“Why, when you never trust me? Why didn’t you tell me your real reason for wanting to travel to Overstead?”
Because she hadn’t trusted him.
“You’ve given me no reason to trust you,” she protested, and saw her wild words create an icy wall between them.
He turned toward the door.
“Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
He turned back, distantly polite. “I’m giving you and your brother an opportunity to talk in peace, after which I assume he will want to leave to speak to the colonel. You may go with him if you wish. If you wish to talk to me, a servant will doubtless find me.”
The door closed behind him with a steely click.
Portia stared at it.You may go with him if you wish.
“Portia?” Oliver asked. “What the devil’s going on?”
“Oh, Oliver, it’s become such a coil.”
“Then you’d best tell me all about it. I know I’m only your younger brother, but perhaps I can help.”
So Portia sat with a sigh and told him of all her adventures. She even included the events at Mirabelle’s since they seemed part of the whole.
“Lord above,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “The risks you’ve run.”
“I did what I had to, and I’ve had few enough choices along the way.”
“And now you’re married to him.”
“Yes.”
He chewed his lip. “Perhaps we can get you out of it. Duress or something. After all, you fled on your wedding night….”
Portia blushed. “I’m not a virgin, Oliver. And I don’t want to get out of it. But now I fear there’s no hope.”
“Plague take it,” muttered Oliver, staring into the fire. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been so foolish…”
“If you hadn’t been so foolish, I would have stayed contentedly at Overstead counting turnips, and never so much as set eyes on Bryght Malloren.” It seemed to her impossible that she could have lived without ever knowing the man who was now the center of her world.
The man she had lost.
She stood to roam the room. “I suppose I should leave with you. Perhaps an annulment is possible. You need me anyway to take care of Overstead. I can return home and…and count turnips for the rest of my…my life….” She swallowed fiercely. She wouldnotcry.
“I think you should go and talk to him,” said Oliver with surprising understanding. “Judging from the way he looked when you were crying, I don’t think he wants you to leave.”
“He probably wants to wring my neck.”
“If you really did run off with Fort on your wedding night, he has reason. You’ve never been a coward, though, Portia. Face your devils.”
It was good advice and she turned to him. “You truly want to be in the army?”
“With all my heart.”
She kissed his cheek. “Be happy then. And wish me luck. War is probably a safer course than the one I’m choosing.”
Portia left the room and found the corridor empty. Where would Bryght be? She could start searching rooms again, but the prospect wearied her. Instead she descended the stairs to the hall, seeking a servant.
The hall appeared empty, but then she heard a blast from a horn. Within moments the space was teeming with staff. She froze with surprise, but then two footmen swung open the doors to reveal the Marquess of Rothgar mounting the steps, his sister on his arm. Another gentleman came behind and they were trailed by a small retinue of personal servants. Two coaches each drawn by six horses, stood in the drive.
