Page 124 of The Duelist for the Ton
“No…”
If she were to crumble now, she might never be able to part with her, and Adam would have to tear the child from her arms.
The wails increased, turning into a crescendo, until screams of distress cut through the air.
Portia’s heart cracked, and she darted across the floor, threw open the door, and sprinted along the corridor.
She arrived in the nursery to see the nursemaid bending over the cot.
“Mrs. Leaney, what are you doing?”
The woman turned and fixed her with a grimace. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting, miss?”
“It’sLady Portia,” Portia said, eyeing the woman with distaste. She might be the sister of the local vicar, with a proclivity for quoting scripture on a whim, but Mrs. Leaney was the least godly creature Portia had met—more pious than godly. “Why is the baby crying?” Portia said, eyeing the cot. “Is she hungry?”
The nursemaid wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Jilly has already been. The child’s been fed.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Merely a little petulance.”
“Petulance?” Portia said. “She’s a baby, less than a month old.”
She approached the cot, and the woman stood in her path.
“Let me pass, Mrs. Leaney,” she said, tempering her anger.
“His Grace’s instructions were that you were not to touch the child, Lady Portia—for your sake.”
“But she’s distressed.”
Portia pushed the woman aside. Mrs. Leaney caught her wrist, and Portia shook it free.
“Donottouch me again,” she said. “You may be in my brother’s employ, but I’m the mistress of this house.”
“The brat mustn’t be allowed to—”
“How dare you!” Portia cried. “She’s my child!”
Her resolve shattering, she scooped up the baby and held her to her breast. Her whole body shook with a visceral need to comfort and protect.
“Lady Portia, I—”
“Be quiet!” Portia said. “Leave us.”
“His Grace needs to be told of this.”
“Go, then,” Portia said, dipping her head to place a soft kiss on the child’s ear, breathing in her beautiful baby smell. “Go and tell your tales.”
The nursemaid dipped into a curtsey, her eyes glittering with dislike, then she exited the nursery.
Portia closed her eyes. “I’m here, my darling,” she said. “Mama’s here.”
The baby let out another cry, and Portia adjusted her blanket, tucking it in place around the baby’s neck. Then she froze.
A red weal adorned the child’s shoulder—the size and shape of a fingertip.
Portia pulled down the blanket and let out a low cry as she caught sight of two more marks, the same size and shape as the first, but darker in color—like bruises.
