Page 21 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Books,” he said. “Hundreds of books—lining the walls.”
“Can you describe them?”
He paused, then nodded. “Row upon row, the spines glistening in the candlelight, green and gold. No—red.” He looked to the book at Portia’s feet. “Ah, Shakespeare.The Merchant of Venice.” Then his lips curved upward. “Portia,” he said. “Are you Portia come to life from the page? Are you in my mind?”
“I am no character in a play,” she replied. “Nor do I exist only in your imagination. I’m Lady Portia Hawke. Do you not remember me?”
“Lady Portia…”
For a moment he stared at her, then recognition filled his gaze and he colored.
“Dear Lord—what you must think of me!” he said. He tried to rise, then fell back, and she caught his hand.
“Sir, you’re unwell,” she said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t attempt to stand until you’re feeling better. May I bring you something? A brandy, perhaps?”
He shook his head.
“I understand your distress, colonel,” Portia said. “Did you fight at Waterloo alongside Captain Broom?”
Shame flickered in his eyes and he looked away.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in experiencing distress after a war,” Portia said. “I cannot imagine what you must have experienced.”
“I’m not injured, Lady Portia,” he said, his voice hardening. “A bout of weakness is all I’ve endured tonight. It will not happen again. Now, permit me to stand.”
He tried to move, and she placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I see no weakness,” she said. “I’d sooner call it weak to deny your pain—even that which is not physical.”
At a further explosion outside, he flinched, and she squeezed his hand.
“Our hosts are entertaining the guests with a fireworker,” she said. “It’s all the fashion this Season—or so my brother says.”
“Why are you in here, then?”
“To seek respite from the crowds.”
Another bang came, followed by a volley of explosions and a distant cheer.
“I think perhaps the fireworker is approaching his finale,” Portia said, as the explosions increased in intensity.
He stiffened, and she sat next to him, curling her fingers around his.
“I prefer to wait somewhere quiet until the entertainment is over,” she said, while he continued to shake. “A ball has three purposes, does it not? Music, dancing, and conversation. I think fireworkers are best suited to public entertainment, don’t you?”
“I-I suppose so.”
“Perhaps Countess Thorpe intends for her guests to enjoy a quieter mode of entertainment near the end of the evening,” she continued. “I saw the Duchess of Sawbridge among the guests. She’s fond of Bach, and has become quite the proficient. Perhaps she’ll entertain us over supper.”
“S-Sawbridge?” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. Her attempt at Society conversation was at least diverting his attention from the noise outside.
“He’s something of a reprobate, you know,” she added. “I’m sure you heard the rumors. Not that I applaud the spreading of gossip—I leave that to Lady Francis. Have you had the fortune, or otherwise, of being sat next to her at the supper table? She’s too apt to poke her nose in the affairs of others. Eleanor has sketched a particularly wicked likeness of her, with the nose a little too long.”
His eyes flared with recognition. “E-Eleanor?”
“The Duchess of Whitcombe,” Portia said. “Perhaps you know her? She’s not fond of loud noises either. Or crowds.”
“Y-yes, I know her.”
