Page 136 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Baby Stephania? What of her?”
Stephania…
A cold fist punched through his gut and curled steel fingers about his heart. The breath left his lungs and he bent forward.
It was no coincidence.
“Stephania…”
“Sir?” Tilly’s concerned face swam into view as Stephen wiped the moisture from his eyes.
“No matter,” he said. “I was merely wondering… if Lady Portia is still recovering from her illness, whether she ought to be out visiting. But I’m sure she’ll be well if she has you to take care of her.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tilly bobbed a curtsey, listed sideways, then regained her balance and descended the steps leading toward the basement.
Stephen stared after her, then shifted his gaze to the heavy wooden doors.
By rights he ought to break those doors down and confront Foxton. But what he wanted—no,yearned for, with every fiber of his soul—was not in London.
The key to his heart was at Forthridge Park—where he was at risk of being shot on sight.
But it was a risk worth taking. If he couldn’t be with the woman he loved, and the daughter she’d borne, then his life mattered no more.
Chapter Thirty-One
Portia lay onher back, eyes closed, while the hushed voices of her companions whispered in the air, set against the backdrop of the gentle shush of the breeze through the trees.
In the far distance she could discern the murmur of male voices. By now, Adam’s shooting party would be gathering in the field at the north edge of the woods, and soon the sound of gunfire would fill the air. But at least she would be spared their company, tucked away in her favorite part of the estate—a neglected meadow at the edge of a copse, where the ground shimmered with color, as the bluebells had begun to bloom.
With luck, by the time she returned to the house, Adam’s friends would be long gone. Company was no longer something she craved. Instead, she preferred the silence of solitude, free from judgmental eyes and the sight of the happiness of others—of all her friends who had found fulfilment and bliss in their lives. Whereas she…
Whereas I have lost everything that made me whole.
Sometimes, particularly when she was asleep, or occupied in some embroidery or other that Nerissa had tasked her with, she could forget. Or, if not completely forget, she could at least push the pain deep enough into the recesses of her mind that it dulled to a constant, throbbing ache. It was a welcome respite from the sharp agony that had taken hold of her heart thatday at Solthwaite Manor—from the moment the carriage had disappeared out of sight.
No matter how many times she visited the Bensons’ farm, on some pretense or other of benevolence, or a wish for the lady of Forthridge Park to be neighborly toward the tenants, the pain never lessened. It might abate for a moment when she held her child in her arms, but each time she handed Stephania back to Mrs. Benson it returned, cutting that little bit deeper.
But pain was to be celebrated. Pain meant that she was still a living soul capable of feeling. The day the pain left would be the day she no longer existed.
She drew in a lungful of air and caught the faint, sweet scent of the bluebells. The soft pink glow of the sun penetrated her eyelids and she turned her face toward the sun, letting its warmth caress her skin.
“Lady Portia, are you well?”
She opened her eyes to see the concerned expression on her maid’s face. Then she reached up and Nerissa took her hand, her work-roughened fingers interlocking with Portia’s.
The compassion in Nerissa’s eyes almost breached Portia’s defenses, and she bit her lip to stem the swell of sorrow.
“The fresh air will help,” Nerissa said. “It’s better than any medicine.”
Portia sighed. “Does it heal the soul as well as the body?”
“It will—in time.”
“Shall I pour you a glass of lemonade, Lady Portia?” a light voice asked, and Portia tilted her head up and smiled at the young woman sitting beside Nerissa.
“No, thank you, Tilly,” she said. “But take some yourself. Mrs. Charlton made plenty for our picnic.”
