Page 76 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Only when they deserve to be stolen,” Lavinia said. “There’s nothing wrong with a little mischief if it’s in a good cause, don’t you think, Lady Portia?”
Portia glanced over her shoulder in the direction from which she’d come. “Yes,” she said. “I certainly do.”
“Was Colonel Reid not with you?” Alice asked. “Lavinia and I paired up. We would have asked you to join us, but we thought you’d prefer to make a pair with the colonel.”
“No,” Portia said quietly, tempering the pinch of sorrow in her heart. “The colonel and I are not a pair.”
Nor are we ever likely to be.
Chapter Sixteen
Heaven help me,I’ve done it again.
Why did he have to preach at Lady Portia and force his own opinions into the conversation? Most would have interpreted the distress in her eyes when her arrow had shot wide as frustration, her pride being hurt at not being able to best him. But she lacked the pride that most ladies had in abundance. No, her distress was at him trying to emerge victorious in their debate by use of emotion and anger.
And, as any soldier understood, anger and emotion did not win a battle, let alone a war.
But she had not granted him the opportunity to explain himself. When he’d emerged from the woods and rejoined the party, hailed already as the victor by Whitcombe, Lady Portia was nowhere to be seen. Foxton had said something about her being a poor loser, but Duchess Whitcombe had admonished Foxton, expressing concern that Lady Portia has taken too much sun. And, despite the duchess’s kind attentions, Stephen couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the tea. The strawberries left a sour taste in his mouth that not even being hailed the victor of the day could sweeten.
At dinner, Lady Portia was seated between Whitcombe and Sir Ross Trelawney. Her spirits seemed to have improved, but though she gifted her dining companions with her smiles, she didn’t even glance in Stephen’s direction.
By the time the gentlemen finished their cigars and brandy and moved to rejoin the ladies, the urge to be close to her and to ease her pain—though he had been the cause of it—had gripped his heart, and as soon as they entered the drawing room, he moved toward her. But she was sitting among a group of ladies and he had no opportunity to be close to her. And though she did not look at him, the fact that she steadfastly focused her attention away from him said that she was as aware of him as he was of her.
Their hostess approached him. “Colonel, I must congratulate you once more on your prowess this afternoon. An almost perfect score, save one target.”
“The one in the tree.”
“Dear Portia made a perfect shot on that one. Such a pity she missed the final target. But, I suppose, that’s the true test of proficiency—one must be consistent in one’s accuracy.”
“You are a fortunate man indeed, Reid,” Whitcombe said, joining them. He took the duchess’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My wife does not bestow her portraiture skills on just anyone. You must make arrangements for your sitting. We can either accommodate you here, or when we return to London.”
“Actually, I’d rather not have my portrait painted,” Stephen said. The duchess’s smile slipped and he caught a flare of hurt in her eyes. “If you’d not mind very much, Duchess, I’d like to gift the prize to my sister. I believe it would benefit her more than I. Angela deserves the best, and perhaps it would atone for my not bringing her with me—if you have no objection?”
She smiled. “None at all.”
“And you would benefit from the exchange, for you’d have a far prettier subject for your brush.”
“Beauty is not defined by appearance, colonel,” she said. “But I applaud your generosity toward your sister. I would be delighted to paint her, and I’m sure Olivia would appreciateseeing her again. Perhaps we could invite her to stay with us for a few days? Just the family, of course—I understand your sensibilities about inviting her to larger parties, though I hear you’ve hired a chaperone for her.”
“There’s no need. Angela has a chaperone. A Mrs. Stowe.”
“Ha!” a voice cried, and they turned to see Foxton holding a glass that, according to Stephen’s count, contained his fifth brandy. “The dowdy widow.”
“Foxton, may I offer you coffee?” the duchess said. “I believe we’ve some strong enough to meet your needs.” She deftly plucked the brandy glass from Foxton’s hand and smiled, her emerald eyes gleaming with insight. “I find coffee particularly beneficial when the necessity arises to offset the symptoms of overindulgence.” She lowered her gaze to the brandy glass, then smiled again. “But—”
“Come, Foxton,” Whitcombe interrupted, “our coffee is excellent. Not content with procuring the finest brandy in the land, Trelawney here has expanded his business into coffee.”
“I can’t abide the stuff,” Foxton said. “Give me a brandy any day. Besides, we’ve yet to toast Reid’s success this afternoon.” He turned his blue gaze—so like his sister’s, save for the lack of warmth—to Stephen and raised an imaginary glass. “I commend you on your victory.”
He glanced across the room, toward Lady Portia, who was now looking in their direction.
“You’ve demonstrated our superiority over the weaker sex and proven what I have believed all along, that women should not engage in pursuits that the Almighty never intended them to partake in. Is that not right, sister?”
Lady Portia colored, then she met Stephen’s gaze and her eyes narrowed. But she made no attempt to respond.
Where had that determination—which he so admired in her—gone?
Perhaps you should askyourselfthat.
