Page 28 of Sinfully Wed
Jordan took another deep breath, gently pinching the bridge of his nose. He adored Tamsin. She was stalwart. Loyal. Brave. Overly protective. He would never have survived Dunnings and the responsibilities heaped on his shoulders if not for his bold sister. Aurora, especially, would be drifting about without a tether. But those same qualities could also make Tamsin combative, although he was not one to point fingers given his penchant for enjoying a good brawl. It had taken Jordan years to get his temper under control.
He stood and returned to the sideboard, and this time, brought over the entire decanter of whiskey, setting it before his sister on the small table between them.
Tamsin swallowed down the remainder of her glass, eyeing Jordan.
“Go ahead. I doubt seriously anyone in this household would care if you indulge in the middle of the day. Certainly not Holly, who apparently has his own challenges.”
“Holly isn’t the slightest judgmental.” Tamsin sniffed, accepting another splash. “I was trying soveryhard, Jordy.”
Jordan didn’t doubt it. Lady Longwood had all but openly declared war on the Earl of Emerson and his siblings. Even before the incident at Gunter’s, Drew and Aurora had been cut during a walk in the park, though only Drew took note. Jordan was not greeted warmly at the same club his father and Bentley had once frequented. The lack of applicants for employment as footmen and maids was the least of their concerns.
“Aurora and I were admiring a fine bolt of silk. Keeping to ourselves. Not difficult under the circumstances, I assure you. Aurora was so happy. Spinning about Madame Theriot’s shop, eyes wide. She’d never witnessed such finery. Whispers sounded behind us.” Tamsin met his eye. “Very like the day we were at Gunter’s, though no one accused me of punching anyone.”
“Go on.” Jordan nodded.
“Lady Longwood and her eldest daughter were standing next to Madame Theriot. I can’t recall the daughter’s name. The more horrid one.”
Lady Longwood had two daughters. Both were equally distasteful and not shy about offering their opinion of the Sinclair family, but one was worse than the other. “Helene.”
“Yes, Helene. She should be fortunate Madame’s shop was full of customers. I nearly hit her with a bolt of fabric. I don’t care if she eyes me as if I am a pile of refuse, but I won’t allow her to be so awful to Aurora. Lady Longwood, sour thing, declared in a loud voice, that she could not in good conscience allow Madame Theriot to extend us credit without at least trying to spare the modiste from the misery of becoming yet another one of our creditors.”
Slate blue eyes flashed before Jordan, along with the odor of onions.
Not for long.
He didn’t care if Miss Whitehall resembled a toad and smelled like horse droppings; he was still going to wed her. Because Aurora and Tamsin deserved to be treated withbloodyrespect when being measured for gowns and underthings.
Tamsin took a deep swallow of the whiskey, wiping her mouth in a most unladylike manner. “I had to defend our honor, Jordy.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“I may have referred to Lady Longwood as a bitter old witch. Loudly.”
“I hope she heard you.”
“She did. As well as everyone else at Madame Theriot’s establishment.”
The familiar rush of anger filled Jordan as he looked up at the self-important portrait of Bentley hanging over the fireplace. Bentley, in all his glory. The artist had taken some liberties, strengthening his brother’s chin, for example. That smug smile Jordan so detested graced Bentley’s mouth, as if even from the grave he was still passing judgment on his siblings.
Sins. That’s what you are. Tainting an otherwise respected line.
Years ago, there had been a portrait of Jordan’s parents hanging in the drawing room, painted just before the birth of Tamsin. His mother had been standing amid a field of wildflowers, the artist’s obvious attempt at hiding her rounded form. Father tickled a daisy beneath her chin. The love they’d shared, no matter how distasteful the snobs in London found it, shone through in that portrait.
Lady Longwood refused to let go of her bitterness, and Jordan was done with being made to feel less because of it. He and his siblings had struggled at Dunnings. Mother died in squalor, coughing out her life into a scrap of linen. All while that prig—he glared at the portrait of his brother—bled the coffers dry. Bentley barely gave them enough to live on while he frittered away a fortune on expensive knickknacks and the objects d’art scattered around this very room. Pretentious French wines.Twomistresses. A portrait of himself, which wasn’t close to revealing what a bloody prick he’d been.
Jordan abruptly jerked to his feet. Setting down the whiskey, he dragged the chair he’d just vacated over to the fireplace. That painting of Bentley was coming down.Today.
“My lord. May I offer assistance?”
A mountain dressed as a butler stood with hands clasped at the entry to the drawing room. His massive form, head nearly brushing the top of the doorway, inched into the room.
“Holly, I presume.”
“Yes, my lord.” The mountain nodded, coming forward. Jordan had inherited his father’s height, but Holly was still half a head taller. He could easily reach the portrait of Bentley without the assistance of a chair.
Splendid.
“I would like this portrait removed.” Jordan jerked his chin at the supremely smug Bentley. “Immediately. I don’t care what you do with it.”
