Chapter Eighteen
Portia woke to the familiar sound of her maid bustling about the bedchamber—the rustle of clothes being set out ready to dress her with, and the delicate chink of bottles being moved on the dressing table.
Nerissa had the innate ability to know precisely when Portia woke and how to rouse her from her sleep with the minimum amount of violence. While Portia lay on the bed, the sounds grew a little louder—footsteps crossing the floor, then the swish of the curtains being pulled back.
She opened her eyes, then drew in a long, languorous breath, stretched her arms, and rolled over, letting out a sigh as she found a cool spot on the pillow. The delicious dream from last night caressed her mind—when her lover had brought her to pleasure, whispering sweet words of love.
Then she caught her breath.
It hadn’t been a dream…
She sat up, exhaling sharply. The young woman silhouetted against the window turned.
“Lady Portia! Forgive me—did I wake you?”
Portia shook her head. “No, Nerissa.”
“Are you certain? You sound a little pained.”
Only the woman feels pain the first time—but afterward, there will be no pain…
She squeezed her legs together, and her cheeks warmed with shame at the soreness between them—the memory of last night…
…the image of his head between her thighs while he delivered the most exquisite pleasure…
Oh!
“Lady Portia?” Nerissa’s concerned face swam into view. “Perhaps you’d prefer to sleep a little longer before I dress you? It’s early yet, and I’m sure the duchess will take no offense if you arrive for breakfast a little late.”
Tomorrow at breakfast, I shall announce to the party that we are to wed…
Her heart soaring with joy, Portia pulled back the covers.
“No, Nerissa, I mustn’t be late for breakfast.”
“The duchess won’t mind,” Nerissa said, retrieving a pair of stockings from Portia’s trunk.
“She’s ever so kind. Did you know that she insisted on the guests’ maids and valets having a special dinner last night?
And she came to visit us while we were eating.
She said that there was no reason not to treat us as her guests.
She’s not at all what I expected of her.
But then, perhaps you know that yourself if you’re her friend. ”
Nerissa rattled on, extolling Eleanor’s virtues while Portia approached the dressing table. Then she stopped and let out a cry.
“Oh, Lady Portia! Forgive me. I didn’t bring any cloths for you.”
“Why should you?” Portia said. “It’s not my…” Her voice trailed away as she lowered her gaze to her nightgown—and the patch of red staining the fabric.
“Have you injured yourself?” Nerissa asked, reaching for Portia’s nightgown. “Perhaps yesterday, or last night, or…”
She hesitated, then lifted her gaze, and Portia felt her cheeks warm with shame as a flicker of understanding shone in her maid’s eyes.
“L-Lady Portia?”
“Colonel Reid and I are engaged,” Portia said, flinching as she braced herself for her maid’s censure.
“A-and you…”
Portia bit her lip.
“Did he…?” Nerissa colored and gestured toward Portia’s nightgown.
“He visited me last night.”
The maid frowned. “It’s not my place to say such things, but I’m disappointed in him—compromising you while you’re guests of the duchess.”
“I was willing,” Portia said. “H-he only came to ask me to marry him…b-but I asked him to stay. He’s going to announce our engagement today. So you see, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Of course not—you could never do wrong. But you wouldn’t want everyone here to…” Nerissa tilted her head to one side. “I’ll see to your nightgown, so nobody need know.”
“Y-you won’t tell my brother?”
“Not if the colonel does right by you, Lady Portia,” Nerissa replied with a grin. “But if he does not, I’ll see to him myself. After all, the Farthing isn’t the only marksman capable of teaching a dishonorable man a lesson. Gerard can wield a pistol almost as well.”
“The colonel is a man of honor,” Portia said.
“Then let him prove his worth at breakfast.”
Portia stood obediently while her maid removed the nightgown, folded it, and tucked it into the bottom of the trunk, only feeling a moment’s shame when Nerissa helped her to wash, removing the smear on her mistress’s legs with her usual soothing touch, remarking in a soft voice that a woman only bled the first time.
By the time Portia stepped out of the bedchamber in a fresh gown, her hair fashioned into a neat chignon and dotted with daisies, her apprehension had faded.
Perhaps Eleanor’s house was the best place to have given herself to Stephen—and to announce their engagement.
For they were among friends, and half a day’s ride from London Society and all its judgment of those who placed love over propriety.
When Stephen announced their engagement, their friends would express genuine pleasure and celebrate their love.
Her head held high, she strode toward the breakfast room, and the murmur of chatter interspersed with the laughter of her friends. As she entered, the chatter stopped and Eleanor rose to greet her. Portia cast her gaze about the breakfast table—to the empty space between Henrietta and Beatrice.
Where was he?
A knot of apprehension twisted in her stomach and she glanced across the table toward her brother.
“Is the colonel not joining us for breakfast?” she said, flinching inwardly at the tightness in her voice.
