Page 114 of The Duelist for the Ton
“But with independence comes responsibility—a woman making such a wish must take responsibility for her own actions and suffer the lack of security, having to fend for herself. And no woman wants that for herself.”
“Perhaps, for some women, they do not have the privilege of choice, and instead must suffer the misfortune of circumstance.”
What preposterous nonsense was Mrs. Stowe filling Angela’s head with? But as Stephen opened his mouth to reply, he recalled the sight of the chaperone’s misshapen hand, which not only gave her discomfort, but also shame, such that she strived to hide her pain.
Some women kept secrets to protect themselves, and others.
And some, no matter how misguided they may be, acted out of good intentions, and the wish to do better.
I’ve been a fucking fool.
“Brother!”
Bugger, he’d spoken aloud. “Forgive me, Angela.”
“It’s not my forgiveness that’s in doubt, but Lady Portia’s,” Angela said. “Perhaps you ought to beg for it. I can come with you, if you like. After all, I’m the reason you shot her.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t seem at all angry that I’d shot her. Her brother was furious, as expected, but Portia…”
He recalled her expression not half an hour earlier when he’d stepped into the drawing room brandishing the bouquet of roses—the bouquet that he’d tossed aside with such contempt. Not a trace of anger or hatred, or even dislike, had he seen. Instead, though she’d seemed apprehensive, the delight in her eyes as he presented her with the bouquet had soothed his soul.
Whether or not Portia was the Farthing—whom he’d described as the most vile person alive—she had a good soul and a kind heart. And she was a better person than he could hope to be.
Oh, Portia—my Portia!
There was a knock, and Mrs. Stowe appeared together with a maid brandishing a tea tray.
“Set the tray over by the window, please, Millicent,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Colonel, Angela, I’ll leave you to your tea.”
“No, please come in,” Stephen said. “Angela considers you a friend, and your original plans were to have tea together without my getting under your feet. I have no wish for you to take your tea alone.” He glanced at Angela and smiled. “I’ve a very particular errand to run.”
“Shall I bring you a cup for when you return, sir?” the maid asked.
“No need, Millicent,” Stephen said. “I have committed a grave transgression, you see—and the time a man needs to make amends should be in proportion to the gravity of his sin. In which case, I fear I may be some time.”
Mrs. Stowe smiled. “A penitent man is always to be admired,” she said. “The majority of the male sex lacks not only the propensity to recognize when he’s sinned against another, but also the willingness to apologize and atone. I trust your quest will be successful.”
He bowed, took his leave, then exited the building and retraced his steps toward the Foxton residence, darting behind a wall when he caught sight of Lady Thorpe and her son.
By the time he arrived, the sun had shifted toward the horizon, and shadows of the trees lining the road lengthened across the pavement. He knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal the butler, who arched a dark brow and glared at him.
“Yes?”
“Is Lady Portia at home?”
“You’ve just missed them, I’m sad to say,” the butler said in a tone that expressed anything but.
Behind, Stephen could discern footmen bustling about the hallway. Two carried a trunk across the floor, while a third placed a dust sheet over a chair. Another opened the longcase clock at the foot of the staircase, stopped the pendulum, then closed it again.
A little shiver of apprehension rippled through Stephen.
“May I call on them after they have returned?”
“His Grace has left for the country.”
“Somewhat unexpected,” Stephen said. “Why—”
“It’s not my place to ask,” the butler interrupted. “One must never question whether the duke acts in a manner that those of lower ranks expect.”
