Page 138 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Ma’am,” Tilly said, bobbing a curtsey. She listed sideways, then regained her balance and limped toward the copse.
Portia caught her breath as the sadness swelled within her, and Nerissa squeezed her hand.
“You’ll recover in time, Lady Portia,” she said.
Portia shook her head. “Every waking moment, I question whether I did the right thing. But…” She caught her breath, but a soft sob escaped her lips. “H-how can I care for her when I can barely care for myself?”
“You’re stronger than you think,” Nerissa said. “Think how you’ve cared for young Tilly there. She’s thriving here, and it’s thanks to you. There’s no other ladies I know would be willing to take her in, and you stood up to your brother when he objected, and—” She broke off. “Forgive me for speaking ill of His Grace.”
“You’ve said nothing I’ve not said myself,” Portia said. “I cannot forgive him for…”
She shook her head and drew in a shuddering breath.
“No,I’mthe one who did wrong,” she said. “I let her down, abandoned her for my own selfish reasons. One day I might forgive my brother—but how will I ever begin to forgive myself?”
“She is well,” Nerissa said, “and she has two loving parents. The Bensons…”
She trailed off as Portia shook with sorrow.
“Oh, Lady Portia!” Nerissa drew her into an embrace. “Forgive me. I know they’re not her real parents. I know you’re…”
“I-I’m her m-mother,” Portia said quietly. “Steph—” She broke off, the urge to speak her daughter’s name conquered by the rising blackness of loss.
She curled her hand around Nerissa’s arm while her maid rocked her to and fro, as she had done most nights since their return to Forthridge Park.
“My brother says it’s for the best, a-and he does love me. B-but every day I see her…” She caught her breath again, as her maid’s soft caress breached her defenses. “Every day, it breaks my heart a little more to leave her.”
“Then perhaps His Grace could—”
“No,” Portia said, shaking her head, her eyes stinging with moisture. “He mustn’t know how unhappy I am. If he knew, he’d insist I don’t see her again.”
“He can’t stop you, Lady Portia.”
“He was so insistent at Solthwaite that I found myself handing her over to him before I could think of a reason not to.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I-I know he thinks it’s for the best—for me, for her…” A sob swelled in her throat, and she caught her breath. “It’s like a part of me has been ripped from my soul… Like…”
She gestured toward Tilly, who was limping back, clutching a posy of deep-blue blooms.
“Tilly will carry the scars of what happened to her for the rest of her life. My scars may not be visible, but they exist all the same—even if I may not speak of them.”
Portia wiped her eyes as Tilly approached, her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, Lady Portia, you don’t look well.”
“A slight headache, that’s all,” Portia said. “The sun’s so bright today, one could be mistaken for thinking it was summer already, even though last week there was frost on the ground.” She picked up the pie plate. “Now, how about a slice of—”
A volley of gunshots echoed in the distance, and, with a cacophony of squawks and caws, a multitude of black shapes exploded from the treetops, forming a cloud that seemed to fill the sky, circling like smoke particles until they settled into aformation and began spiraling down to settle once more in the trees.
“Sweet bleedin’ arseholes!” Tilly exclaimed. “What…” Her voice trailed off and she paled as she turned to Portia. “Oh, beggin’ yer pardon for cursin’, Lady Portia.”
“Sweet bleeding arseholes, eh?” Portia said, smiling. “I’ll have to try that one on my brother.”
“Oh no, please!” Tilly cried. “He’d be ever so cross.”
“With me, not you,” Portia said. “My brother has always despaired of my propensity to curse.”
“Oh, lawks!” Tilly said. “Hear he comes. Do you think he heard me?”
Portia glanced about, wincing at the sunlight in her eyes, and caught sight of a lone figure approaching from the far end of the meadow, striding through the grasses.
“That can’t be my brother,” she said. “He’s coming from the wrong direction.”
