Chapter Sixteen
Heaven help me, I’ve done it again.
Why did he have to preach at Lady Portia and force his own opinions into the conversation?
Most would have interpreted the distress in her eyes when her arrow had shot wide as frustration, her pride being hurt at not being able to best him.
But she lacked the pride that most ladies had in abundance.
No, her distress was at him trying to emerge victorious in their debate by use of emotion and anger.
And, as any soldier understood, anger and emotion did not win a battle, let alone a war.
But she had not granted him the opportunity to explain himself.
When he’d emerged from the woods and rejoined the party, hailed already as the victor by Whitcombe, Lady Portia was nowhere to be seen.
Foxton had said something about her being a poor loser, but Duchess Whitcombe had admonished Foxton, expressing concern that Lady Portia has taken too much sun.
And, despite the duchess’s kind attentions, Stephen couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the tea.
The strawberries left a sour taste in his mouth that not even being hailed the victor of the day could sweeten.
At dinner, Lady Portia was seated between Whitcombe and Sir Ross Trelawney. Her spirits seemed to have improved, but though she gifted her dining companions with her smiles, she didn’t even glance in Stephen’s direction.
By the time the gentlemen finished their cigars and brandy and moved to rejoin the ladies, the urge to be close to her and to ease her pain—though he had been the cause of it—had gripped his heart, and as soon as they entered the drawing room, he moved toward her.
But she was sitting among a group of ladies and he had no opportunity to be close to her.
And though she did not look at him, the fact that she steadfastly focused her attention away from him said that she was as aware of him as he was of her.
Their hostess approached him. “Colonel, I must congratulate you once more on your prowess this afternoon. An almost perfect score, save one target.”
“The one in the tree.”
“Dear Portia made a perfect shot on that one. Such a pity she missed the final target. But, I suppose, that’s the true test of proficiency—one must be consistent in one’s accuracy.”
“You are a fortunate man indeed, Reid,” Whitcombe said, joining them. He took the duchess’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My wife does not bestow her portraiture skills on just anyone. You must make arrangements for your sitting. We can either accommodate you here, or when we return to London.”
“Actually, I’d rather not have my portrait painted,” Stephen said.
The duchess’s smile slipped and he caught a flare of hurt in her eyes.
“If you’d not mind very much, Duchess, I’d like to gift the prize to my sister.
I believe it would benefit her more than I.
Angela deserves the best, and perhaps it would atone for my not bringing her with me—if you have no objection? ”
She smiled. “None at all.”
“And you would benefit from the exchange, for you’d have a far prettier subject for your brush.”
“Beauty is not defined by appearance, colonel,” she said.
“But I applaud your generosity toward your sister. I would be delighted to paint her, and I’m sure Olivia would appreciate seeing her again.
Perhaps we could invite her to stay with us for a few days?
Just the family, of course—I understand your sensibilities about inviting her to larger parties, though I hear you’ve hired a chaperone for her. ”
“There’s no need. Angela has a chaperone. A Mrs. Stowe.”
“Ha!” a voice cried, and they turned to see Foxton holding a glass that, according to Stephen’s count, contained his fifth brandy. “The dowdy widow.”
“Foxton, may I offer you coffee?” the duchess said.
“I believe we’ve some strong enough to meet your needs.
” She deftly plucked the brandy glass from Foxton’s hand and smiled, her emerald eyes gleaming with insight.
“I find coffee particularly beneficial when the necessity arises to offset the symptoms of overindulgence.” She lowered her gaze to the brandy glass, then smiled again. “But—”
“Come, Foxton,” Whitcombe interrupted, “our coffee is excellent. Not content with procuring the finest brandy in the land, Trelawney here has expanded his business into coffee.”
“I can’t abide the stuff,” Foxton said. “Give me a brandy any day. Besides, we’ve yet to toast Reid’s success this afternoon.” He turned his blue gaze—so like his sister’s, save for the lack of warmth—to Stephen and raised an imaginary glass. “I commend you on your victory.”
He glanced across the room, toward Lady Portia, who was now looking in their direction.
