Portia was rooted to the stairs by shock. As servants bustled around divesting the arrivals of cloaks, hats, and muffs Lord Rothgar looked up and saw her.
He raised a cold brow.
He wasn’t the devil she had intended to face but there was nothing for it. Portia descended the stairs, wishing Bryght would appear to support her.
“Bridgewater,” said the marquess coolly to the pale, lanky young man by his side. “May I present Lady Arcenbryght Malloren?”
The duke took her hand and kissed it warmly. “Lady Bryght. I posted down to be sure he wasn’t doing something foolish in my cause.” He sounded pleased, but Portia wasn’t sure how to take his words.
Elf stepped into the situation. “Oh, do let’s go into the Tapestry Room where there will be a fire.” She linked arms with Portia. “Came long. It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it…?” She swept them all along on a ripple of light chatter until they were in the room and the door was shut.
“Where’s Bryght?” asked Rothgar crisply.
Portia flinched. “I don’t know. He’s here somewhere.”
“You left the house separately. How did you get here?”
Portia swallowed. PerhapsRothgarwould wring her neck. “Fort brought me,” she whispered.
“You are a rash and dangerous woman.”
Portia began to wonder if she would be tossed out of Rothgar Abbey on her ear but Brand and Fort walked in.
“She certainly is,” Brand said, shaking his head at her. “Lord, Bey, I recall you taking a switch to the twins when they climbed the north wall.”
Rothgar’s brows rose as he looked at Portia. “A very rash woman.”
“He locked me in!” But she had seen the flicker of amusement on the marquess’s eyes. “It’s an easy climb.”
“True enough. But not to be encouraged for eight-year-olds. One assumes older people will have more sense. Is your brother well?”
“Yes.”
“Oliver’s safe?” asked Fort sharply.
“Yes,” Portia told him, praying he’d make no further trouble. “It was all a mistake.”
“What a shame. Does Bryght want to kill me?” He sounded mildly hopeful.
Portia could have killed him herself. “Fort, stop this. Go away and leave my life alone.”
“But you’re a Malloren,” he said. He strolled toward her and took her hand, raising it for a kiss. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to run away with me?”
Portia was burningly aware of a roomful of Mallorens and a total stranger. “Not in the slightest,” she said icily, dragging her hand from his.
“How ungrateful you are.” He looked around the room then bowed.“Au revoir. A la prochaine.”
Portia watched him leave. Until the next, he said. But what next? Would he succeed in getting his revenge, or in finding death at the hands of a Malloren?
“Portia!”
The marquess’s sharp tone brought her attention back to him.
“If you wish to leave with Lord Walgrave, I will not stop you.” He sounded as if he might wave her on her way.
Portia licked her lips. “I don’t.”
“What are your feelings for Bryght?”
