Page 98 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Nerissa, do what I ask.”
“I care not what you want, Lady Portia,” Nerissa said, her voice sharpening. Then she tilted her head up and cried out, “Colonel Reid!”
The footsteps did not slow, but he called out, his voice cutting through the air, “Devil take you!”
Stephen…
Portia lifted her head again, and a low cry escaped her lips.
“Devil takehim!” Nerissa said. She tore at her neckerchief until it came loose. “Stay still while I bind your wound, but I fear it will hurt you.”
I fear it will hurt you…
Tears filled Portia’s eyes as she recalled Stephen’s words—spoken with such tenderness when he took her for the first time.
Then she cried out again as the pain ripped through her arm. When it dulled, she opened her eyes, blinking to remove the fog of moisture until her maid’s face solidified in front of her.
“Nerissa…”
Dear, faithful, loyal Nerissa, who served her unquestioningly—not merely because it was her duty, but because she wanted to, out of loyalty and friendship.
Portia reached up, and Nerissa took her hand. She curled her fingers around her maid’s, drawing strength from Nerissa’s solidity and calm, tender care.
“Is that better, my lady?”
Portia nodded.
“The bleeding’s stopped. Let me help you up—we need to leave. The park will be full of people soon.”
Fueled by the urgency in her maid’s voice, Portia tightened her grip on Nerissa’s hand and, gritting her teeth, struggled to her feet. She glanced at her arm and suppressed a cry. The thin neckerchief was already stained, dark red and glistening.
“Come, quick!” Nerissa said, and they set off.
Each footstep caused another pulse of pain in Portia’s arm, but they increased the pace as the sound of voices filled the air—tradesmen going about their business, lovers indulging in an illicit liaison—but they couldn’t obliterate the one voice that swirled in her mind, the voice of the man she loved.
I pray, with my whole soul, that you rot in hell.
Perhaps, today, his prayers would be answered.
By the time they slipped through the servants’ entrance on St. James’s Square, Portia’s arm was engulfed in an inferno of agony, as if it had been thrust into a furnace. Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes, and she stumbled as Nerissa steered her toward the back stairs.
“Quick, my lady, we must get you safe before Mr. Reeve sees us!”
“I-I can handle Reeve,” Portia said.
“Do you want His Grace to discover you?”
Portia shook her head and let her maid steer her to the third floor, pain stabbing at her with each step, until they reached a tiny room, less than half the size of Portia’s dressing room, with a bed nestled in a corner beneath the sloping ceiling and a four-paned window overlooking the London skyline.
“Is this your room, Nerissa?”
“It’s the safest place for you. Nobody comes here.”
Not evenI’vebeen here—and I’m her mistress.
Nerissa led her to the bed, and Portia lay back, inhaling deeply to dispel the nausea swelling in her gut.
“Stay there, Lady Portia. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
