Chapter Twenty-Five
Forthridge Park, Hampshire
Over the past weeks, the lush green of the Hampshire countryside had dulled, before brightening again into vibrant reds and oranges, then settling into warm browns and yellows.
Soon, the leaves would disappear altogether, falling to form a soft brown carpet through which Portia could kick her way, breathing in that very particular aroma that heralded the demise of summer.
Not that she minded the end of the summer.
The corsets Nerissa laced her into were uncomfortable at best, but under the intense heat of the sun, her undergarments restricted her breathing, and her skin grew irritable and itchy.
The onset of autumn signaled a return to some comfort, even if she were unable to completely shed her corsets and stays—at least when visitors came to Forthridge Park.
Not that any visitors of note had arrived.
By visitors of note, you mean him.
She silenced the voice in her mind and rose from the love seat in the window, shifting position to the shade.
She’d had to move several times already, being chased by the sun as it stretched across the floor.
In less than an hour it would disappear altogether, sliding below the line of firs on the horizon, illuminating them with a pink and orange glow, after which the light would fade, followed by the coolness of night when she could, at last, breathe properly again.
Of late, her corsets seemed to have grown tighter, the gap between the edges widening, no matter how tightly Nerissa pulled on the laces.
Why didn’t men have to deal with stays and petticoats?
True, her brother seemed to obsess over his collection of cravats, insisting that they were pressed daily, sprayed with cologne, and tied to perfection.
Nerissa had once told her that Adam’s valet had been asked to retie his cravat six times before it was declared fit to be seen.
Adam could be forgiven his little peculiarities. Nevertheless, a perfectly tied cravat did not pain him as much as this damned corset was paining her, squeezing at her ribs until she couldn’t draw breath.
Was it any wonder she’d wanted to masquerade as a man? Even if it had cost her…
No. Do not think of it.
She pulled her mind back from the brink before it embarked upon the path to despair.
But her hand involuntarily touched the scar on her arm, her fingertips running along the little bumps in the flesh where Euphramia had stitched it.
The scar might be a mark of her flaws, but it served as a reminder that, though she may have regretted having loved and lost, the man who’d inflicted that scar would never have loved her as she wished to be loved.
In the end, he couldn’t accept her as she truly was—with all the flaws and imperfections that came with a flesh-and-blood woman.
Stephen had wanted a paragon. And no such woman existed—at least not among Portia’s friends, all misfits in some way. And whatever he may have declared while he was courting her, he had proved the point that all men wanted a woman who did his bidding, not one who challenged him at every turn.
The door opened and her brother entered the parlor. He approached the window and sat beside her.
“Much as I find plenty to occupy myself with in London,” he said, “I shall never tire of the view from this window.”
“This part of the garden has a natural beauty, certainly,” she replied. “You’d never think it had been landscaped only last year. Arabella’s husband is to be commended—he has an eye for beauty.”
“That he does, having bagged one of Society’s premier beauties. Baxter’s not only a competent businessman, he’s a shrewd suitor.”
“They never set out to wed,” she said. “It was hatred at first sight, or so Bella says. But there’s no denying how deeply they love each other.
You only have to look at them to see that.
” She let out a sigh. “Why is it that people can only be truly happy in pairs? It’s as if a single person is an incomplete soul, drifting—unfulfilled and unsatisfied—until they can find that one person who completes them.
Like thousands of keys and locks, all of different shapes and sizes, submitting themselves to the hand of fate, which decides whether they’re a perfect fit and can truly love each other. ”
“Love’s overrated, puss,” he said, giving her hand an affectionate pat. “It only leads to misery.”
“How would you know, Adam? It’s not an emotion you harbor for anyone, nor are ever likely to.”
“I may not understand the concept, but I can see it in your eyes.” He smiled. “But I didn’t come here to speak of love—I came to see if you’re any better. Your maid said you didn’t touch your luncheon.”
“Does Nerissa report my activities to you?” she said, wincing at the sharpness in her voice. Then she shook her head. “Forgive me. I’ve been somewhat irritable lately.”
“Tell me something I haven’t observed,” he said good-naturedly. “She and I are merely concerned about your health. Had that wound festered…”
“But it didn’t,” she said, resisting the urge to scratch the scar, which still itched some two months after the duel.
