Page 9 of The Duelist for the Ton
Four more footmen occupied the breakfast room—two guarding the door inside, a third carrying a pot of tea, and the fourth spooning a portion of deviled kidneys onto a plate.
The sole occupant at the breakfast table glanced up, deep-set sapphire eyes gleaming with displeasure. His chiseled features, framed by thick, dark hair the color of a raven’s wing, shifted in an almost imperceptible gesture that still managed to convey admonishment.
“You’re late,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Breakfast is served at seven. You know that.”
“It’s barely five past.”
“If a lady does not arrive on time then she is late,” came the reply, carrying its familiar note of arrogance. “It matters not whether she is five minutes or five hours late—the tardiness is still a manifestation of the utter lack of propriety.”
Manifestation of the utter lack of propriety? Lord save me from arrogant dukes!
His eyes flashed with anger. “Ibegyour pardon?”
“I said nothing.”
He let out a huff, and nodded toward the place set opposite.
“Sit, then, sister,” he said, then he gestured to one of the footmen.
“Charles, serve Lady Portia her breakfast.”
Chapter Three
Lady Portia Hawkeslid into the seat opposite her brother. A footman approached with the plate of deviled kidneys and placed it before her.
“Thank you, Charles.”
Her brother frowned and sliced through his bacon, his knife scraping against the plate.
“What now, Adam?” she asked. “Am I not permitted to thank the staff?”
“It’s not your civility I take issue with, Portia,” he said, taking a bite of bacon. “It’s your lack of propriety…”
“And what of yours?”
“We’re not discussing my behavior,” he replied, his eyes darkening with anger. “My behavior does not risk bringing the Foxton title, or the Hawke family name, into disrepute. Yours, unfortunately,does.”
Portia resisted the urge to pull a face. Her brother always carried an air of menace about him, a layer of brutality concealed beneath his perfectly tailored exterior.
Which, for some unfathomable reason, women were attracted to. Perhaps they relished the prospect of danger—the thrill to be had from throwing themselves at the mercy of a demon.
Or perhaps they believed him a wild beast whom they could tame—which she would have laughed at had her position in lifebeen cause for jollity. But, as his sister, she was at his mercy, and there was nothing to relish from her situation in life.
Except for the occasional dawn—and dusk—when Lady Portia Hawke transformed into a different creature altogether, one who exposed the weaknesses of men, and beat them at their own game.
“Why do you smile, Portia?”
She glanced up to see his gaze focused on her. “Because I’m enjoying my breakfast,” she replied. “Charles, please pass my compliments to Mrs. Winston—these kidneys are delicious.”
“Thank you, Lady Portia, she will be honored.”
“You’d have done the cook greater honor had you arrived at breakfast on time,” Portia’s brother said. “Perhaps there was some fault on the part of your maid.”
“It wasn’t Nerissa’s fault,” Portia replied. “I went for an early walk and she accompanied me. We returned just as your…guestwas leaving.”
He narrowed his eyes, and Portia caught a sheen of discomfort in his expression.
“Yes, brother,” she said. “I find it somewhat ironic that you see fit to lecture me about decorum when we saw your mistress—or should I say one of yourmanymistresses—leaving our home, by the front door, if you please, for all of London to see, after presumably having spent the night in your bed.”
