Page 23 of The Duelist for the Ton
Lady Portia’s brother was theDuke of bloody Foxton?
In which case, no matter what Stephen said in his defense, he was done for. Foxton wasn’t known for a forgiving nature—quite the opposite. Which perhaps explained his appeal to the opposite sex—too many women were drawn to a rake in the hope that they might tame him. But more often than not they were savaged, their hearts and reputations ripped to shreds.
In fact, Foxton was the very sort of man with whom Stephen wanted little to do—the sort of man he needed to protect his sister against.
“Ibegyour pardon?” the duke said, taking a step toward Stephen.
“Adam, leave him be,” Lady Portia said, catching his arm. “Or would you call out everyone who expresses disappointment on your entering a room?” She let out a sharp, cold laugh. “If you did that, you’d be dueling with almost every soul in Town—except the women you’ve not ruined yet, of course.”
Stephen flinched in anticipation, but, rather than the anger he’d expected, the duke gave a cold smile.
“Ah, sothat’sit?” he sneered. “You’ve decided to carry out your threat to ruin yourself in the hope that I’d demand this fellow here offer his hand?”
“Of course not,” she retorted. “I’ve no intention of marrying him, or anyone else.”
Rather than the sense of relief at being released of any obligation, Stephen felt a pang of disappointment. Her spirited defiance of her domineering brother warmed his blood, and his breeches became a little too tight.
“I apologize for my sister’s behavior,” Foxton said. “I trust you’ll show discretion and speak nothing of what transpired here tonight? I shall of course say nothing. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Lady Portia snorted, and Foxton’s eyes flashed with anger.
“Will you not at least reveal yourself?” the duke said. “You’ll not be in any trouble with your mistress.”
Dear Lord, did the duke think Stephen afootman?
Stephen moved forward, and Foxton drew in a sharp breath.
“Colonel Reid!”
“Youknowhim?” Lady Portia said.
“Of course.” The duke’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Made a fool of yourself with the younger Howard girl, didn’t you? Trotting after her like a lovesick puppy, then after she rejected you, you went sniffing after her sister beforeshefled London under a cloud of gossip.” He tilted his head to one side. “Perhaps my sister’s not at fault here. Scandal follows you around like a cloud of flies. Are you here to sniff around the sister of a duke?”
“Adam, sometimes you can be an utter arse,” Lady Portia said. “The only man who’s beensniffing aroundme, as you so elegantly put it, is that horrid Moss creature. And, to be frank,any man you feel the need to deter me from is, by definition, more favorable in my eyes than a man you’d recommend.”
“You don’t trust my judgment?”
“I trust your judgment as much as I trust your literary intelligence.” She picked up the book from the floor. “Do you even know the story—who the lead character is inThe Merchant of Venice? It was our mother’s favorite play.”
The duke shrugged. “I care not. But if you think I’ll let you make a fool of yourself because of your romantic sensibilities…”
She threw back her head and laughed, and Stephen’s heart tightened at the expression in her eyes. Ye gods, she was a beautiful creature when angry, but when she laughed, her beauty rendered her otherworldly.
Then she sobered and met Stephen’s gaze. “Forgive me, colonel,” she said. “Were you very much in love with Juliette Howard, or Lady Staines, as she is now?”
Stephen’s cheeks warmed with shame at the memory of how he’d trotted after Juliette, mesmerized by her beauty, with no consideration of her character—and then how he’d fancied himself in love with Juliette’s sister merely because she reminded him of her.
But in the months since he’d shown himself to be an utter fool, his eyes had been opened to the superficiality of Society and its obsession with beauty—at least beauty on the surface. The ugliness of war, the broken bodies and stench of death, had taken root in his soul, bleeding into his very essence and changing him forever.
Men like Broom, with their cheerful optimism, could weather the horrors of war.
But not me. I’m weak, unworthy of the uniform I wear.
“There’s no shame in it, colonel,” Lady Portia said.
Dear God—had he spoken aloud?
“Inwhat, sister?” the duke said, frowning.