“The poor colonel was called away urgently last night,” Eleanor said. “Is that not right, my love?”
Whitcombe nodded. “A messenger from London arrived shortly after dawn,” he said. “He’s downstairs now, taking tea while my man’s tending to his horse.”
“And…the colonel?” Portia said, aware of her brother’s dark gaze on her.
“He left shortly after receiving the message,” Whitcombe replied. “My valet attended him and he asked him to convey his regrets and to say that he hoped to see us all again in London.”
“Did he say—”
“He said he’d pay us a visit,” Adam interrupted, and when she met his gaze, he nodded, his expression softening, as if conveying his reassurance.
Have no fear, sister.
“It’s all rather mysterious,” Lord Hardwick said, reaching for his teacup. “Dashing off in the middle of the night. What is he running to?” He let out a chuckle. “Or from? Soldiers retreat as well as advance, do they not?”
“I fear the weather will not be kind for the journey back to London,” Eleanor said. “Lord Hardwick, are you returning to London or will you be taking Beatrice directly back to Hardwick Hall?”
Hardwick tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in question. “Duchess?”
“You wouldn’t want dear Beatrice to endure more carriage rides than necessary,” Eleanor continued.
Then she turned to Whitcombe and smiled.
“Do you not recall, Monty, how our carriage went into a rut and you feared it would bring about my confinement there and then?” She turned her attention to the rest of the guests.
“My poor husband not only feared that he’d be present at the birth, but that he’d be forced to deliver the child himself! ”
A ripple of laughter threaded through the guests, and the conversation turned to the hazards of riding a carriage on poorly maintained roads. Eleanor met Portia’s gaze, and Portia dipped her head in a nod.
Thank you, she mouthed.
How Eleanor had understood Portia’s distress was a mystery—as were so many aspects of Eleanor’s insight. There was little point in attempting to understand her ability to look deep inside a person’s soul, but every reason to be thankful for it.
As the party gathered at the front of the building to say their goodbyes, Eleanor approached Portia and linked her arm through hers.
“He really was called away,” she said, lowering her voice. “Monty’s valet said he was most agitated, and he particularly wanted to convey his regrets to you and say that he’ll call on you as soon as he settles his business in London.”
“How did you…?”
“Know that he’s in love with you?” Eleanor said with a smile.
“By the way he looks at you, and”—she glanced toward Adam, who was issuing orders to the footmen placing their trunks on the back of their carriage—“by the way your brother looks at him. Mark my words, when you return to London, you’ll find a message awaiting you—either that, or you’ll find the colonel waiting on your doorstep, begging forgiveness. ”
I hope so…
“I know so,” Eleanor said, with a smile, as if she’d read Portia’s mind.
“Have no fear, it’s only three hours to London—less than that if your brother hurries your driver, and I suspect he will.
I’m sure you can wait that long. After all, you’ve waited your entire life to find the one man capable of deserving you. ”
“Are you coming, sister?” Adam said, approaching. He took Eleanor’s hand and kissed it. “Duchess, a pleasure, as always, but I trust you’ll understand my eagerness to return to London.”
“I understand it perfectly, Foxton,” Eleanor said.
He offered his hand. “Sister, shall we?”
Portia took it and let him lead her into the carriage. After it had set off and Rosecombe was no longer in sight, he spoke.
“Reid’s agreed to marry you.”
“I know.”
He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “How…?” Then he shook his head. “Best not to say, lest I find I’m obliged to face him at dawn.”
Portia leaned toward the window, letting the air cool her cheeks. Then she startled as her brother took her hand.
“I only want what’s best for you, Portia,” he said, his voice wavering.
“I know I can be harsh—but it’s because I want to see you happy.
I want you to enjoy happiness in marriage without the burden of duty.
” He hesitated, then averted his gaze. “It’s something I shall never have, but I’ll be content knowing that you will. ”
He squeezed her hand, then patted it and released it, leaning back.
“Let us hope the duchess is proven wrong and that we have fine weather on the way home. We can stop off at the Crown for luncheon if you wish, or we can return home directly. Mrs. Winston promised to have luncheon waiting on our return. I wouldn’t want her to have made such an effort in vain.”
“Who is this man I see before me?” Portia said. “He looks like my brother, and sounds like my brother, but does not utter the words of Adam Hawke, Duke of Foxton.”
“Or perhaps he does, even if it’s for the first time.”
His expression softened for a moment, as if he’d opened a shutter to gift her with a glimpse of his soul. Then he blinked and the shutters closed—once more, the cold duke sat before her.
“I’m a little tired,” he said. “Wake me when we reach Dorking, if you wish to stop.” Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.
The hard edge to his voice had returned, but the glimpse of a tender heart beneath gave her hope that whatever might befall her, her brother loved her, even if he could hardly bear to admit it to himself.
And if that tiny glimpse of love was all he could find in his heart to gift her with, then she’d cherish it.