Page 91 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I know.”
He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “How…?” Then he shook his head. “Best not to say, lest I find I’m obliged to face him at dawn.”
Portia leaned toward the window, letting the air cool her cheeks. Then she startled as her brother took her hand.
“I only want what’s best for you, Portia,” he said, his voice wavering. “I know I can be harsh—but it’s because I want to see you happy. I want you to enjoy happiness in marriage without the burden of duty.” He hesitated, then averted his gaze. “It’s something I shall never have, but I’ll be content knowing that you will.”
He squeezed her hand, then patted it and released it, leaning back.
“Let us hope the duchess is proven wrong and that we have fine weather on the way home. We can stop off at the Crown for luncheon if you wish, or we can return home directly. Mrs. Winston promised to have luncheon waiting on our return. I wouldn’t want her to have made such an effort in vain.”
“Who is this man I see before me?” Portia said. “He looks like my brother, and sounds like my brother, but does not utter the words of Adam Hawke, Duke of Foxton.”
“Or perhaps he does, even if it’s for the first time.”
His expression softened for a moment, as if he’d opened a shutter to gift her with a glimpse of his soul. Then he blinked and the shutters closed—once more, the cold duke sat before her.
“I’m a little tired,” he said. “Wake me when we reach Dorking, if you wish to stop.” Then he leaned back and closed his eyes.
The hard edge to his voice had returned, but the glimpse of a tender heart beneath gave her hope that whatever might befall her, her brother loved her, even if he could hardly bear to admit it to himself. And if that tiny glimpse of love was all he could find in his heart to gift her with, then she’d cherish it.
Chapter Nineteen
Portia jolted awakeas the carriage drew to a halt. Her brother exited the carriage then helped her out, steadying her as she caught her foot on the step.
She cast her gaze over the white-fronted façade of Number Eight St. James’s Square, then she approached the open door, where the butler stood waiting.
“Welcome home, Your Grace, Lady Portia,” he said. Then he barked orders to the footmen as they helped Nerissa down from her seat. “Do you require luncheon, Your Grace?”
Adam pulled out his pocket watch and opened it. “Have it ready in half an hour, would you, Reeve?”
“Very good, sir.”
“Are there any messages for me, Reeve?” Portia asked.
The butler turned his pale gaze on her, then shook his head.
“None at all?”
“There’s a message for your maid.”
“For me, Mr. Reeve?” Nerissa asked as she approached the steps leading to the basement.
“Your brother delivered it not half an hour ago,” he said. “Knocked on the kitchen with much insistence. Most unbecoming.”
“Surely there’s no harm in Nerissa receiving a message from her brother?” Portia said, eyeing the butler with dislike. “I canunderstand how his knocking on thefrontdoor might send you into a fit of apoplexy, but—”
“Portia, perhaps you might freshen up for luncheon,” her brother interrupted. “It was rather hot in the carriage, and the road’s always so dusty.” He gestured to the butler. “I’ll take a brandy in my study, Reeve, and Lady Portia will have some tea.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler bowed, then stepped aside while Adam escorted her through the doorway.
“I can’t think why you continue to employ him, brother,” Portia said. “He’s insufferably rude.”
“His family has served ours for five generations. Would you reward his loyalty by insisting I dismiss him?”
“I’m not questioning his loyalty,” Portia said. “But has nobody told him that it’s possible to be both loyal and kind?”
“He merely wishes to observe propriety, which is his duty as butler.”