“Then perhaps it’s Miss Lucas’s cordial that’s making you unwell. After all, she’s only the daughter of a doctor.”
“And by virtue of her sex, she knows nothing about medicine?”
“You must admit, you’ve been taking it almost a month, and you’re not any better. In fact, if anything, I’d say your sprits are lower than they were when we left London.”
“I felt unwell before Euphramia sent the cordial,” Portia said. “Besides, it’s to prevent putrefaction, not lift the spirits.”
“Then what the devil is wrong with you?” he said. “Perhaps I ought to send for Dr. McIver.”
“I can’t have him knowing what’s happened.”
“You trust him, surely?”
“Of course,” she said, “but I can’t bear the thought of his knowing that my donations were the result of…”
She made a random gesture in the air, and he nodded, understanding in his eyes. Then he rose and offered his arm.
“Care to permit me to escort you to supper?” he asked. “I’ve had the cook make her chicken broth—the one you used to love so much when we were children. She’s been boiling the bones all day.”
“Then I mustn’t disappoint her, at least.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re not a disappointment, puss. We can try again next Season, find you a husband worthy of you. I daresay Devereaux could be persuaded.”
She shivered at the notion of the silent, brooding earl. Handsome he may be—savagely so—but he carried an air of menace.
“Perhaps not.” Adam chuckled. “But you could at least consider the benefits of having a husband who doesn’t answer back.”
“A similar quality to that which you’re looking for in a wife.”
He laughed again, then escorted her to the dining room.
Though she was unable to finish her soup, Portia made, according to her brother, a “passable attempt.” But the sight of the lemon syllabub, the creamy white cloud billowing in the glass before her, threatened to turn her stomach, and she excused herself and retired early, her brother’s eyes focused on her beneath his frown as she exited the dining room to his promise to bring her a cup of tea.
Dear Adam! He might be arrogant and overbearing, but few brothers would have suffered such wild behavior in a younger sister without either subjecting her to a severe thrashing, or sending her away to the sort of schools where the mistresses were little more than gaolers.
Or worse, he could have sent her to an asylum.
He might declare that he had no intention of loving, but imagine what he might be capable of if he found the other part of his soul—the woman to make him complete?
Nerissa was already waiting in Portia’s chamber.
“Have you taken your supper?” Portia asked.
“Mrs. Charlton’s set some aside for me once I’ve got you settled.”
“You make me sound like an invalid,” Portia said, standing obediently, arms raised, while Nerissa removed her dress.
The maid drew back the bedcover and pulled out Portia’s nightgown, which she’d wrapped around the warming pan earlier.
She held it up and studied it, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Lady Portia,” she said, her voice tight, “do you recall when I asked you about your monthly bleed, that morning at Rosecombe? And you said…”
“I recall what I said,” Portia said, her face hot with shame.
Nerissa nodded. “Yes, that it wasn’t your monthly bleed. “Well, I’ve not had to launder your nightgown for…” She gestured to the center of the garment.
No…
“I-I wondered, perhaps, seeing as you had…” Nerissa blushed scarlet and clutched the gown to her breast. “You’ve been feeling unwell.”
Dear Lord, no…
She gestured to the discarded corset. “You’ve said it’s been getting tighter. I’ve not been able to lace it completely closed.”
The pit of Portia’s stomach dipped and she pitched forward, her legs crumpling beneath her. Nerissa took her arm and steadied her as she drew in a deep breath, willing her trembling body to obey her will.
“Do you think, perhaps…” The distress in the maid’s eyes, which brimmed with tears, was almost too much to bear. “F-forgive me. I cannot say it!”
“Then let me,” Portia said, the need to comfort her maid overpowering her own selfish desires. “You’re asking me whether I am carrying Colonel Reid’s child.”
Portia startled at the sound of shattering porcelain. She turned to see her brother in the doorway, a pool of dark brown liquid at his feet, together with the remnants of a teacup.
“Oh, Your Grace!” Nerissa cried. “What a mess. That’ll need clearing up.”
He tilted his head to one side, his eyes the color of midnight as he fixed his gaze on Portia.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “the mess will need a great deal of clearing up.”