She was very grateful for the protection of the mask, but wished desperately that her unruly body was entirely within her command. Her heart was racing, she knew her cheeks were flushed, and her voice was not as steady as she wished.
He took no offense at her chilly manner, but turned to bow to her brother. “And Sir Oliver. Most enjoyable hand or two we had. We must re-engage one day.”
Oliver returned the bow, flushed with pleasure. “Of course, my lord.”
As Oliver introduced his friends, Portia forced herself to remain silent, but she hated to see her brother preening to be merely spoken to by Bryght Malloren. His two friends were acting as if a god had come amongst them.
Damn the Mallorens anyway. All this wretch was was a gamester. She breathed deep and slow, commanding herself to icy calm. What she needed to do was find out this man’s intent toward her brother.
The wretch turned back to her, not obviously discouraged by the smooth white mask between them. “You are fixed in London at the moment, Miss St. Claire?”
“For a little while, yes, my lord.”
“London is greatly favored. I confess I found our last encounter unforgettable.”
Portia almost answered that honestly, and told him what she thought of their last encounter, but she forced a neutral answer. “I too have not forgotten, my lord.” She added a dart. “I hope your letter proved to be all that you expected.”
Something flickered in his eyes. It could be admiration or anger. In the sunlight she realized his eyes were remarkably fine. They were a hazel that could flash green on occasion, or catch the sun with flecks of gold, and they were framed by rich dark brows and lashes. It was hard to ignore eyes like that.
A quizzical widening of those eyes told her that even the mask could not hide the fact that she had been staring. She looked away, grateful that it at least hid her blush.
Then Oliver said, “Bless me, Portia, there’s no need to actuallyusethe mask.”
Reluctantly, she let it fall. “There is a chill wind at the moment.” She directed a meaningful look at her unwanted companion.
He did not take the hint. In fact his eyes glinted with knowing amusement. “May I hope you are enjoying London, Miss St. Claire, despite thechillyweather?”
“It is very interesting, my lord.”
“You may have an opportunity to see the king and queen today.”
“That would be a great honor, my lord.” Since he wouldn’t take the hint and go away, Portia felt obliged to look at him, and was immediately trapped.
It was not fair that any man be so beautiful. Beautiful as a fine horse, or a hawk on the wing, or lightning searing across a storm-dark sky. She hastily looked away and knew her cheeks were pink.
He was a gamester and a wretch.
“Nowwhat can I have done to offend you, Hippolyta?” he murmured.
She turned to face him. “I will thank you not to use such names to me, my lord.”
His eyes laughed at her. “Why not? It’s the fashion. Is it not, gentlemen?”
The pigeons adoringly cooed their agreement.
“If you do not care to be the queen of the Amazons,” he continued, “or the queen of the fairies, what persona do you want? What quality do you wish me to praise?”
Portia wished he would just go away. “I would wish to be admired for myinnerqualities, my lord—my wisdom, or my virtue.” She put especial emphasis on the last word, for she could not feel at all at ease with his attentions.
“Virtue is so dull,” he complained. “I will call you Minerva then, the goddess of wisdom.”
“I would much rather you not,” she snapped.
“But to go always by your own true name is to be intolerably provincial. Is it not, gentlemen?”
“Oh aye, milord,” they agreed in unison.
“Indeed it is, Portia,” added Oliver.
