Page 42 of The Duelist for the Ton
He turned his attention to the boy once more. Lady Portia had set him on his feet, and he clung to her legs while she held his hand, seemingly oblivious of the mud stain on her skirts.
“It’s perhaps fortunate that Lady Portia is not like her brother,” Staines said. “There’s a spirit hiding behind her eyes that is unlikely to be tamed. The man who captures her heart will be fortunate indeed.”
“Ought you to speak of such things?”
“As Earl Staines, perhaps not. But I was never intended to take the title—my vocation was the church.”
“Do you miss your occupation?”
“About as much as you miss yours, I suspect, colonel,” Staines said. “I miss the sense of purpose it gave me, but the reality of the position was never the same as the dream I once had when I took up the cloth, all youthful eagerness, unaware of the obstacles I’d have to face. My occupation is much respected and often envied by those who have an idyllic, overly romantic view of what it entails. I daresay it’s the same for you.”
Sweet heaven—it was almost as if Staines had delved into Stephen’s mind to unlock his soul.
“Will you sell your commission and retire from the army?” he asked. “I daresay the world will attempt to persuade you otherwise.”
“Are you bothering the colonel, Lord Staines?”
Stephen turned to see Lady Portia standing before him, holding Gabriel’s hand.
“Are you in the habit of listening to private conversations, Lady Portia?” Staines said.
“No, but Gabriel wanted to be with his father, and who am I to deny the sweet boy anything he wants?”
“Come here, young sir, Staines said, taking the boy into his arms. “It’s time we took you home for your supper.” He called out to his wife, “My love, ought we take Gabriel home?”
“Ah yes,” she said. “We’re at Vauxhall Gardens tonight. Are you going, colonel? Eleanor and Monty are, as I believe are Foxton and Lady Portia.”
“What’s happening at Vauxhall Gardens?” Angela asked, turning her expressive gaze onto Stephen. “Can we go?”
“I hadn’t intended us to.”
“It will all be very jolly,” Lady Staines said. “Jugglers, acrobats, musicians—and Lady Rivers told me there’s to be a fire-eater.”
“A what?” Angela asked, her eyes widening.
“A man who eats fire. It’s a most extraordinary sight.”
“That sounds wonderful!” Angela cried. “Can we go, brother? Please say we can?”
She turned her gaze on him, and his heart was lost. There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do to make her happy.
“Very well,” he said with a sigh.
“Excellent! Might I beg a place with you tonight, Lady Portia?”
Lady Portia glanced at Stephen. “If you wish it.”
Oh, Idowish it, Lady Portia.
She curved her mouth into a smile, and his heart gave a little sigh.
Perhaps Staines was right—he was sickening for something.
Love.
Chapter Eleven
“You could haveat least changed your gown.”
