Page 66 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I doubt Hardwick is acting out of character, but he is acting contrary to what’s expected by Society of a man of his rank.”
“Is that not the same thing, Lady Portia?”
“For most men in Society, perhaps, yes. But Hardwick possesses something that most men lack.”
“Which is?”
“The right sort of character. Whitcombe’s the same—the evidence of which is plain to see.”
“Evidence?”
She gestured toward their hostess, who was laughing at something Miss Whitcombe was saying, her emerald eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
“I don’t believe there’s a happier creature on the earth than dear Eleanor.”
“Perhaps marriage to a duke makes her happy.”
He winced as she slapped him on the arm. “I trust you’re jesting, colonel. A woman can make her own happiness rather than rely on a man to give it to her. Though I must admit that a man such as Whitcombe is impossible to ignore.”
Stephen tempered the flare of jealousy. “Because he’s a duke?”
“Partly,” she said. “With the title comes a degree of entitlement and arrogance that renders him impossible to disregard.”
“You speak as if you admire him.”
“I admire him for loving Eleanor—as I admire Hardwick for loving Beatrice.” She let out a sigh. “Your sex often forgets that sometimes, a woman simply wants to beloved.”
The undercurrent of pain in her voice pierced his heart, and he reached for her hand. A jolt of need rushed through him as their fingers came into contact. Then she colored and withdrew her hand.
“Forgive me, I spoke out of turn again. My brother’s always admonishing me for it.”
“He’s another man who cannot be ignored,” Stephen said.
“And there the similarity with Whitcombe and Hardwick ends. I doubt my brother capable of lovinganyone, let alone the woman he eventually marries.” She gestured toward Lord Hardwick, who was staring at his wife with unabashed devotion.
“For an overprotective husband, I confess surprise that Hardwick gave her permission to come here,” Stephen said.
Lady Portia laughed. “I’m sure hethinkshe gave permission. Lady Beatrice is the sort of wife whose duty to her husband can be summed up in a simple fashion.”
“Which is?”
“To make him believe that any and all decisions made are his.”
Stephen glanced at the sweet-faced countess with the elfin features and delicate porcelain skin. “She doesn’t look like a harridan.”
“Beatrice is an angel,” Lady Portia said. “But just because a woman is mild in looks, that doesn’t mean she lacks an iron will.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if all women have a will of iron,” he said.
“Perhaps we do.” She turned the bow over in her hands. “But we must conceal it in order to survive, at least when among those we cannot completely trust.”
“And what might it take for a man to earnyourtrust, Lady Portia?”
A faint bloom colored her cheeks. “Perhaps you already have.”
He reached for her hand again, anticipating the surge of desire as she curled her fingers around his. “Have I done aught to merit such a reward?”
“A woman can never wholly trust a man until he has given herhistrust,” she said. “We live in a man’s world, where the men have all the power—they rule over others, and we women are defined and dictated by the men who own us. Men, therefore, have no need to trust, for in trusting another, they stand to lose more than a woman who has little ownership of her fate.”
