Page 18 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Come,mes amis!” a bright voice trilled. Henrietta, Countess Thorpe, glided toward the terrace, arm in arm with her husband, and Portia suppressed a pang of envy at the tenderness in Earl Thorpe’s expression as he looked at his wife. Henrietta was something of a harridan—in fact, it was she who’d introduced Portia to the delights of marksmanship—and yet she had found a husband who loved her in spite of her tomboyish ways…or perhaps because of them.
The company followed, among them the Duke of Sawbridge and his new duchess. The man once labeled as the worst reprobate of thetonturned to his wife and kissed her—thoroughly tamed and completely in love.
The entire company seemed to consist of people in pairs. Everyone seemed to be one half of a happy couple—or if not completely happy, then at least satisfied with their partner.
Everyone exceptme.
Portia spied Sir Heath Moss’s blond head among the crowd. He turned to face her, and his handsome face broke into a smile. He moved toward her, and she withdrew her arm from her brother’s.
“I’m in need of a little solitude, Adam,” she said. “I’ve had more than enough of Sir Heath Moss for a lifetime, let alone an evening. I know my reluctance to marry disappoints you—everything about me disappoints you—but shackle me to him and you’ll be condemning me to a life of misery.”
“Don’t you wish to be loved, Portia?” her brother asked, his voice softening.
“What doyouknow of love?”
“Perhaps nothing,” came the reply. “But look at Sawbridge over there. Do you not wish to be loved as he loves his duchess?”
“And who among the posing peacocks here tonight do you think capable of loving me as much as Sawbridge loves his wife? Mimi is one of the more fortunate women of my acquaintance.”
“But she endured much before she found happiness.”
“Yes,” Portia replied, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “All at the hands of men. For every Mimi, I’ll wager there are a thousand women who fell into ruination and despair and never found redemption.”
“That fate does not await you, Portia,” he said. “I’ll make sure of that.”
“Why must I depend on you to ensure my happiness?”
“Because I’m your brother, and I’ll never forsake you.”
“No matter what?”
He nodded.
At that moment, an explosion sounded outside, together with a flash of light in myriad colors. A ripple of “oohs” and “aahs” threaded through the company, followed by gloved applause.
“You’re missing the show,” he said.
“Then don’t let me detain you,” she replied. “You can occupy Sir Heath better than I.”
He let out a huff, but did not attempt to stop her as she exited the ballroom. As she reached the door, she glanced back to see her brother catch Sir Heath’s sleeve, thereby preventing him from following.
Perhaps her brother did love her after all—at least enough to give her respite from the company of rakes. For tonight, anyway.
But what of tomorrow?
Chapter Six
As Portia madeher way to the library, she passed a window and glanced outside. A burst of light filled the sky, followed by an explosion, then it shattered into a hundred stars that lingered in the air for a heartbeat. Almost like the dandelion heads she used to pick as a child. Then the lights dispersed, like dandelion seeds in a gust of wind, radiating outward then dissolving into the ink-colored background.
She entered the library and closed the door, and the cheering and laughter faded. But the explosions continued, deep in pitch, such that she could almost feel them vibrating in her bones. Two candles beside the fireplace cast a warm yellow light across the wall that flickered and danced. After each explosion outside, a flash of light filtered through the curtains, illuminating the gold embossing of the rows of books that lined the walls.
A faint scratching sound came from the opposite end of the room. Portia caught her breath and cast her gaze about, but she saw nothing save the shadows that grew deeper in the corners. Most likely a mouse had taken refuge from the Thorpes’ housecat, seeking respite in the darkness.
Perhaps that’s what I am, a mouse seeking refuge from predators in the shape of hungry suitors desperate to win me—or, rather, my title and dowry—with soulless flattery.
Why did every man she’d met seem to think that flattery was the way to her heart?
Every man except one—the brooding specimen she’d encountered at the hospital whose only redeeming feature was his devotion to Captain Broom, the merriest soldier in all England.
