“But he was intimate enough with you to require marriage.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t want to marry him.”
“Then you shouldn’t have become so entangled.” Before she could protest, he said, “Don’t be missish, Portia. It’s a brilliant match for you, and though I’m no admirer of Mallorens, Bryght’s not vicious.”
The block-headed wretch actually seemed to think he was doing her a favor.
“I’m going to refuse to go through with this, and you arenotto interfere.”
His gray eyes turned cold and resolute. “If you aren’t married within the week, Portia, Bryght and I will cross swords over it. I give you my word. And I will do my best to kill him.”
“Fort, you can’t!”
“I’m the mighty Earl of Walgrave now. You’ll be astonished at what I can do.” With that, he bowed and moved away, leaving Portia in sick despair.
If she remained resolute, not only would she risk bearing a bastard, but she would condemn either Bryght or Fort to death.
The unbearable pain of that forced honesty upon her. She loved Fort like a brother, but if it came to the terrible choice she would see him dead rather than Bryght. She loved Bryght with a depth and intensity that approached madness.
That was the root of her wild emotions and dark desperation, but she truly did have no escape. Disastrous though it threatened to be, she was going to have to marry Bryght on Wednesday.
Lady Willoughby announced that there would be dancing before the recital. Somehow—and Portia thought she detected Lord Rothgar’s hand—it was arranged that Bryght and Portia start the dancing with a minuet.
“I don’t have much practice at this,” she warned him.
“I do. Trust me.”
And in this, at least, she did.
The music started and he executed a perfect bow. Portia curtsied and concentrated on remembering the delicate, swaying steps that wove them together.
He was a beautiful dancer, adapting his steps to hers with ease, touching her only gently on hand or waist, but managing to guide her if she faltered.
Soon Portia relaxed and had no difficulty in keeping her eyes on him as correct posture dictated. She was entranced by the slight smile on his lips and in his eyes, a smile that seemed created for her alone.
Though they danced with complete propriety, she began to remember another dance—the dance of love. Her skin longed for a naked touch, her mouth for the taste of him. It became hot in the room, and yet she felt shivery, as if with a fever….
The music stopped. Portia came to herself with a jolt and looked around, wondering what she had revealed. But they no longer danced alone. Elf was partnered by Fort, Nerissa by her husband, and other couples had taken to the floor, too.
Bryght raised Portia’s hand and kissed it, most improperly, in the palm. “I knew there would be occasions for ducking behind an arras. I don’t suppose…?”
She snatched her hand away as Elf came over with Fort close behind, hilarity sparkling in her eyes. “Lud, that was becoming so interesting I thought we had best provide distraction. I dragged poor Fort into the dance, even though he would have preferred to stand apart looking dark and mysterious.”
Fort would have objected to this, but Portia exclaimed, “I was just acting a part!”
“Yes, but what part?” demanded the mischievous Elf.
“Elf,” said Bryght, “behave yourself. We are here to cast decency and decorum over scandal and a hasty marriage.”
“Phoo to that. We are here to cast a romantic glow over it.”
“Then,” said Fort coldly, “you should not contribute suggestive remarks, Lady Elfled.”
“Lud, you are beginning to sound just like your father.”
Elf moved away to greet a friend, leaving Portia and Bryght with a seething earl.
“She needs a firm hand,” said Fort between his teeth.
