Portia could find nothing flippant to say to this and stared at him like a wooden-headed ninny.
It clearly meant little to him, however, for he continued lightly, “May I hope that now you will delight Society a little more with your presence, Hippolyta?”
Wooden-headed? More light-headed. Portia felt giddy. Thank heavens it was proper to be supported by his arm, for she needed it. “I…I doubt it, my lord,” she said unsteadily. “We do not intend to stay long, and we will be living quietly.”
“Society is the loser thereby.” But he delivered her to her brother without protest, bowed his farewells, and moved on.
Chapter 6
Portia watched Bryght Malloren stroll away, wishing there was somewhere nearby to sit down.
“Well, that will have attracted Society’s eye,” said Oliver. “But I wish you hadn’t behaved quite so boldly, Portia. Staring up at him like that…”
Heat flooded Portia at the thought of the spectacle she had just made of herself. “I did no such thing,” she declared, fanning herself vigorously with the mask. “Or at least, if I am to look at such a man whilst he talks, I have little choice. He is far too tall. It was all perfectly innocent.”
But she lied. There had been nothing innocent about that encounter at all.
Oliver was not impressed by her words, either. “Just bear in mind that the aristocracy marry among themselves, and younger sons like Bryght Malloren don’t marry at all except for money and land. How could they support a wife?”
At the tables, Portia thought. Except that Bryght Malloren loses. She summoned a light laugh. “Marriage? Who speaks of marriage?”
Oliver ignored her comment. “And sometimes they hunt for sport.”
Portia shivered, for she feared Oliver had Bryght Malloren’s intent exactly. If only she could understand why he would choose a poor squab such as herself as prey.
“See,” said Oliver. “He is now paying court to Mrs. Findlayson.”
Portia looked at the vivacious raven-haired beauty, swathed in a cloak of red velvet lined with dark furs. Five handsome specimens hovered around her like gaudy moths at a flame. Or like hawks on the hunt, more like. Bryght Malloren was certainly no fluttering moth.
But then, Mrs. Findlayson did not resemble any common type of prey.
Who, in fact, hunted whom?
“Which gentleman is Mr. Findlayson?” she asked.
“I told you, she’s a widow, and looking to use her first husband’s money—he was a tea-Nabob—to buy a grand second husband. Bryght Malloren stands high in the bidding.”
Now why did that news give Portia a stab of agony?
“And anyway,” Oliver continued, “a husband don’t hang around his wife in public. It’s not done.”
Portia glanced around, seeing similar scenes everywhere—ladies preening, and gentlemen flirting, but none presumably with their proper partners.
So much for fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. He must have thought her ridiculous.
For her part, Portia thought Society’s ways disgusting and frightening. If she married, she would not want to shame herself with other men, and she would be devastated to see her husband flirting with other women. Oliver was right. They had no place here except as spectators.
She suddenly remembered Maidenhead, and a letter. A letter, doubtless, from one of these women to one of these men. But not her husband. And that relationship had not been mere flirtation.
Had Bryght Malloren been the lover involved? But why then had he seemed so shocked? And yet he could not be the husband.
Perhaps he was a betrayed lover. A woman who betrayed her husband would not balk at deceiving her lover, too.
Perhaps, Portia thought with a start, Desiree was Mrs. Findlayson, the woman he was courting. The knowledge that his intended wife was so lewd would certainly shock a man, and had there not been mention of tea in that letter?
She glanced back at the scene and saw the widow laughing merrily at Bryght Malloren, her hand placed intimately on his chest. Portia wanted to snatch that intrusive hand away. If Bryght Malloren had been shocked, she thought tartly, it would appear he had made a good recovery.
Portia dragged her eyes away angrily. The man was no concern of hers, and she was no schoolroom miss to run mad over a virtual stranger!
