Page 46 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Which was a great loss to the rest of us,” Portia said, extending her hand to Olivia. “I trust you’ll be inclined to attend the next ball. There will be many young men eager to dance with you, and with whom it would not be a sufferance to stand up for more than a minute or two.” She met Sir Heath’s gaze and smiled coldly. “With a few notable exceptions.”
“Portia…” her brother growled, and she let out a laugh.
“Of courseyou’renot one of those exceptions, brother,” she said. “I’ve heard there are some women who can endure your company for a whole evening—even a whole night.”
He shot her a look that foretold of future admonishments. “Please excuse my sister, Sir Heath.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Foxton,” came the reply. “I’m fond of a spirited woman, am I not, Lady Francis?”
The lady blushed and curled her fingers around Sir Heath’s arm in a possessive grip.
Portia suppressed a laugh. Lady Francis was welcome to him. In fact, by keeping Sir Heath occupied in her bed, she was doing the innocents of Society a great service by removing the predator from their midst.
As was Lady Maybury, and the other bored wives whose husbands Portia had found herself facing at dawn while she earned a pretty penny—or rather, fifty pretty pounds—from Sir Heath’s cowardice.
“A-are you attending the house party at Rosecombe next month, Sir Heath?” Angela asked.
Whitcombe frowned, and Eleanor’s eyes widened in apprehension.
“Angela…” Colonel Reid whispered in warning, and his sister cast her gaze down.
“F-forgive me. It was improper of me to ask.”
“Your impropriety comes from kindness, Lady Angela,” Sir Heath said, “and for that, you can only be commended. You truly do live up to your name—as an angel.” He extended his hand, and she took it, coloring as he lifted her hand to his lips while Lady Francis scowled, turning her overly made-up face quite ugly for a moment.
Jealousy never became a woman well.
Including my own.
But the colonel’s gallantry toward Olivia was not borne out of desire—it was out of the kindness that was clearly a characteristic of the family. In that aspect, if nothing else, Portia could agree with Sir Heath. Lady Angela was an angel.
“I find myself quite overcome with so much beauty before me,” Sir Heath continued.
Lady Angela smiled. “You’re very gallant, Sir Heath.”
“Youradmiration is something I believe I shall come to value greatly.”
Surely women didn’t fall for such a speech, uttered, as it was, with such obsequiousness?
“You value much, Sir Heath,” Portia said. “I’m convinced I heard that selfsame phrase used on Miss Bonneville. Do you perhaps keep a note of the phrases you deploy when attempting to flatter unsuspecting young women?”
“You think Sir Heath misguided in his gallantry toward me, Lady Portia?” Lady Angela said, a hint of frost in her voice.
“My dear Lady Angela,” Sir Heath said, giving her an indulgent smile, his teeth glittering in the torchlight, “we must forgive Lady Portia, for she is on her… How many Seasons is it, Lady Portia? Is this your fourth?”
“Her third,” Adam said, a hard edge to his voice.
“An unnecessary expense for you, Foxton,” Sir Heath said. “You have my sympathies.”
“Not every young woman can expect to find love in her first Season,” Colonel Reid said, and Portia’s heart soared at the warmth in his voice.
“You’re mistaken,” Adam said. “The purpose of a Season is to find ahusband, not love.”
“The two ought to go hand in hand, surely?”
“Colonel, with that attitude, your family may find itself in for a very expensive few years,” Adam said. “Young women don’t fall in love. They succumb to the occasional childish infatuation, but they soon grow out of it.”
“Since when have I suffered achildish infatuation, brother?” Portia said. “Or were you perhaps referring to the unfortunate debutantes who’ve fallen at your feet? I wouldn’t callthata childish infatuation—I’d call it a sickness of the mind.”
