Page 127 of The Duelist for the Ton
Nerissa glanced toward Portia, and her face creased in sorrow.
“Oh, Lady Portia!” She took a step toward Portia, and Adam caught her wrist.
“One moment, if you please.” He held his arms out to Portia, then grew still and waited.
Biting her lip to stem the pain, she stepped forward. She caught her breath as, her body trembling, she handed the little bundle to her brother.
The child stirred and let out a cry, and Adam held her close to his chest.
“Hush, sweet one,” he said. “Everything will be all right. You’ll be loved and cherished by those with whom you will live, and”—he glanced at Portia, his gaze softening—“and by those with whom you cannot. Perhaps, when you are a little older, you may be fortunate enough to have a benefactress.”
Portia stepped forward, then forced herself to remain still as she fisted her hands at her sides, clutching at the fabric of her skirts. Her brother approached the door, cradling the precious bundle in his arms.
“Adam!” she cried as he reached the threshold.
He turned toward her. “Portia, you know it’s for the—”
“Her name,” she said, her throat catching. “Please tell them…” She drew in a sharp breath as convulsions began to rack her body. “Her name is Stephania.”
“Portia, I can’t just…” He hesitated, then nodded. “Stephania.”
He retreated to the doorway and closed it behind him. His footsteps began to fade while she remained, her body vibrating like a coiling spring.
Then the spring snapped. She flew toward the door, a primal cry of loss tearing from her throat. Nerissa caught her and held her firm while she struggled to break free, until her legs gave way and she collapsed, her maid holding her weight as she screamed, finally yielding to the pain.
Her voice grew hoarse as the cries swelled in her chest, thick, dark waves of sorrow that burst forth, tearing at her throat until she could cry no more, while her maid rocked her to and fro.
At length, she caught the distant sound of hoofbeats. Ignoring Nerissa’s protests, Portia raced to the window to see the carriage moving along the drive, growing smaller with each turn of the wheel.
She lifted her hand and placed it on the pane of glass, where the imprint in the frost was still visible. By the time the frost hadthreaded through her body and reached her heart, the carriage had turned a corner and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hyde Park, London
The extraordinary thingabout the color green was the variety of shades to be found in nature. While Stephen was not a true connoisseur of art, he knew enough to appreciate the subtle nuances of color in even the drabbest places—from the pale green of the lawns to the dark, glossy green of the bushes lining the path.
Most of his acquaintances considered Hyde Park to be exceptionally dull in February. Trees, devoid of their leaves, stood in a forlorn row along the Serpentine, like bones stretching toward the sky. The iron-hard ground glistened in the sunlight, dusted with frost, and the grass, brittle in the cold, crumpled underfoot, leaving imprints that formed winding patterns across the lawn.
Stephen smiled to himself as he caught sight of a pair of footprints disappearing into the rhododendrons, with no corresponding footprints coming back out again—clandestine lovers, perhaps.
He allowed himself a small smile.
“Colonel Reid!” a voice called.
A familiar figure approached, and he suppressed the little flutter of embarrassment as he recognized Lady Staines. But the sharp-featured frown she’d given him the day she broke theirengagement was long gone, replaced by the serenity of a woman at peace.
“Lady Staines, a pleasure,” he said. “Are you not spending the winter in the country?”
“We arrived in London last week,” she said. “Besides, the winter is almost over.”
“Tell that to Mother Nature,” he said. “The ground underfoot is covered by frost.”
“But if you look closely, you’ll see the first signs of crocuses.” She gestured toward a row of trees. “Just a few familiar shoots. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to tell Gabriel not to pick them. He seems to think that if he picks the shoots and takes them home, they’ll turn into flowers.”
“Is your son here with you today?”
She nodded. “His father has taken him to see the swans while I have a few moments to myself.” She gave a shy smile. “I love my son completely, but he’s at that stage where he’s filled with life and laughter, and I need a little respite. And, of course, I appreciate the time a boy needs to spend alone with his father to discuss”—she made a random gesture in the air—“oh, whatever it is that you gentlemen find the need to talk about when ladies are not present.”
