Zeno opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them.
“Quite. What would your mate do if you told her she was stale on the shelf, a dried-up stick, a confirmed ape-leader?”
Bryght went to throw himself in a chair by the fire. Zeno, knowing his duty, rose to rest his head on his master’s knee.
“Stop play-acting,” said Bryght. “You have no sympathy for me, and you’re right. But she made me lose my temper. She seems to have a way of making me lose my temper, the wretched woman. I am normally in control of my emotions and my life.”
Zeno made no response to this, so Bryght stroked him gently, being soothed by the silky warmth.
“I express an interest in improving my acquaintance with the lady, and she immediately assumes that I wish to set her up as my mistress.”
Zeno shifted so his big brown eyes looked straight at Bryght. “Of course I didn’t,” said Bryght. “The thought never crossed my mind.”
He was brought to a halt, however, and forced to review recent comments about mates and winning hearts. “I cannot even consider an honorable offer, and if I did she’d doubtless still faint with horror. She approached a liaison with me with all the enthusiasm of someone wading the Shoreditch.”
Zeno closed his eyes and snuffled.
“Be fair, my friend. I cannot possibly consider marrying a penniless woman, never mind one whose brother is like to be a money-drain. She would expect me to constantly tow him out of River Tick. I simply cannot afford it.
“What of Bridgewater?” he demanded of the dog. “I have promised to support his endeavor.”
Zeno shifted so Bryght’s hand would work on another part of his neck.
“The woman is not even a beauty. She’s far too thin, and sheisrather long in the tooth.”
Bryght put down his glass on a tambor table by his elbow and picked up a tortoiseshell snuff box. He took a pinch and inhaled it, hoping the stuff would clear his brain enough to drive Portia St. Claire out.
It didn’t work.
What was it about her?
The way she moved, perhaps. It was so light and graceful that other women appeared clumsy by comparison. Even Nerissa.
The way she spoke directly to a point and was not afraid to make her meaning clear. The fluttering, arch uncertainties of fashionable ladies were beginning to grate on him.
The way her clear blue eyes twinkled when she was amused.
The way she tilted her chin when she was angry. The way she fought against the odds. He grinned.
The way she tried to shoot an intruder.
That was where it had first started, this madness. He didn’t know another woman who, alone in a house, would have come down to face a housebreaker with a pistol, let alone fire it.
Other women had more sense, he told himself. Portia lacked all reasonable discretion. The thought of what could have happened to her in Maidenhead if he’d truly been a villain was enough to make his hair stand on end. And London was far worse. He didn’t dare consider the things that could happen to such a woman in London with only Oliver Upcott for guide and protector.
Why on earth was he interested in a woman who seemed to create trouble as easily as cats create kittens?
Because she had fire in her, and when she smiled, she glowed.
Was she really Nerissa’s cousin? He supposed so, but they were very different.
He could only be grateful for that.
Even though Nerissa St. Claire had chosen Trelyn over himself, Bryght had continued to think warmly of her. He didn’t despise anyone for bowing to their family’s wishes. In fact, Nerissa’s acceptance of her duty to her family had gilded her other virtues.
His eyes had been opened in Maidenhead, when he’d read that letter and recognized her distinctive writing and perfume. Shock had turned him mad for a moment, and the name St. Claire had inflamed him further. As a consequence, he had behaved abominably.
It had not taken many minutes in the cool night air that night for him to realize his error. Nerissa did not even know that her letter was missing so Portia St. Claire could not be her tool. She had to be an innocent, her presence in the house a damnable coincidence.