“You’ve demonstrated our superiority over the weaker sex and proven what I have believed all along, that women should not engage in pursuits that the Almighty never intended them to partake in. Is that not right, sister?”
Lady Portia colored, then she met Stephen’s gaze and her eyes narrowed. But she made no attempt to respond.
Where had that determination—which he so admired in her—gone?
Perhaps you should ask yourself that.
Silencing the little voice whispering in his mind, Stephen turned to Foxton.
“If you must know, Lady Portia outshot me,” he said. “That target up the tree that our hostess mentioned earlier? Your sister hit it dead center, despite the awkward angle. The mark of a true proficient is the ability to succeed in every circumstance—even the most unusual.”
“And yet you emerged victorious overall,” Foxton said. “The weaker sex will always be defeated in the end.”
“It’s my fault that I won,” Stephen said. “I distracted her on the final target and she shot wide.”
Foxton nodded. “Women are easily distracted.”
“Yes, brother,” a voice said, coldly.
Lady Portia had joined them.
“We’re exposed to the tricks of men who distract us into believing that they can be trusted.
And when we succumb, you take advantage of us for your own ends.
” Then she turned to their hostess. “Eleanor, let me assure you that Colonel Reid won the competition fairly. Perhaps it’s time for a little music, to distract us from conversations we’d rather not engage in. ”
“An excellent idea,” Countess Weston said, rising. “Alice, if I sing, would you accompany me on the pianoforte?”
“Gladly,” Lady Trelawney said. “Anything to spare us a debate on the superiority of the male sex. We ladies are willing to let you gentlemen indulge in your little fantasies, but you’ve already had a full half-hour in the library to congratulate yourselves on your prowess over brandy and cigars.
It’s now time to return to the world of reality. ”
“Lord save me from a woman who speaks for herself,” Foxton muttered.
Stephen suppressed a laugh. Foxton might consider himself superior to most, but among the company of intelligent, independently minded women supported by their equally intelligent, appreciative husbands, he lacked the courage to voice his opinions too loudly.
Lady Trelawney, despite her outwardly gentle appearance, had a will of iron.
She had endured much suffering before her marriage to Trelawney—rumor had it she’d spent some time in an asylum—yet she had emerged stronger because of it, with a devoted partner who understood the demons that plagued her dreams and loved her in spite of, or perhaps even because of, them.
Perhaps there’s some hope for me, after all.
Stephen’s gaze drifted toward Lady Portia, like a boat in a storm seeking safe harbor, the only creature in the world to come close to understanding the demons that plagued him.
As if she sensed his gaze, she turned toward him, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight—the color of a deep ocean he longed to plunge into.
Then she turned away.
The music began, and the party focused their attention on the musicians, Lady Trelawney at the pianoforte and Countess Weston singing in Italian.
Though the words meant nothing to Stephen, the richness of her voice transcended the language, while Earl Weston looked on with such devotion in his eyes that Stephen’s heart ached to see it.
Would he ever experience even a fraction of the love that the husbands and wives here tonight shared?
He spotted Lady Portia approaching the doors. The footman in attendance raised his eyebrows, then quietly opened the doors to let her slip outside. At the threshold she glanced back, her eyes glistening, then she disappeared.
Before the footman could close the door behind her, Stephen followed. Their hostess caught sight of him, but she made no move to stop him. She merely nodded, then resumed her attention on the music.
When Stephen stepped into the corridor, there was no sign of Lady Portia.
Perhaps he ought to leave her be, but he couldn’t bear the notion of her pain, not when she had gone to such lengths to ease his own pain when he’d been beset by memories of the battlefield.
In fact, he’d rather suffer pain himself if it could ease hers…
Sweet heaven—was that not the very definition of love? His admiration she’d long since earned, but on seeing the love shared at Rosecombe, between the duke and duchess and their married guests…
Love in a marriage was a rarity—he’d been brought up from a young age to understand that among his class, the best he could hope for was a companionable regard and mutual respect.
But, if nothing else, his visit to Rosecombe had shown him that love in a marriage was not such a rarity that a man should neither hope nor expect it.
The happiness in the air tonight showed him that love was there for the taking—it was just a matter of finding the right partner to share that love.
Where are you, Portia…?