Chapter Seventeen
Sweet heaven—not a duel!
Portia’s stomach cramped with horror. The last thing she wanted was the two men she loved the most in the world risking their lives over her.
Then she caught her breath.
The two men I love the most.
Infuriating as he was, Adam was driven by the need to accomplish what he believed was in her best interests, and she loved him for it.
As for Stephen…
Since when had he secured a place in her heart? Perhaps that was why his intransigence on his views about honesty and integrity gave rise to so much pain—because it meant that he could never accept her in her entirety.
Because it meant that she—or at least that part of her that satisfied her craving for freedom and autonomy over her life—would never be good enough for him.
“Adam, please,” she said. “There’s no need for—”
“There’s every need,” her brother said, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “And I fail to see why you’re so distressed. You set your cap at him—now you can have him.”
“Brother!”
“Why deny it? You can trust everyone here. Reid, I’m sure, will concede defeat, and Whitcombe won’t engage in gossip for fear of distressing his perfect wife.
As for this fellow here”—he gestured to the silent, darkly brooding figure that had materialized from the shadows like a phantom—“Devereaux won’t speak a word either way.
Bravo, sister—an excellent evening’s work. ”
Stephen turned toward her. “Did you plan this?”
“How dare you make such an accusation!” she said. “Just because our opinions differ on honesty, you think me capable of something so underhand?”
“You defended that Farthing ruffian.”
“Ah, the Farthing,” Adam said. “Perhaps I’ll hire him if you refuse to marry my sister.”
“Don’t you dare!” Portia cried.
“Then what would you have me do?” her brother said. “Await your ruination?”
“I’d rather be ruined than have a good man forced into marriage with me. Would you condemn us both to a life of misery?”
“And would you condemn yourself to a life of solitude, never to have a home of your own? For heaven’s sake, Portia, I—”
“Foxton, perhaps we should let this be,” Whitcombe said.
“Would you let it be if it were your sister placed in such a compromising situation?”
“No, but Lady Portia is not my sister.”
“Quite so, Whitcombe. My sister has a title and respectability of birth that is at risk of being besmirched, whereas yours—”
“If you wish to remain under my roof, Foxton, I’d advise you to stop there,” Whitcombe said, a low growl in his voice. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion elsewhere.”
“Or we should cease talking altogether, like that fellow there,” Portia said, gesturing toward Devereaux. “I’ll not be discussed by you, or anyone else. Your Grace, please convey my apologies to Eleanor. It’s time I retired.”
“Portia, I—”
“You’ve said enough, colonel,” she said, her brother raising his eyebrows at the familiarity of Stephen’s address. “In fact, every man of my acquaintance has said more than enough for me to bear tonight.”
Before Stephen could respond, she exited the room, closing the door behind her, almost colliding with the butler in the corridor.
“Are you well, Lady Portia?” he said.
“Perfectly so, Mr. Jenkins—at least, I will be now I’m not in the company of men who are no better than beasts.”
His face remained impassive, save a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth. “Will you be rejoining the ladies in the drawing room?”
“No, I shall retire.”
“Very good. I’ll send for your maid.”
“Please don’t disturb her.”
He bowed, then approached the study door, while Portia slipped away.
She waited until she reached her chamber before she could succumb to her fury.
Angry tears spilled down her cheeks as she removed her gown then fumbled at the laces of her corset.
The final lace refused to come undone, and she tugged at it, cursing under her breath as it tore in her hands.
Finally undressed, she flung the corset across the chamber.
Damn him!
She slipped on her night rail, then approached the fireplace. The fire had already been laid, ready for a servant to light it. Doubtless her brother—and Stephen, most likely—thought her incapable of lighting it herself.
I’ll show them.
Her gaze fell on a jar at the end of the mantelshelf containing long, thin tapers.
She took one and held the tip against the flame of the candle on one of the wall sconces until it ignited.
Then, shielding the flame with her hands, she crossed the floor and held the tip at the base of the fire, until the kindling began to glow.
Leaning over, she blew gently on the kindling until a small flame sprang into life.
Smoke curled upward into the hearth, then disappeared up the chimney.
At least the chimneys at Rosecombe were better swept than those at Forthridge Park.
