“Truth to tell,” murmured Oliver, “they’re an ordinary enough couple, and the queen is positively fusby faced.”
“Shush!” she said in mock alarm, and they both laughed.
Portia had a splinter of awareness that this was like the old times when she and Oliver had teased and joked, and that such times were gone. She blocked that thought. For this brief hour she would be happy.
The neat columns of soldiers marched and turned to their officers’ commands. Oliver took a genuine interest in it, but he was one of the few to do so. Portia could tell that the lords and ladies were present to see and be seen, not to watch military exercises. She thought their maneuvers as fascinating as the soldiers’. Some were fixed points, whilst others flitted from group to group like iridescent insects dipping nectar from a midsummer bank of flowers.
Among the fixed points Portia noted two clusters centered around women. One was a lively dark-haired woman surrounded by a bevy of flirtatious men; the other was a beautiful blonde dressed in white, whose circle was more sober and mixed.
She poked Oliver to get his attention. “Who are those ladies?”
He looked where she discreetly pointed. “Ah, the rival queens. Rose White and Rose Red, some wags name them. The brunette is Mrs. Findlayson, a very wealthy widow. Her fortune comes from trade, but in view of its size most are willing to overlook that flaw. I wish to heaven she’d smile on me,” he said with a grin, “for that would solve our problems nicely. But they say she is determined to marry into the aristocracy.”
“And the blonde?”
“The beautiful Lady Trelyn. Society’s darling. She is safely married. That’s her husband hovering over her so devotedly.”
Portia considered the man. He was of medium height and build. With a pale face, gray hair-powder, and dull gray suit he looked almost ghostly in the vivid throng. “Such devotion is very touching.”
“Oh, he’s certainly devoted. Nerissa Trelyn brought only a small portion to her marriage, they say, and Trelyn is both rich and powerful. He could have married a great deal higher.”
“Do people think of nothing but money and station in marriage?”
Oliver shrugged. “Why not marry as well as possible? Perhaps I should consider that route myself. Or you,” he said with a smile. “Looking as fine as you do today, perhaps you can save us all through a brilliant marriage.”
Portia laughed. “Don’t be absurd, dearest.”
“No, I’m serious. You are looking your best, Portia, and there is something fetching about you, you know. Men like you.”
Portia shook her head with a smile. “Then perhaps liking has nothing to do with marriage, for my fetching qualities have not fetched me a grand husband.”
“I can’t think why not.”
She gave him a look. “Perhaps my indifferent looks, small portion, and humble origins play a part?”
Oliver, ever the optimist, was not to be dissuaded. “I don’t think Nerissa Trelyn came from a station much higher than ours, and she married high indeed.”
Portia knew Oliver meant well, but his partiality was embarrassing and she was glad there was no one by to hear it. She looked at Nerissa Trelyn wryly. If one needed that degree of beauty to make a man forget a dowry, she was sunk before she sailed. The lady had pure creamy skin, full pink lips, big dark eyes, and a mass of shimmering golden hair. Add to that a lush figure, graceful movements, and an air of profoundwomanliness.
She was almost the antithesis of Portia.
Portia was saved from further embarrassment by the approach of a trio of Oliver’s friends. They were all light hearted gallants, dressed in the height of fashionable absurdity, which meant peacock colors, huge muffs, and high red heels on their shoes. They reminded her rather of ornamental birds.
When the first bunch fluttered on, more arrived, and so it went. As they strolled around the park it became clear that Oliver did have a great many friends. Portia wasn’t surprised. He was charming, and great fun when not gaming.
At one point, Portia noted Oliver give anen-passantbow to a tall man in dark green silk and powder, and saw the courtesy returned. The man looked at her rather more closely than she liked, and she felt a twitch of familiarity. “Who was that?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” asked Oliver with a teasing look. “That, my dear, was your moonlit marauder.”
Chapter 5
Portia stopped dead. “Bryght Malloren?”
“Encountered him last night,” said Oliver, still in the manner of one about to reveal a joke.
Portia resisted the urge to turn and stare after Lord Bryght. He had looked very different in fashionable finery. For some strange reason, the knowledge of who he was had actually speeded her heart. It could not be fear, for it was impossible for him to attack her here.
“What happened?” she asked unsteadily, forcing herself to move on. “Did you fall into an argument with him? Oliver—not a duel…”
