Page 126 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I can weather the insults of others.”
“But canshe?” He gestured to her child, and she turned away as if to protect her from his gaze.
His expression softened, and he thrust his hands into his pockets.
“If the Bensons take her, she’ll want for nothing—a home, a mother, and a father. And, most of all, respectability. Her birth will not be questioned. She’ll not be subject to whispers and stares as she goes to school. Nobody will treat her differently because of her birth. And she’ll make a respectable marriage with some young man on the estate, where she will be cared for by our family.”
Portia closed her eyes, willing him to disappear, but the image filled her mind—of Olivia Whitcombe struggling to find her way after her come-out, the taunts and whispers she was subjected to on account of her birth, despite being the half-sister of a duke. Olivia had everything Whitcombe could give her—a champion in Whitcombe’s duchess, a dowry—but even that had not been enough to protect her from the stain of her birth.
When Portia opened her eyes once more, the child in her arms stared straight at her out of dark, deep-set blue eyes, her round, pink face surrounded by a shock of blonde hair. Portia’s heart stuttered at the expression of complete and utter trust in the baby’s eyes—trust that she would be safe, and happy.
A sob swelled in Portia’s throat, and her brother took her hand.
“Little puss,” he said, “it’s for the best. I know how painful it must be for you—”
“How would you know?” she said. “I daresay you’ve not given a second thought to the bastards you’ve littered the countryside with.”
He flinched, and his eyes flared with anger. Then he placed a light hand on her arm.
“I cannot begin to understand how you feel,” he said. “Men are different. Besides, I was always careful to make sure that the women I…” A slight color tinted his cheeks. “It matters not,” he continued. “As far as I’m aware, I have no natural children.”
“And the natural children of whom you are not aware?”
“I’m better off not knowing,” he said. “As are they. I’m not like you, Portia—I am incapable of loving another.”
She dipped her head to kiss the baby’s cheek. “You don’t know that until you hold your child in your arms.”
“And that is where we differ, puss,” he said, squeezing her arm affectionately. “But one thing I do know about love is that if you love another, you will do what is best for them, even if it might give you pain.”
“I-I know, but…”
“You love her, don’t you?”
Her heart shattered at the softness in his voice—a softness that her harsh, arrogant brother so rarely displayed—and she nodded, her eyes stinging with tears. Then he approached the mantelshelf and tugged at the bellpull. Shortly after, a footmanappeared, and Portia heard a murmur of voices, then the footman glanced at her, bowed, and disappeared.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I think, perhaps, it’s better if you say your goodbyes now,” he said. “The pain of separation will only increase the more you prolong the inevitable.”
“No!” She clung to the child and retreated while he held out his arms.
“I’ll not force you,” he said quietly. “It must be your choice.”
Footsteps approached, and there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Adam said, and Nerissa stepped into the room.
“Lady Portia! I thought you were resting.”
“I’ve just given orders to have Mrs. Leaney dismissed,” Adam said.
Nerissa wrinkled her nose. “Not before time, Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“No, I don’t mind, Nerissa,” he said. “I’ve summoned you to take care of your mistress today—and for the next few days, until I return.”
“But sir, I always—”
“Your mistress will be in need of a little more care over the next few days.”
