Page 110 of The Duelist for the Ton
Stephen frowned, but she tilted her head up, ignoring the gleam in his eyes.
“Brother, please ring the bell for Charles, so he can escort your visitor out.”
“If you’re so desirous of my absence, I can see myself out.”
“Then please oblige us before I fetch my pistol,” Adam said. “We wouldn’t want you collapsing in a fit of apoplexy at the sound of a gunshot, would we? Or perhaps you’re less of a blubbering coward when you’re shooting a woman.”
“Adam, leave him be!” Portia said.
The resoluteness in Stephen’s expression almost faltered, then he turned his disapproving gaze on her.
“Please refrain from attempting to speak on my behalf, madam,” he said. “I reserve that privilege for those whom I care about.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Adam opened his mouth to respond, but she squeezed his hand. Then Stephen turned to her, and her heart shuddered at the soullessness in his eyes—as if he were no longer alive…
Or as if she were dead to him.
“Lady Portia,” he said with a nod. Before she could respond, he turned and exited the drawing room. His footsteps faded, followed by a murmur of voices as Reeve intercepted him at the front door. Then the door opened and closed in the distance, followed by silence.
Adam picked up the bouquet. “I’ll dispose of this.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “Although I’ve no wish to have them, they’re pretty enough and would brighten someone’s day. I could take them to the hospital—the soldiers always appreciate a little color in that dreary ward.”
He let out a sharp sigh. “Portia, don’t you think your devotion to that place has landed you in enough trouble?”
She wiped her eyes. “You didn’t have to be quite so harsh on Ste”—she checked herself—“on the colonel about his fear of gunshots.”
He snorted. “I was generous—morethan generous. He left our home with his balls and head intact. By rights, I should have shot him on the spot. It would have restored the honor attached to our name and given me much gratification.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He turned toward her, and his expression softened. “Because it wouldn’t have made you happy. Perhaps had I considered your happiness a little more over our family’s honor”—he gestured to her arm—“none of this would have happened.”
He picked up the bouquet and strode to the window.
“We should leave Town.”
“Are you ashamed of me?”
“I cannot deny I’m disappointed at the turn of events, but I doubt you’ll relish the prospect of remaining here for the rest of the Season. After all, there’s always the next. And you can recover at Forthridge Park in peace.”
“Tucked away in your country seat in obscurity so I don’t disgrace you?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Kept safe away from prying eyes and the gossipmongers’ tongues. And…” He grinned, though his eyes were glazed with moisture. “You can spend your days shooting game rather than rakes.”
She shook her head. “I intend never to pick up a pistol again. I’ll stick with a bow and arrow.”
“Then I can rest easy that you’re no longer placing yourself in danger and that you’ll never suffer hurt again.”
Hurt to her person, perhaps. But as for her heart, it was too late.
It was broken beyond repair.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us retire to the country. I only ask one thing.”
“Which is?”
“I wish to be gone from London within the hour.”
