Page 43 of The Duelist for the Ton
Portia glared at her brother as they approached the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens. “Why?” she said. “You haven’t changed your jacket.”
“I’m aman. I have no need. Your position as a lady requires you to maintain the appearance of elegance at all times. And that means not wearing the same gown on consecutive social occasions.”
“I didn’t think you were so interested in fashion, Adam,” she replied. “Though perhaps, given the vast number of gowns you purchase for your hundreds of mistresses, it should come as no surprise.”
“Hundreds!” he scoffed. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Oh, forgive me, I forgot a man’s inability to understand proportion when it comes to numbers.”
He rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, when a man counts his mistresses, something akin to twenty is deemed not very many at all—but when a woman takes a single lover, she’s vilified as being too generous with her favors.”
“We’re not talking about lovers, Portia. We’re talking about your gown.”
“No,you’retalking about my gown—which nobody will be looking at, given that it’ll be dark in the gardens.”
“Will you at least promise to behave with decorum?” he said.
“Don’t I always?”
He linked her arm with his. “I’m only thinking of you, Portia. I wish I didn’t have to be so strict with you at times, but you often drive me to distraction.”
Did she imagine it, or was there a flicker of compassion in his voice? Surely her cold-hearted brother wasn’t in possession of a soul?
He steered her toward the crowd in the center of the gardens. The air seemed to vibrate with anticipation and the buzz of animated voices. In a corner, a small group of musicians played a merry air, and around the perimeter of the gardens, liveried footmen held aloft torches, which flickered in the cool evening air, casting a vibrant orange glow over the crowd.
Portia glanced across the gardens, and her gaze settled on a woman dressed in a shade of red that could only be described as scandalous. Her hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate fashion, dotted with diamonds and rubies, the value of which must be enough to rival most dowries.
Doubtless my brother has contributed in no small part toward their cost.
Portia gestured toward the woman. “I see Mrs. Scarlet’s here tonight. May I suggest a wager?”
“Ladies don’t enter into wagers.”
“I thought we could place bets on which gentleman’s arm she’ll be adorning tonight.”
His eyes narrowed, and she caught a flicker of guilt in them.
“Ah, brother, I see now why you’re reluctant to enter into a wager,” Portia said. “Very well, I release you from your obligation toward me. I’m sure she’ll enjoy your company tonight more than I, and when you take her for an intimate walk among the rosebushes, she’ll express her enjoyment most vocally.”
His jaw bulged as he gritted his teeth, but before he could admonish her, she caught sight of Whitcombe, flanked by his wife and sister.
“Ah!” she said, with exaggerated brightness, “it’s Eleanor, and she’s brought Olivia.”
Her brother let out a snort. “Anothernatural child. London is littered with them this Season.”
She slapped his arm. “They’ll hear you.”
“And what if they do? Whitcombe has no right to parade his father’s by-blow about as if she were a lady.”
“Why must you be so cruel?” Portia said. “Olivia’s a delightful creature, charming and kind.”
“I’m not disputing that, but there’s no denying the misfortune of her birth. No matter how much Whitcombe parades her about in Society in an attempt to marry her off, he cannot overcome such an obstacle. No respectable man of Society will want to wed a bas—”
“Hush!” she whispered. “Do you want Whitcombe to call you out? He’s a better shot than you.”
She approached the Whitcombes, hands outstretched.
