“They sayyouintend to marry it.”
The words were out before she could stop them. Portia wished a convenient hole in the ground would open up for her.
“Don’t be uncomfortable,” he said. “It’s true. What choice do we poor second sons have?” But he took her hand and his thumb rubbed gently against the back of it. They were both gloved, but that did not seem to lessen the power of his touch.
“Hard work?” she queried, far more breathily than she wished.
“Heaven forbid.” He pulled slightly on her hand, pulled her toward him.
He wouldn’t! Not here, where people could be watching from any of a hundred windows.
“And they say you make it at the tables,” she snapped. This was as much to remind herself as to accuse him.He’s a gamester, Portia. The sort of man you most despise.
“All the world games.” He was still drawing her gently into his arms and, alarmingly, she lacked the will to resist.
But just then the swirling group of dog and children swung past, and Zeno performed a sharp turn to circle Bryght and Portia. In following, one child slipped and sprawled onto the ground with a wail.
Portia broke free of Bryght to help the child, but he was ahead of her. He swung the little girl smoothly to her feet, then crouched down at her level to straighten her hat on her short, mousy hair. “No great harm done, I think, little one.”
“I’m muddy,” the child said with a sniff.
“It’ll wash.”
“I hurt my hand.” The girl held out her right hand, which was scraped a little on the ball of the thumb.
Bryght took it and gave it serious study. “Mainly mud, I think. Shall I kiss it better? Or shall I kiss your hand as a gentleman kisses the hand of a lady?”
The girl, who was about five, looked at him in a surprisingly coquettish manner. She was undoubtedly destined to be a minx. “Properly,” she said, extending her hand, palm down in quite the right manner for a lady.
Bryght took the muddy paw and brushed a kiss over the knuckles, then rose to his feet. He gave a sharp whistle, and Zeno evaded a clutching hand and trotted over to his side. The flushed, excited children would have followed, but their nurse controlled them. Bryght sent the girl to join them and they all disappeared into one of the houses.
At the last minute, the children turned to wave and Bryght waved back, grinning.
“Little monsters?” Portia queried, aware that her heart had just suffered a serious blow. He might be an aristocrat, a rake, and a gamester, but he liked children and was kind to them. She didn’t think she would ever forget him kissing the hand of a tearful infant.
“I’m waving them on their way,” he replied. He fondled his dog’s ears. “Miss St. Claire, may I present Zeno, the most stoical of dogs.”
The dog had indeed reverted to a stationary pose and an attitude of endless resignation.
Portia extended her hand, and when the dog showed no sign of objecting, stroked his silky head. “He’s beautiful.” As beautiful as his master, she thought, for in their dark leanness and fine bones there was a similarity. “What is he?”
“A Persian Gazelle Hound. There being no gazelles nearby, he feels no duty to exert himself.”
Portia addressed the dog. “Zeno, I think your master slanders you. You do not have the look of a sloth.”
“Nor do I,” said Bryght, “and yet am I not an idle, purposeless creature?”
Portia glanced up guiltily. It was as if he’d read her mind. He did look too alert, though, too strong, and too healthy for the life he supposedly led. “I do not know you, my lord.”
It was supposed to re-create the proper order of things, to remind both him and herself that they were strangers from different orders of society.
But he said, “That can be corrected, Hippolyta.” There was something in the tone, something in his eyes, that shivered along her nerves. “I would like to know you better.”
Know?As in the biblical sense?
Portia took a step back. “My lord, stop this.” She bumped up against the hard railings, trapped and reminded of Maidenhead. How could she have forgotten that violent encounter?
“Stop what?” He was all innocence, the wretch.
