Page 44 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Dear Eleanor! What a delight to see you!”
The duchess took her hands. “You act as if you didn’t expect to see us, Portia.”
“I know you dislike crowds.” Portia turned to the sweet-faced young woman standing beside the duke. “Olivia, I’m delighted to see you tonight. We missed you in Hyde Park this afternoon, but I daresay you have many engagements now you’ve had your come-out.”
Olivia colored, and Whitcombe placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “My sister was a little…indisposedthis afternoon,” he said, an undertone of anger in his voice.
“I see,” Portia said. “Well, Olivia’s among friends now—isn’t that right, Adam?”
Her brother, who’d been staring across the garden, resumed his attention on them and nodded.
“Of course,” he said. “A pleasure to see you—Miss FitzRoy, is that right?”
“It’s MissWhitcombe,” Portia said, “as you well know. Why don’t you go and speak to your mistress instead, Adam?She’llat least enjoy your company.”
He shot her a look, then nodded to Whitcombe. “I trust your sister does not display the same lack of decorum as mine.”
“Certainly not, Foxton.”
Olivia blushed and turned to meet her brother’s gaze, and Portia caught a glimpse of a redness about her eyes.
“Miss Whitcombe is much better behaved than I could ever be,” she said, “aren’t you, Olivia?”
“Y-yes, Lady—”
“I’ve already told you to call me Portia. We’re friends, are we not?”
Olivia nodded, and Portia took her arm.
“Take no notice of my brother,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ve heard him speak a civil word to anyone, save a few male friends.”
Olivia managed a watery smile.
“Are you enjoying the Season?” Portia asked. “I found my first rather trying—far too many parties and balls—so I spent most mornings prostrate in my bedchamber with a headache.”
“That, at least, is a problem I’ve not had to face,” Olivia said.
“And the ceaseless chatter!” Portia added. “Some ladies must consider their desirability to be in direct proportion to the number of fatuous remarks they make about the weather, the cut of each others’ gowns, or whether it is altogether toonouveau richeto issue invitations to a ball on paper edged in gold.”
“I-I confess, I’ve not been subjected to many such fatuous remarks,” Olivia said. “At least not to my face.”
Her eyes glistened with moisture, and Portia’s heart ached to see her expression. No wonder Olivia had been absent that afternoon. No doubt she’d been subject to the cruelty of the ladies who circled the waters of thetonlike predators on the lookout for lesser beings to rip apart with their put-downs.
“Well, nobody cares whattheythink,” Portia said. “At least nobody of any merit. If the witless ladies of Society see fit to exclude you from their conversations, it’s their loss.”
“Perhaps, but I fear I’m letting my brother down. He wanted my first Season to be a triumph, but not even the sister of a duke is acceptable in Society if she’s a bas—”
“I’m sure your brother cares only for your happiness,” Portia said, casting an envious glance at Whitcombe, who was gazing at his wife with devotion. “You’re fortunate inthat, at least.”
“Oh, he’s the best brother in all the world!” Olivia said, turning her adoring gaze on Whitcombe. “And I love Eleanor as a sister. But not everyone in London is as kind. I know I’m less than them, but I wish it were not so.”
Portia’s heart ached for the resignation in Olivia’s tone. Why must the world be so cruel as to blame a person—usually a woman—for the circumstances of their birth? And why did Olivia feel she had to accept her status as beingless?
Then her heart gave a little flutter as the familiar, tall figure emerged from the crowd, arm in arm with the delicately featured debutante she’d met in the park that afternoon.
“Colonel Reid”—Whitcombe inclined his head in a bow—“and Lady Angela. A pleasure.”
“A pleasure indeed,” Eleanor echoed. “Lady Angela, I was beginning to fear your brother had changed his mind and you weren’t coming. May I introduce my husband’s sister, Miss Whitcombe? Olivia, this is the young woman I told you about, Lady Angela Reid.”
