The marquess merely said, “I suspected it would be better to leave Walgrave downstairs. He merely wishes to know that the wedding will go forward as planned. I assume that is the case.”
Bryght said, “Of course, though it doesn’t please me to marry under the Trelyns’ auspices.”
“It will silence gossip, however.”
“But people will still believe those horrible lies,” Portia protested. “It isn’t fair.”
“Life is rarely fair,” said Rothgar, “but sometimes it can be adjusted. After tonight, most voices will be silenced.”
Portia wondered how their passionate love-making could silence gossip.
The marquess must be able to read her like a book. “I was thinking more of yourpublicadventures, Miss St. Claire. We are going to dine in twenty minutes, then we are going to the Willoughbys’, where the lady is having yet another of her delightful entertainments.”
“But—”
He ignored her. “Bryght will be by your side. Walgrave and the Trelyns will also accompany us. Lady Willoughby will gush over you. The whole world will see it has been the victim of at least an error.”
It sounded like an evening of torture. Portia grasped at an excuse. “I have nothing suitable to wear.”
“Lady Trelyn has sent one of your gowns. I believe my sister’s rooms should provide anything else you need and it would be quite in order for you to wear some of the lesser family jewels.”
Portia looked between Bryght and his brother. It seemed indecent to go from such passion to a public appearance, and she hated the thought of being the focus of speculation.
Bryght kissed her. “When Rothgar takes the reins there’s nothing for it but to go where he directs. Nothing and no one will harm you. I’ll take you to Elf’s suite.”
He led her through the house to another corridor. The cool of the house brought cool to Portia’s head. She realized with dismay that she really had burned her bridges. She was going to have to marry Bryght and though he was wonderful in many ways, he was still a gamester.
Bryght took her into a bedroom hung with pale green silk. Portia saw her second-best dress, a cream silk with a quilted petticoat, lying on the bed.
Would the passion in bed compensate for the constant worry and inevitable crises? Portia began to try to build bridges for retreat. “Surely if everyone is willing to retract their stories, I don’t have to be there.”
“Of course you do. They’ll need proof that you are in one piece. More or less,” he added with a wink that had her flaming.
He was investigating the various drawers and cupboards, which all seemed to be fuller than one would expect when the owner was not in residence. “Elf should stop buying every item that catches her fancy,” he commented pulling out a black stomacher trimmed with red and gold. He shook his head and replaced it.
“We shouldn’t be going through her things,” Portia protested.
“Elf won’t mind.” He tossed a lace fichu on the bed. “She’s your age, by the way. She’ll welcome you into the family.”
Portia picked up the neckerchief and found that it was of gossamer silk trimmed with the most beautiful silk lace she had ever seen. The lace contained a spider-web of fine gold threads that made it glimmer magically in the candlelight.
“This is too precious.”
“Nonsense.” He riffled through a small chest that seemed to be full of stockings. “Elfled,” he said, as if the bemused Portia had asked. “We’re all named after Anglo-Saxon rulers and heroes. Ah.”
He pulled out a pair of stockings that seemed to be made entirely of lace, and a pair of ornately frilled garters. He frowned at them. “We really must find Elf a husband.”
“Why?”
He laid the stockings and garters by her dress. “No woman buys such things unless she hopes a man will see them.”
Portia suspected he was right. “Then perhaps she wouldn’t want you to know she has them.”
He nodded. “Wise Portia.” He carefully replaced the items in the depth of the chest and took out a plain but pretty pair of stockings clocked with roses, and plain garters to hold them up. He put them on the bed and came to kiss her. “You see, we need you. Elf will like a sister and you can matchmake for her.”
“I know no one suitable to marry the daughter of a marquess.”
“You soon will. You will be Lady Bryght, a leading light of Society….”
