Page 140 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I’m here for you,” he said softly. “And forher.”
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on the blanket. Then a small pink hand appeared, reaching up, fingers extended, until it grasped a tendril of his hair, tiny fingers curling around the ends. He let out a soft laugh.
“My sweet one,” he breathed, kissing the little hand. Then he glanced up at Portia, his eyes red-rimmed and shining.
“Stephen, I…” Portia’s voice caught as her throat tightened and she took a step toward him.
“No loving mother should be parted from her child,” he said, his voice wavering. “Not for propriety—not foranything.”
“But she’s…” Portia said. “I’ve already…”
“Was it your choice to give her up?” he said, his voice tightening.
Ignoring the chasm of loss in her heart, she nodded.
“Say it, Portia,” he said. “If that’s what you truly believe, thensayit.”
“Stephen, I cannot…”
“Listen to your heart, Portia,” Stephen said, “your soul. If it weren’t for Society, propriety, or your brother’s wishes, would you have willingly given her up?”
He moved closer, and a whimper escaped Portia’s lips as she caught sight of the child’s face—rounded and pink, with deep-set eyes that mirrored her own, gazing at her from beneath a furrowed brow.
The ache in her soul shattered her denial.
“No!” she cried. “Of course I wouldn’t have given her up! She’s everything—my soul, my whole world… I’m nothing without her!”
She shuddered with sobs as she stumbled forward, and her soul slid into place as Stephen lifted the little bundle into her arms.
“Oh, my darling!” she cried. “My sweet baby—can you ever forgive me?”
“Lady Portia, please don’t distress yourself,” Nerissa said. “You’re not strong.”
But as Portia held her child in her arms, the strength that had eluded her for so many weeks seemed to flow through her veins, and she stood, erect and firm—a mother tigress willing to defend her cub from those who would take her away.
“Lady Por—”
“Leaveher, Nerissa,” Stephen said. “She’s strong for her child. Can you not see that?”
“But my lady’s been ill.”
“Aye—and she now holds in her arms the one thing that will make her well again.”
The voices in the distance seemed to grow louder, while Portia closed her eyes and breathed in the beautiful aroma of her child, then a single voice roared in anger.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’redoing?”
Portia glanced up to see her brother, red-faced, eyes dark with fury, striding toward them, a shotgun over his arm. Behind him, two figures followed: Earl Thorpe and Lord Devereaux, the taciturn gentleman who’d been in hiding in Whitcombe’s study the night of the house party—the man who carried an air of brooding menace about him.
“Adam, I—”
“Be quiet, sister!” her brother roared. “I’m talking toyou.”
He waved his gun at Stephen, who stepped back, raising his hands.
“Foxton, I—”
“You address me asYour Grace,” Adam said, his strides lengthening. Then he grasped the shotgun and snapped the barrel in place.
