her eyes widened as his manhood stiffened against her body.
“Lady Portia…”
“Stephen…”
He dipped his head and claimed her mouth.