Page 81 of The Duelist for the Ton
“You’ve said enough, colonel,” she said, her brother raising his eyebrows at the familiarity of Stephen’s address. “In fact, every man of my acquaintance has said more than enough for me to bear tonight.”
Before Stephen could respond, she exited the room, closing the door behind her, almost colliding with the butler in the corridor.
“Are you well, Lady Portia?” he said.
“Perfectly so, Mr. Jenkins—at least, I will be now I’m not in the company of men who are no better than beasts.”
His face remained impassive, save a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth. “Will you be rejoining the ladies in the drawing room?”
“No, I shall retire.”
“Very good. I’ll send for your maid.”
“Please don’t disturb her.”
He bowed, then approached the study door, while Portia slipped away. She waited until she reached her chamber before she could succumb to her fury. Angry tears spilled down her cheeks as she removed her gown then fumbled at the laces of her corset. The final lace refused to come undone, and she tugged at it, cursing under her breath as it tore in her hands.
Finally undressed, she flung the corset across the chamber.
Damn him!
She slipped on her night rail, then approached the fireplace. The fire had already been laid, ready for a servant to light it. Doubtless her brother—and Stephen, most likely—thought her incapable of lighting it herself.
I’ll show them.
Her gaze fell on a jar at the end of the mantelshelf containing long, thin tapers. She took one and held the tip against the flame of the candle on one of the wall sconces until it ignited. Then,shielding the flame with her hands, she crossed the floor and held the tip at the base of the fire, until the kindling began to glow. Leaning over, she blew gently on the kindling until a small flame sprang into life. Smoke curled upward into the hearth, then disappeared up the chimney.
At least the chimneys at Rosecombe were better swept than those at Forthridge Park.
When I am mistress of my own home, I’ll make sure my housekeeper engages a better sweep.
What had her brother said?Never to have a home of your own…
Was that the fate of every woman who stuck to her principles? To live a life without love?
Whatwaslove? Was it the meeting of like minds and souls, always to be in agreement, of one mind, and blissfully happy? Or was love the recognition and acceptance of those who were different, in both mind and temperament, in challenging one’s partner for life and responding to the challenge in return, in order to grow and flourish?
Perhaps that was why the couples gathered together tonight at Rosecombe were so suited to each other, why they were so in love, even after marriage—because they were so different. Eleanor, whom Society had viewed as an oddity—silent, awkward, oddly intense—and Whitcombe were as different as two souls could be, yet no one who knew them could dispute the love they shared. As for Henrietta, the sword-wielding, tomboyish hoyden, and Earl Thorpe, the stickler for propriety, the two seemed such an odd match, yet they, as the other couples here tonight, were different from most of Society in that they genuinely loved each other.
Drawing her shawl about her, Portia settled into the chair beside the fireplace, watching the flames dance and flicker. The soft crackling of the wood and the occasional hiss of coal filledthe air like a gentle lullaby, and she leaned back, relishing the warmth on her skin, and closed her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, then exhaled, slowly, picturing in the mind her cares drifting away, dissipating in the air.
No matter what trials awaited her in the world, at least here, in her bedchamber, she could relish a moment’s respite, drawing strength in the solitude to face the world again.
Footsteps approached—most likely one of the other guests. Beatrice’s chamber was next door, and in her delicate state of health, she was likely to retire early, on her husband’s insistence if nothing else.
Portia let out a sigh.
So many couples in love…
The footsteps drew near, then stopped outside her chamber door. She opened her eyes and caught sight of a shadow at the foot of the door.
Curse that butler!Doubtless he’d ignored her instructions and, out of a wish to maintain propriety, had disturbed her maid from her supper. Perhaps he believed, as most men did, that she was incapable of dressing and undressing herself.
She rose and approached the door.
“Nerissa, there was no need…” she said, opening the door, then she froze, her voice trailing away.
It wasn’t Nerissa.
