Page 115 of The Duelist for the Ton
“And Lady Portia?”
The butler gave a cold smile. “She wasmosteager to leave. She particularly asked me to tellyou, were you to darken our threshold again, that you were no longer welcome.”
“How dare you speak to me with such incivility!” Stephen said.
“Both his Grace and Lady Portia gave me leave to speak to you as I saw fit,” the butler said. “I cannot entertain the notion of one such as you crossing my master’s threshold, tainting his name with your own family’s disgrace—your sister’s ruination,not to mention your taking part in an illegal duel. I’m sure the Society gossip columns would take a great interest in the former, and the authorities in the latter.”
“Surely you wouldn’t—”
The butler’s lip curled in a sneer. “Lady Portia was most precise in her instructions before she left.”
Portia…
Stephen caught his breath as nausea swelled in his gut. Then the butler gave a cold smile, inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledgments, and shut the door in his face.
Portia had gone. She was lost to him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Forthridge Park, Hampshire
Over the pastweeks, the lush green of the Hampshire countryside had dulled, before brightening again into vibrant reds and oranges, then settling into warm browns and yellows. Soon, the leaves would disappear altogether, falling to form a soft brown carpet through which Portia could kick her way, breathing in that very particular aroma that heralded the demise of summer.
Not that she minded the end of the summer. The corsets Nerissa laced her into were uncomfortable at best, but under the intense heat of the sun, her undergarments restricted her breathing, and her skin grew irritable and itchy. The onset of autumn signaled a return to some comfort, even if she were unable to completely shed her corsets and stays—at least when visitors came to Forthridge Park.
Not that any visitors of note had arrived.
By visitors of note, you meanhim.
She silenced the voice in her mind and rose from the love seat in the window, shifting position to the shade. She’d had to move several times already, being chased by the sun as it stretched across the floor. In less than an hour it would disappear altogether, sliding below the line of firs on the horizon, illuminating them with a pink and orange glow, afterwhich the light would fade, followed by the coolness of night when she could, at last, breathe properly again.
Of late, her corsets seemed to have grown tighter, the gap between the edges widening, no matter how tightly Nerissa pulled on the laces.
Why didn’t men have to deal with stays and petticoats? True, her brother seemed to obsess over his collection of cravats, insisting that they were pressed daily, sprayed with cologne, and tied to perfection. Nerissa had once told her that Adam’s valet had been asked to retie his cravat six times before it was declared fit to be seen.
Adam could be forgiven his little peculiarities. Nevertheless, a perfectly tied cravat did not pain him as much as this damned corset was paining her, squeezing at her ribs until she couldn’t draw breath.
Was it any wonder she’d wanted to masquerade as a man? Even if it had cost her…
No. Donotthink of it.
She pulled her mind back from the brink before it embarked upon the path to despair. But her hand involuntarily touched the scar on her arm, her fingertips running along the little bumps in the flesh where Euphramia had stitched it. The scar might be a mark of her flaws, but it served as a reminder that, though she may have regretted having loved and lost, the man who’d inflicted that scar would never have loved her as she wished to be loved. In the end, he couldn’t accept her as she truly was—with all the flaws and imperfections that came with a flesh-and-blood woman.
Stephen had wanted a paragon. And no such woman existed—at least not among Portia’s friends, all misfits in some way. And whatever he may have declared while he was courting her, he had proved the point that all men wanted a woman who did his bidding, not one who challenged him at every turn.
The door opened and her brother entered the parlor. He approached the window and sat beside her.
“Much as I find plenty to occupy myself with in London,” he said, “I shall never tire of the view from this window.”
“This part of the garden has a natural beauty, certainly,” she replied. “You’d never think it had been landscaped only last year. Arabella’s husband is to be commended—he has an eye for beauty.”
“That he does, having bagged one of Society’s premier beauties. Baxter’s not only a competent businessman, he’s a shrewd suitor.”
“They never set out to wed,” she said. “It was hatred at first sight, or so Bella says. But there’s no denying how deeply they love each other. You only have to look at them to see that.” She let out a sigh. “Why is it that people can only be truly happy in pairs? It’s as if a single person is an incomplete soul, drifting—unfulfilled and unsatisfied—until they can find that one person who completes them. Like thousands of keys and locks, all of different shapes and sizes, submitting themselves to the hand of fate, which decides whether they’re a perfect fit and can truly love each other.”
“Love’s overrated, puss,” he said, giving her hand an affectionate pat. “It only leads to misery.”
“How would you know, Adam? It’s not an emotion you harbor for anyone, nor are ever likely to.”
