Page 123 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I hardly think you’re in a position to lecture me on my sister’s welfare,” he said. “Now go, and take your drab little woman with you.”
“But—”
“Go!” Foxton roared, and Mrs. Stowe flinched. “I’ll give you to the count of ten to get off my land—then I’ll set the dogs on you.”
Stephen remained still, and Foxton tilted his head and roared, “Moore! Let loose the dogs…and fetch my shotgun!”
Stephen’s companion tugged at his sleeve. “Please…” she whispered.
“This isn’t over, Foxton,” Stephen said.
“It will be if you remain here.”
Footsteps approached and the butler appeared, brandishing a shotgun with a polished wooden handle.
Stephen retreated, escorting Mrs. Stowe to the carriage. Angela’s concerned face appeared at the window.
“Would she not see you?”
“She’s not at home,” Stephen said, helping Mrs. Stowe in and then following her. He rapped on the side of the carriage, and it lurched forward, turned in a wide circle, then set off down the drive.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Solthwaite Manor, Cumberland
Snow had beenfalling for days. Even the windows were white with frost, and the sounds of nature were muffled by the cold white shroud—almost as if the world outside no longer existed.
If only that were true.
Portia pressed her hand against the windowpane, fingers splayed out, until the cold seeped into her bones. Then she lowered her hand, leaving an imprint on the glass where the frost had melted, through which she could discern the Cumberland landscape. A line of fir trees stretched toward the horizon, thickening to a forest in the distance, before thinning out as the land stretched toward the foothills, undulating softly across the land. And beyond…
Beyond were the mountains. Her gaze followed the gentle slope, which grew steeper higher up, toward the snow-capped peaks that glowed a soft pink as the day drew to a close.
Soon, the winter sun would dip behind the mountain, and the world would slip into darkness.
Darkness to match that the depths of her heart.
Portia rose to her feet, wincing at the soreness in her body.
Stephen!
She blinked and shook her head to dissipate the memory of his name—a name she had cried as her body had been almosttorn apart less than a fortnight ago, when the snow had closed in, as if Nature wanted to muffle her cries and hide her disgrace.
You’re to go to Solthwaite to hide your disgrace from the world…
A rest cure, her brother said he’d tell the world—as if the fruits of her love were an ailment to be cured, a disease to be obliterated.
My love…
However muchhemight hate her now, her child was conceived out of love.
I cannot think of her as…
Almost as if Portia’s thoughts had been read, a wail rose up from within the manor. Portia held her breath at the familiar tug in her heart. She placed a hand over her aching breasts and closed her eyes, willing the tears to subside. But they stung her eyes as she tempered the surge of envy. Soon the crying would subside as the wet nurse—a young girl from the village who had recently lost a child—would see to her needs.
And, in a matter of days, if her brother got his way, Portia would suffer the same loss. Her child might be alive, but Portia would have to live out her life knowing that her daughter would never know her. Strangers would witness her first steps, hear her first words. Strangers would comfort her at night to chase away the demons in her dreams, would sing her lullabies at night…
She curled her fingernails into her palm, focusing on the pain in her hands to drive away the pain in her heart. But the instinct of a mother, the urge to comfort her child, threatened to shatter her resolve.
