Page 47 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Then perhaps you’re destined never to fall in love, Lady Portia,” Lady Angela said. “ButIhope to fall in love.” She directed a shy smile at Sir Heath, who bowed once more.
“Bravo, Lady Angela!” he said. “An admirable attitude, one that will yield you much success this Season.”
Lady Francis’s scowl deepened. “Ought we to take our leave, Heath?” she said, her tone petulant. She dug her fingernails into his arm. “You promised to buy me ice cream. It will all have melted if you persist in speaking to everyone we pass by.”
“I doubt that,” Eleanor said. “They keep it cool with blocks of ice.”
Lady Francis shot her a look of spite.
“Duty calls,” Sir Heath said. “But I hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company another time”—he glanced toward Portia—“perhaps when we’re not in the company of those who would be jealous of a young lady whose beauty surpasses theirs.”
Lady Angela blushed and inclined her head while he kissed her hand once more, then took his leave. Shortly after, Lady Francis could be heard expressing discontent with everything—the gardens, the cold…and the company.
“I wonder what he finds attractive in her,” Portia said.
“For heavens’ sake!” her brother snapped. “Why do youpersistin speaking out of turn?”
“It’s not anything you don’t discuss at White’s,” Portia said. “But perhaps she’s very…talented. Isn’t that how you men describe a woman?”
“Are you jealous of her, Lady Portia?” Lady Angela said.
“Angela, that’s enough,” Colonel Reid said. “You’d do better to find friendship with Lady Portia than Lady Francis—or Sir Heath Moss, come to that.”
“I think—” Angela began, but Olivia interrupted.
“Lady Angela, shall we take a look at the jugglers? I’ve never been able to fathom how they can keep all those batons in the air without dropping them.”
“May I, brother?” Angela said.
The colonel nodded. “Of course, but at first you must apol—”
“I’d recommend the fire-breathers, also,” Portia interrupted. “I saw them near the pavilion. You know the way, don’t you, Olivia?”
Olivia nodded, and the two young women made their way toward the building across the lawn.
“I commend you on having such a sensible sister, Whitcombe,” Colonel Reid said. “She’ll be a steadying influence on Angela, who I’m afraid is a little impulsive.”
“I’m sure she’ll grow out of it,” Eleanor said. “How old is she, eighteen?”
“She’s not yet sixteen, Duchess.”
“Then you must guard her closely.”
“I intend to,” he replied. “There’s nothing so precious as a woman’s virtue. Except, perhaps, her honesty and civility. Angela ought to have apologized for her incivility toward you, Lady Portia.”
“An apology obtained by request is no true apology,” Portia replied. “Besides, there’s no need for her to apologize. I often speak out of turn.”
“That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day,” her brother said.
“Which isyouropinion, Adam,” she retorted.
“And the opinion of everyone here, no doubt.”
“My opinion, Foxton, is that your sister speaks perfect sense,” Colonel Reid said. Though it was dark, she could sense his nearness as he shifted closer, and her breath hitched at the faint aroma of masculinity. She moved toward him until she brushed up against his jacket, and the aroma intensified—deep,woody spices and an earthy scent of the outdoors, like a fresh spring meadow.
Then a hand touched hers. She caught her breath at the sensation of the callouses on his fingers brushing over her skin. Had those hands wielded a weapon, defending his life and the lives of others on the battlefield? Had they touched other women to elicit the same sensations that now swirled deep in her belly?
“I commend you for championing Miss Whitcombe earlier,” she whispered. “Duke Whitcombe’s desire to further his sister’s acceptance into Society is one of his most admirable features—that and his love for dear Eleanor, of course.”
