Page 117 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I-I wondered, perhaps, seeing as you had…” Nerissa blushed scarlet and clutched the gown to her breast. “You’ve been feeling unwell.”
Dear Lord, no…
She gestured to the discarded corset. “You’ve said it’s been getting tighter. I’ve not been able to lace it completely closed.”
The pit of Portia’s stomach dipped and she pitched forward, her legs crumpling beneath her. Nerissa took her arm and steadied her as she drew in a deep breath, willing her trembling body to obey her will.
“Do you think, perhaps…” The distress in the maid’s eyes, which brimmed with tears, was almost too much to bear. “F-forgive me. I cannot say it!”
“Then let me,” Portia said, the need to comfort her maid overpowering her own selfish desires. “You’re asking me whether I am carrying Colonel Reid’s child.”
Portia startled at the sound of shattering porcelain. She turned to see her brother in the doorway, a pool of dark brown liquid at his feet, together with the remnants of a teacup.
“Oh, Your Grace!” Nerissa cried. “What a mess. That’ll need clearing up.”
He tilted his head to one side, his eyes the color of midnight as he fixed his gaze on Portia.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “themesswill need a great deal of clearing up.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The benefit ofthe London Season having come to an end was the fact that almost all of the preening young bucks had left—either returned to their country seats to learn how to run their papas’ estates or, in the case of the youngest ones, to Oxford or Cambridge to subject themselves to an education that few of them deserved or would make use of in their charmed lives.
Stephen himself, to his shame, had spent little time with his books while at Oxford, despite the dean of Balliol College expressing hopes that he might be a distinguished scholar. But the tradition in his family was that second sons joined the militia, for which they merely needed the ability to wield a sword, shoot straight, and order others about. He’d have been more suited to the life of a scholar, but not even the third sons in his family had been permitted to decide their fate, destined as they were for the church, whether they were fit to do the Almighty’s work or not.
Another benefit of the Season having come to an end was that a man could find a quiet corner in the clubroom at Boodle’s without having to jostle other members for a place. And there was little risk of encountering the worst members of theton, who considered any club other than White’s beneath their dignity.
He relaxed into the button-backed leather chair and closed his eyes, relishing the quiet murmur of voices and gentle chinkof glasses as the footmen milled about, distributing brandy, newspapers, and cigars. While he often considered letting his membership of Boodle’s lapse, he had to agree with the general maxim that a gentlemen’s club was his haven from the rigors of the world outside brought about by female company.
Namely his sister and her chaperone. Angela had yet to forgive him for “chasing away Lady Portia,” as she put it, and whenever he was in her presence, she turned her soulful, judgmental gaze on him. Mrs. Stowe, though she remained diplomatically neutral, refused to be drawn into their arguments, always seeming to display the sort of deadly dull good sense that reminded him of an overbearing parent.
He let out a sigh and admonished himself. Angela was not to be blamed for Lady Portia’s disappearance, and Mrs. Stowe was far more pleasant company than almost every woman in London.
Every woman except…her.
“I say, Reid!” a familiar voice said. “Ithoughtit was you. We’ve not seen you here for some time. How goes things?”
Stephen opened his eyes and recognized his old university friend—one of those rare fellows who had made use of an Oxford education and earned his degree on merit, as opposed to by virtue of a generous donation to the dean of Balliol.
“Wormleighton!” he said. “I thought you’d be in the country this time of year.”
“I leave tomorrow.” Wormleighton gestured to a footman at the far end of the clubroom, then lowered himself into the chair next to Stephen, the leather creaking as he settled into the seat. “How about you?”
“We leave for my brother’s seat next week,” Stephen said. “Frederick is spending the winter in Italy with his family.”
“Is your sister going with them?”
Stephen shook his head. “Angela is staying with me, but she’ll be accompanied by her chaperone, so she will at least have some female company.”
The footman appeared with a glass of amber liquid, and Wormleighton plucked it from the tray and drained it.
“Excellent!” he said with a sigh. “The Armagnac at Boodle’s is always superior to anything a fellow could find at White’s.”
“The company, also,” Stephen said.
“Another, if you please,” Wormleighton said to the footman, “and whatever my friend’s having. Unless it’s not too early to take a bottle of champagne? Is there one you recommend?”
“We ordered a case of the Veuve Clicquot 1810 for the Duke of Wellington, of which we have two bottles left,” the footman said. “It’s easy on the palate, though a little on the sweet side. If you’re thinking of dining here, it would be an excellent accompaniment to the Dover sole.”
