“There are books. I have work to do.” After a moment he added, “I will not beg you or rape you, so I see no alternative.” With that, he went back through the door and closed it with a click.
Portia felt like a child sternly rebuked. But she was not a child, nor was she concerned with childish matters. She had to remember that.
There were, as he said, books—some poetry, some sermons, a book of travels, and Mr. Richardson’sPamela.Had the story of the maid who trapped the lord into marriage been left here deliberately?
She was burningly aware of Bryght, not many doors away, available for pleasure if she would but submit. She grimly chose a book of sermons and sat to read.
Her eyes tracked the words but her mind wandered, seeking an innocent explanation for his refusing to take her to Dorset. She found none except an arrogant insistence on his way that was almost as bad as her suspicions.
She let the book droop onto her knees and stared into the flames as she reviewed her recent past and the disaster of it. She couldn’t even see a point at which she could have stopped the wheel of fortune and escaped….
It was hours later that she stirred, thinking she might as well go to bed, and abruptly realized she was a fool.
She’d been given the ideal opportunity to escape and make her way to Overstead and she had wasted it.
She looked out of the window at the dark. There was no clock here, but it must be late. It was too late to venture anywhere. But this might be her only chance.
She took a deep breath. If it had to be done, she would do it. But how?
She wondered if she ought to go first to Dresden Street to check if Oliver was there, but if he’d arrived in Town she couldn’t imagine him not coming to see her.
So, she needed transport to Dorset.
It was too late for a stage, so she would have to wait for the morning. If she left now, how was she to avoid capture until the morning, and then travel on the stage with the Mallorens on the hunt? Bryght would know exactly where she had gone.
Almost she gave up, but then she realized she had one possible course. Fort. It was he, after all, who had alerted her to the problem, and he had said he was going to Dorset in the morning to check on the matter.
He had also made it clear that he had forced her into this marriage out of deep hatred for the Mallorens.
She clasped her hands, going round and round the dreadful dilemma. She couldn’t stay to be dragged north when she needed to discover what had happened to Oliver and rescue him if he was still alive. But surely she couldn’t run off on her wedding night with her husband’s worst enemy!
She was hesitating now out of simple terror, but she made herself go forward. She had no choice.
She had the pouch of guineas. Did she have any clothes? When she opened the chests and armoires she found that all her belongings were neatly disposed there. Of course they were. This was now one of her homes along with Rothgar Abbey and a place called Candleford Park.
Refusing to think of such things, Portia took off her wedding gown and hoops, and lacy stockings, and changed into a plain dark brown traveling gown, woolen stockings and sturdy shoes. She slipped the pouch of guineas into one of the pockets beneath her skirt and put on her warm brown cloak.
She sadly folded the beautiful lace stockings and put them away in a drawer, wondering if by some miracle she might wear them again one day, for Bryght. She paused in the act of closing the drawer. If that became true, it would mean that she was misjudging him. She couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be to this flight then.
He’d promised to drag her back by the hair if she ran off. There was anger in him, perhaps the more dangerous for the coolness he used to hide it. She remembered their first meeting when his anger had escaped his control, and shivered.
She would not let fear rule her.
She did, however, wish she had a pistol.
At least Portia knew a way out of Malloren House as long as that door was barred rather than locked. She slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for any sound. The solid house was peaceful, though.
She had to pass Bryght’s rooms to get to the door to the servants’ stairs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if he really were calmly applying himself to whatever work he did. She hadn’t discussed it with him, but it did appear he was not entirely idle.
She gave herself a shake and hurried on. Just as long as he didn’t check her room before morning.
The unobtrusive servants’ door opened with efficient silence and she felt her way down the dark stairs to the bottom. There she paused for signs of people in the passageway, but most of the servants would now be in their beds.
She entered the corridor, found the door to the outer passageway, and was once more in darkness.
A few steps forward brought her to the outer door and her fingers found the bar across it. She let out a long relieved breath. The marquess had made sure it would be secure, but only against intruders.
Who, after all, would wish to escape this grand house?
