Page 77 of The Duelist for the Ton
Silencing the little voice whispering in his mind, Stephen turned to Foxton.
“If you must know, Lady Portia outshot me,” he said. “That target up the tree that our hostess mentioned earlier? Your sister hit it dead center, despite the awkward angle. The mark of a true proficient is the ability to succeed in every circumstance—even the most unusual.”
“And yet you emerged victorious overall,” Foxton said. “The weaker sex will always be defeated in the end.”
“It’s my fault that I won,” Stephen said. “I distracted her on the final target and she shot wide.”
Foxton nodded. “Women are easily distracted.”
“Yes, brother,” a voice said, coldly.
Lady Portia had joined them.
“We’re exposed to the tricks of men who distract us into believing that they can be trusted. And when we succumb, you take advantage of us for your own ends.” Then she turned to their hostess. “Eleanor, let me assure you that Colonel Reid won the competition fairly. Perhaps it’s time for a little music, to distract us from conversations we’d rather not engage in.”
“An excellent idea,” Countess Weston said, rising. “Alice, if I sing, would you accompany me on the pianoforte?”
“Gladly,” Lady Trelawney said. “Anything to spare us a debate on the superiority of the male sex. We ladies are willing to let you gentlemen indulge in your little fantasies, but you’ve already had a full half-hour in the library to congratulate yourselves on your prowess over brandy and cigars. It’s now time to return to the world of reality.”
“Lord save me from a woman who speaks for herself,” Foxton muttered.
Stephen suppressed a laugh. Foxton might consider himself superior to most, but among the company of intelligent,independently minded women supported by their equally intelligent, appreciative husbands, he lacked the courage to voice his opinions too loudly. Lady Trelawney, despite her outwardly gentle appearance, had a will of iron. She had endured much suffering before her marriage to Trelawney—rumor had it she’d spent some time in an asylum—yet she had emerged stronger because of it, with a devoted partner who understood the demons that plagued her dreams and loved her in spite of, or perhaps even because of, them.
Perhaps there’s some hope forme,after all.
Stephen’s gaze drifted toward Lady Portia, like a boat in a storm seeking safe harbor, the only creature in the world to come close to understanding the demons that plagued him. As if she sensed his gaze, she turned toward him, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight—the color of a deep ocean he longed to plunge into.
Then she turned away.
The music began, and the party focused their attention on the musicians, Lady Trelawney at the pianoforte and Countess Weston singing in Italian. Though the words meant nothing to Stephen, the richness of her voice transcended the language, while Earl Weston looked on with such devotion in his eyes that Stephen’s heart ached to see it.
Would he ever experience even a fraction of the love that the husbands and wives here tonight shared?
He spotted Lady Portia approaching the doors. The footman in attendance raised his eyebrows, then quietly opened the doors to let her slip outside. At the threshold she glanced back, her eyes glistening, then she disappeared.
Before the footman could close the door behind her, Stephen followed. Their hostess caught sight of him, but she made no move to stop him. She merely nodded, then resumed her attention on the music.
When Stephen stepped into the corridor, there was no sign of Lady Portia. Perhaps he ought to leave her be, but he couldn’t bear the notion of her pain, not when she had gone to such lengths to ease his own pain when he’d been beset by memories of the battlefield. In fact, he’d rather suffer pain himself if it could ease hers…
Sweet heaven—was that not the very definition of love? His admiration she’d long since earned, but on seeing the love shared at Rosecombe, between the duke and duchess and their married guests…
Love in a marriage was a rarity—he’d been brought up from a young age to understand that among his class, the best he could hope for was a companionable regard and mutual respect. But, if nothing else, his visit to Rosecombe had shown him that love in a marriage was not such a rarity that a man should neither hope nor expect it. The happiness in the air tonight showed him that love was there for the taking—it was just a matter of finding the right partner to share that love.
Where are you, Portia…?
He made his way along the corridor, the music fading into the distance, and rounded the corner at the end. Another passageway stretched into the distance, presumably spanning the width of the whole house, lined with thick-framed paintings depicting generations of Whitcombes. About halfway along, he saw her approaching a half-open door.
“Lady Portia.”
She froze, then turned to watch him approach, her eyes bright with moisture. “Colonel Reid.”
He reached for her hand. For a moment, she began to withdraw, then she relented and let her hand go limp while he drew it to his breast.
“Will you not call me by my name?”
She blinked, and a single tear spilled onto her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, and as his skin touched hers, a fizz of need ignited in his blood. Her lips parted and she drew in a sharp breath.
“Stephen,” she whispered, “I…” She hesitated as voices came from along the passageway. “I’ve no wish for anyone to see me like this.”
