Page 22 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Then we’ve at least one acquaintance in common.”
At that moment, footsteps approached in the corridor outside, and the colonel let out a curse. “Bugger.”
“Hush!” Portia whispered. “It’s likely Sir Baldwin Manby-Bresswell attempting an early visit to the buffet—though, given his portliness, I’d have expected the ground to shake under his weight.”
He let out a snort, and his eyes twinkled with mirth.
“That’s better,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder whether you knew how to smile. Your face hasn’t cracked, so you must have smiled before.”
A final cheer rose in the distance, followed by applause.
“Ah,” she said. “Perhaps the entertainment is done and it’s time for supper. Shall we return to the ballroom?”
She rose to her feet, and he followed suit. At that moment, the library door was flung open and a dark silhouette filled the doorway.
“What the devil do you think you’redoing?” a voice roared, and Portia’s stomach twisted in apprehension as she recognized the voice.
She rose to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her gown. “Brother, I’m—”
“Be quiet!”
Adam stepped into the library, the candlelight picking out his chiseled features and the cold fury in his eyes.
Sweet Lord.
She was ruined.
Chapter Seven
It’s really notmy day.
Cursing his rotten luck, Stephen shrank back into the shadows.
Not only had he disgraced himself in front of a lady, whimpering like a babe at the sound of the fireworker’s entertainment, he now found himself in a compromising position with her in the library—in front of her brother.
Like all men, he understood what was required of him in such situations. Even if there were no fault on either side, he’d be required to do thehonorable thing.
Though, he had to admit, there were worse women for whom he’d be forced to do the honorable thing. The tenderness in Lady Portia’s eyes belied the brittle superiority of ladies of her station, and the soft tone of voice when she’d taken his hand and brought him back from the brink of hell spoke of a far superior woman.
A woman with whom even the most hard-hearted man could easily find himself falling in love, to the point of his own destruction.
Her eyes glittered with anger as she placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not a footman you can order about, Adam,” she addressed the man in the doorway, whose powerful frame filled the space. “I’ve”—she glanced back toward Stephen—“we’vedone nothing wrong.”
“We?” the man said, a mocking tone in his voice. “Then what were you doing?”
“Discussing Shakespeare.”
“Seriously?”
Lady Portia let out a huff. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Adam. Didn’t you once say that Shakespeare’s works were books to have on one’s shelf to give the appearance of gentility, but were not something one actuallyread? At least, not somethingyou’recapable of reading?”
“That’s no way to talk to me, Portia, given the situation I find you in.”
The man’s voice—deep and rich—sounded familiar. Then he stepped forward and the candlelight illuminated his face.
Shit.
The Duke of Foxton.
