Page 116 of The Duelist for the Ton
“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 thedaughterof 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 disappointher, 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…
