“You have enough on your mind. It’s a shame Zeno was in Rothgar’s rooms—he’d have set up the alarm. On the other hand, he might have bitten her and died of poisoning.”
A laugh startled Portia, and she looked at him, wanting to surrender to the optimistic view of the future. But then she saw Fort watching them with grim satisfaction, and was reminded that for him and the Trelyns, she was a millstone to tie around Bryght’s neck.
Marriage would be a prison cell for both of them, and surely the mighty Mallorens could avoid the minor scandal she had created.
“It will be all right,” he assured her. “I suspect Nerissa will be content to see us married.”
Having confirmed her bleak thoughts, he wrapped a cloak around her—not her own serviceable garment, but one of rich blue velvet lined with fur—and kissed her cheek before escorting her out.
The ladies traveled by sedan chair, the men walking alongside. Portia was grateful not to have to chatter, especially to Nerissa, and she needed some time of cool thought. She needed time. She needed time.
A child was a disastrous possibility, but it was only that. The main thing was to avoid being married on Wednesday.
That meant she must speak with Fort.
Chapter 21
The Willoughbys’ house was exactly as it had been, but the haughty lady was almost avid as she greeted the new party of guests. Portia suspected that despite her cool dignity, Lady Willoughby was ecstatic to be the center of such a notorious affair.
She grasped both Portia’s hands, her hooded eyes taking in the betrothal ring. “Miss St. Claire. How happy I am to see you in such fine state. You look amazingly well.”
Portia kept her chin up and a slight smile on her lips. “I am completely well.”
“And of course,” added Bryght at her shoulder, “completely happy.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lady Willoughby said with a cynical edge which told Portia that she, too, thought the match unequal. “And dear Lady Rothgar’s jewels. I remember her wearing them. They suit you almost as well, my dear.”
She led them into her principal saloon and Portia was immediately the focus of inspection. She froze.
Bryght took her hand and stepped in front of her. “Talk to me and ignore everyone else.”
“I don’t like this,” she said, but managed a smile. “I hate London.”
“You will grow accustomed.” He was smiling, too, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me how much you love me.”
She raised her hand, her fingers a scant inch apart. “That much.”
He suddenly laughed, and the chill fled. “Something to build upon, at least. Come and talk to the Chivenhams. They are not given to low gossip.”
Indeed, the older couple gave no indication of knowing any scandal at all, and Lady Chivenham commented favorably on the jewels. Other people were not so discreet. Some reassured Bryght that they had been sure it was all gossip, going on to complain of the wicked stories that flew around London like the wind.
Some even mentioned the case of Lady Chastity Ware, now Lady Cynric Malloren, which had all turned out to be malice and speculation.
“Gossips should be horse-whipped,” one man said sternly. “Whipped at the cart then put in the stocks.”
Portia glanced over at Nerissa and silently agreed.
She soon gathered that the current story was that Lady Willoughby had interrupted a betrothal kiss, and that servants’ gossip had made it out to be something more. The fact that the wedding was to take place in only two days time was explained by the ardor of the groom and the approach of Christmas. Most people would be leaving London soon for their estates.
Bryght stayed by Portia’s side, frustrating her need to have a few moments alone with Fort. But when he stepped aside to speak to an elderly gentleman Portia caught Fort’s eye moved in the other direction.
Fort came to her side.
She waved her fan and tried to look as if she spoke only idle words. “I assume there’s no longer any notion of you challenging Bryght? As you can see, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Mirabelle’s wasn’t.”
“Bryght wasn’t responsible for what happened there.”
