Bryght had thought it perfectly in order for a friend of his to win her home at cards.
He had deliberately seduced her into this commitment, without thought for her wishes.
An image of their naked bodies twined willingly together slid into her head and she fought it off.
It was followed by a memory of Bryght saying, “I do love you, though.”
Could he love her and murder her brother? She thought perhaps a Malloren could.
She couldn’t cower in this corner forever, but she lacked the courage to mingle as if nothing were wrong. She slipped away to the pale blue reception room—the one she had been shown to when she’d first visited Nerissa. It was deserted, being too small and plain to be open to guests.
Bryght had watched the two encounters between Portia and the Walgrave. At least they didn’t seem to part on good terms, but nothing could persuade him the discussions were innocent.
What the devil could be going on, and what had been in that letter?
He was still struggling with his suspicions and desires—mainly a desire to wring Portia’s neck and call Fort out—when Rothgar, damn him, told the king that Bryght knew about the tea trade. George insisted on discussing it, and one could not talk to a monarch with eyes wandering.
When Bryght finally escaped, Portia was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the room swiftly and was relieved to see Fort talking to some men. But where was his bride? Damnation, the woman was quite capable of setting off on some wild adventure, even in her wedding finery.
He was headed for the entrance to query the servants when he was halted by Rothgar. “There’s no need to start a hue and cry. She is in that room over there. Alone.”
Bryght walked in on her without knocking, but found Portia sitting innocently in a chair by the fireplace. She leapt to her feet almost guiltily, and yet he could see nothing wrong here except her lack of happiness.
He decided to attack their problem head-on. “I had no idea until recently that Barclay was your brother’s debt-holder.”
“Even though you are such close friends?”
“Men don’t talk of everything. He had no desire to spread word of Oliver’s ruin. He hoped, in fact, that your brother could find the money and redeem the place.”
“But he wanted the money.”
He held onto his thinning patience. “He won the money, Portia. Play and pay. To refuse to play would be an insult.”
That sparked anger in her at least. “Better to insult than to ruin!”
“Perhaps. Since I’m not going to play anymore, it hardly matters, does it?”
“If I can trust your word.”
“Portia,” he said, “be careful how far you push me.”
“Why?” She began to pace the room with an angry swish of silk. “Are you threatening to beat me if I cross you?”
“Damnation, Portia, what the devil is the matter with you? If you will but consider, none of this is my fault. Your brother gamed away his estate. Barclay won it. Your brother lost you to Cuthbertson—”
She stopped to point at him. “And you teased me into that kiss in the library, which led to this.”
“And in the whole list that counts the highest?”
She turned away. “It is what has trapped me for life.”
“And me,” he said. “Don’t forget we are in this trap together.”
“I don’t.” After a moment, she turned back to him, superficially calm. “Where is Oliver?”
The question caught him unawares. “Why do you ask me?”
Her eyes were cool but keen. “Because two days ago you promised to find him for me, to see if he could come to our wedding.”