When I am mistress of my own home, I’ll make sure my housekeeper engages a better sweep.
What had her brother said? Never to have a home of your own…
Was that the fate of every woman who stuck to her principles? To live a life without love?
What was love? Was it the meeting of like minds and souls, always to be in agreement, of one mind, and blissfully happy?
Or was love the recognition and acceptance of those who were different, in both mind and temperament, in challenging one’s partner for life and responding to the challenge in return, in order to grow and flourish?
Perhaps that was why the couples gathered together tonight at Rosecombe were so suited to each other, why they were so in love, even after marriage—because they were so different.
Eleanor, whom Society had viewed as an oddity—silent, awkward, oddly intense—and Whitcombe were as different as two souls could be, yet no one who knew them could dispute the love they shared.
As for Henrietta, the sword-wielding, tomboyish hoyden, and Earl Thorpe, the stickler for propriety, the two seemed such an odd match, yet they, as the other couples here tonight, were different from most of Society in that they genuinely loved each other.
Drawing her shawl about her, Portia settled into the chair beside the fireplace, watching the flames dance and flicker.
The soft crackling of the wood and the occasional hiss of coal filled the air like a gentle lullaby, and she leaned back, relishing the warmth on her skin, and closed her eyes.
She drew in a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, then exhaled, slowly, picturing in the mind her cares drifting away, dissipating in the air.
No matter what trials awaited her in the world, at least here, in her bedchamber, she could relish a moment’s respite, drawing strength in the solitude to face the world again.
Footsteps approached—most likely one of the other guests. Beatrice’s chamber was next door, and in her delicate state of health, she was likely to retire early, on her husband’s insistence if nothing else.
Portia let out a sigh.
So many couples in love…
The footsteps drew near, then stopped outside her chamber door. She opened her eyes and caught sight of a shadow at the foot of the door.
Curse that butler! Doubtless he’d ignored her instructions and, out of a wish to maintain propriety, had disturbed her maid from her supper. Perhaps he believed, as most men did, that she was incapable of dressing and undressing herself.
She rose and approached the door.
“Nerissa, there was no need…” she said, opening the door, then she froze, her voice trailing away.
It wasn’t Nerissa.
The man in the doorway stared at her, his eyes darkening, and she caught her breath as her skin tightened with want. A pool of heat swelled in her center, and she curled her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms to stem the tremors in her body.
“Wh-what do you want, colonel?”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed and a flicker of pain gleaned in their dark depths. “You were distressed.”
“And that bothers you how?”
“No, Portia, I…I mean…” He shook his head. “I’ve made a mess of this, have I not?”
“I thought you stated your position clearly and firmly.”
“Yes, but…” He stiffened and glanced over his shoulder, and her stomach fluttered as she heard footsteps. “I’m here to declare myself.”
“Have you not already done that?”
“I-I’ve spoken to your brother.”
“I’m very pleased for you both. Could you not wait until morning to speak to me?”
“No, it cannot wait until morning. You see, I…” He colored, glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “I-I’ve agreed to marry you.”
A little thrill coursed through her body, settling in her center. Ignoring it, she folded her arms.
“Oh, you have, have you? On pain of a shooting, no doubt.”
A smile played on his lips. “Your brother’s an insistent man. I shan’t say I’d relish having him as a brother-in-law, but I’d rather that than have him as my enemy.”
Hurt swelled in her soul, and as he reached for her hand, she drew back.
“And is this how you declare yourself? Not content with accusing me of scheming to entrap you into matrimony, you now tell me that you will succumb to the state on account of not wanting my brother as an enemy?” She let out a snort.
“If that’s the case, I suggest you marry him.
He’s incapable of making any woman happy, so you’d be doing womankind a favor. ”
“Don’t be—”
“Don’t be what?” she said, her voice rising. “Ungrateful that you’ll slide the parson’s noose over your neck to preserve your skin?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I thought it’s what you wanted. It’s what I want, Portia. Can’t you see that? I’ve wanted to marry you for a long time. And tonight made me realize as much.”
“Well, as my brother says, there’s a sizeable dowry in it.”
“I’m not marrying you for your dowry, woman!” he said, taking her shoulders. “I’m marrying you because I love you!”