Page 61 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Miss Lucas volunteers at the hospital. She and I have assisted Dr. McIver on many procedures—not least Captain Broom’s wound when it got infected after Dr. Lucas failed to treat it properly.”
“Spare me the details of wounded soldiers, Portia. It’s bad enough to have to associate oneself with them at all, let alone go out of one’s way to visit them in the sickbed.”
“Do you vilify the militia because you see in them the courageous man you wish to be thought of?”
He let out a sigh. “I’m not in the mood to spar with you tonight. I’ve had a trying evening.”
“Did Mrs. Scarlet not give satisfaction?”
“If you must know, I was ingratiating that fool Francis, who was ill-minded enough to challenge Sir Heath Moss to a duel, knowing full well that blackguard would turn up.”
“What blackguard?”
“That Farthing fellow. So perhaps you understand now why I’ve no wish to see you wandering about the streets. What if the Farthing accosted you?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t go about shooting everyone he meets.”
“How would you know? Are you acquainted with him?”
He tilted his head to one side and focused his pale blue gaze on her.
Heavens, why can I not keep my mouth shut?
At length, he shook his head. “I’d suggest the Farthing was Colonel Reid, but he seems too fearful of weapons—unless that’s a ruse, of course.”
“No,” she said. “Hedislikesguns. His view is that weapons should be used only when necessary, and restricted to the militia. The notion of shooting at another man abhors him.”
“A little lily-livered for a soldier. I take it he’s not averse to shooting game?”
“He dislikes any form of shooting.”
He let out a snort. “It’s a wonder he survived Waterloo—unless, of course, he’s stretching the truth about his escapades on the battlefield. Perhaps he hid on the sidelines, shivering like a coward while his friends risked their lives.”
She drew her arm back and struck his cheek. Stinging pain exploded in her palm with the force of the blow, and he staggered back, knocking into the dressing table. The cup rattled in its saucer before tipping over and falling onto the floor, shattering into shards, splashing hot brown liquid over the carpet.
He rubbed his cheek, a smile curving his lips.
“You’re a wildcat when defending your lover, are you not? Ought I to call him out?”
“He’s not my…”
She paused as the memory of Stephen’s kiss filled her senses—the scent of masculine spices, the soft sweep of his tongue, and the delicious warmth that had spread into her bones, settling in her center, that wicked, secret place she dared not touch.
“I’m only defending a man whose courage you seek to impugn.”
“You should take as much care with your honor, Portia.” Adam gestured to Nerissa. “You, fetch something to clear up the mess.” Portia frowned, and he sighed. “Clear up the mess,please.”
Nerissa glanced at Portia.
“It’s all right,” Portia said. “My brother won’t dismiss you—will you, Adam?”
He shook his head, and Nerissa exited the bedchamber. Then he stopped to pick up the shards.
“I suppose I’m partially to blame,” he said, setting the pieces on the table.
“Careful, Adam, that came dangerously close to an apology.”
“Perhaps there’s hope for me yet.”
