Page 80 of The Duelist for the Ton
“There’ll be no scandal, sister,” Foxton said, “because you’ll marry this man. I’ve no qualms about putting you on a carriage to Scotland—bound and gagged, if need be. As for this fellow here…”
He turned to Stephen. “I insist on being satisfied, Reid. Do as I bid, or”—he stepped up close, his eyes cold with fury—“face me at dawn.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sweet heaven—not aduel!
Portia’s stomach cramped with horror. The last thing she wanted was the two men she loved the most in the world risking their lives over her.
Then she caught her breath.
The two men I love the most.
Infuriating as he was, Adam was driven by the need to accomplish what he believed was in her best interests, and she loved him for it.
As for Stephen…
Since when had he secured a place in her heart? Perhaps that was why his intransigence on his views about honesty and integrity gave rise to so much pain—because it meant that he could never accept her in her entirety.
Because it meant that she—or at least that part of her that satisfied her craving for freedom and autonomy over her life—would never be good enough for him.
“Adam, please,” she said. “There’s no need for—”
“There’s every need,” her brother said, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “And I fail to see why you’re so distressed. You set your cap at him—now you can have him.”
“Brother!”
“Why deny it? You can trust everyone here. Reid, I’m sure, will concede defeat, and Whitcombe won’t engage in gossip forfear of distressing his perfect wife. As for this fellow here”—he gestured to the silent, darkly brooding figure that had materialized from the shadows like a phantom—“Devereaux won’t speak a word either way. Bravo, sister—an excellent evening’s work.”
Stephen turned toward her. “Did you plan this?”
“How dare you make such an accusation!” she said. “Just because our opinions differ on honesty, you think me capable of something so underhand?”
“You defended that Farthing ruffian.”
“Ah, the Farthing,” Adam said. “Perhaps I’ll hire him if you refuse to marry my sister.”
“Don’t you dare!” Portia cried.
“Then what would you have me do?” her brother said. “Await your ruination?”
“I’d rather be ruined than have a good man forced into marriage with me. Would you condemn us both to a life of misery?”
“And would you condemn yourself to a life of solitude, never to have a home of your own? For heaven’s sake, Portia, I—”
“Foxton, perhaps we should let this be,” Whitcombe said.
“Would you let it be if it wereyoursister placed in such a compromising situation?”
“No, but Lady Portia is not my sister.”
“Quite so, Whitcombe. My sister has a title and respectability of birth that is at risk of being besmirched, whereas yours—”
“If you wish to remain under my roof, Foxton, I’d advise you to stop there,” Whitcombe said, a low growl in his voice. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion elsewhere.”
“Or we should cease talking altogether, like that fellow there,” Portia said, gesturing toward Devereaux. “I’ll not be discussed by you, or anyone else. Your Grace, please convey my apologies to Eleanor. It’s time I retired.”
“Portia, I—”
