Page 109 of The Duelist for the Ton
He approached Portia, his body seeming to fill the room, his eyes so dark that they were almost black.
“Or gunshot wound?”
Fear flared in her as the first seeds of hatred began to shimmer in his eyes—cold sparks of ice.
“I—”
He raised his hand. “Speak no further, madam, if you wish to deceive me. Or should I say, if you wish tocontinueto deceiveme. If you possess a shred of decency, pay me the courtesy of telling me the truth. Answer the question you know that I must ask.”
“How dare you?” Adam said, raising his hand. “I hardly think you’ve the right to—”
Portia caught her brother’s wrist. Then she turned to face the man she loved—the man who loved her—and uttered the confession that would destroy that love irrevocably.
“I am the Farthing.”
He cradled the bouquet, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf filled the air, a steady beat marking time from the moment of the dissolution of her hopes. With each beat, the love seemed to drain from his eyes until, at last, there was no trace of emotion. No love, no anger, no hate.
As if she no longer mattered to him.
“Stephen,” she said, and he narrowed his eyes, “won’t you hear what I have to say—or tell me how you feel?”
“I feel nothing,” he said, his tone flat. “I therefore have nothing to say.”
“Are you not at least angry?”
He shook his head. “Only disappointed. But not with you—with myself, for having been deceived by you.”
Adam let out a cold laugh. “You express disappointment whenyou’rethe one who shot my sister?”
“I didn’t shoot Lady Portia,” Stephen said. “I shot the vile creature who took pleasure in profiteering from the misery of others.”
“I didn’t do it for profit,” Portia said. “I-I give the money to Dr. McIver.”
“Good God!” he cried. “You mean to say you’ve persuaded that good man to enter into your deception?” Then he shook his head. “I suppose you believe you were in the right.”
“It’s not a question of right or wrong,” Portia said.
“I’m afraid it’s exactly that,” he replied. “A man—or in this case, a woman—is either honest or deceitful, right or wrong, good or…” He made a dismissive gesture. “It matters not.”
“Good or evil?” Adam said. “Is that what you were going to say?” He stepped toward Stephen, his expression grim with determination. “Let me tell you what the good, honest thing to do is. You are to make amends for what you have done to my sister. Our acquaintances expect you to marry her, and therefore, although I would rather her shackle herself to any man but you, I insist on your doing the honorable thing, seeing as you set such store by honor.”
“No!” Portia cried, taking her brother’s hand. “Do not make me. I couldn’t bear to marry a man who hates me.”
Stephen blinked, and for a moment she caught a sheen of regret in his eyes. He lowered the gaze to the bouquet in his hands, then sighed.
“I do not hate you, Portia,” he said. “I may think what you’ve done is beyond despicable, but I can never hate you.”
A small flame of hope swelled in her heart—which his next words doused.
“I have no feelings toward you at all.” He cast another glance at the bouquet, then dropped it onto a chair. “Do with those what you will.”
“P-perhaps Angela might care for them?” Portia suggested. “She’s in need of comfort.”
“What my sister is in need of is no concern of yours,” he said. “And I would thank you to refer to her asLady Angela.”
“Damn you, Reid,” Adam said, “I ought to—”
“No,” Portia said quietly, forcing her sorrow into the back of her mind. “Let us not stoop to the sort of display of feeling that befits those of lower rank.”
