And he had been brutal to her.
He winced. No wonder she was inclined to think the worst of him now.
It had been an excellent lesson, however, on the depths to which a wanton woman could drag a man, and one he had heeded. He had thought his heart and temper well guarded now.
After all, since Maidenhead he’d had his illusions about Nerissa thoroughly shattered. Bryght had even received recent hints that he could have regular enjoyment of Nerissa’s charms if he groveled enough.
When whores were free.
Of course, groveling meant giving up that letter, her very explicit letter to her principal lover. If that came into her husband’s hands it would open his eyes.
Bryght grinned and savored more snuff. That’s what was behind everything now. Nerissa would do almost anything to get that letter. Bryght was holding it to make sure she didn’t tamper with his family. He was deriving considerable pleasure from watching her try to get her hands on it.
To torment her, he’d even told her where it was—in a book of sermons which sat by his bed. It had turned out to be an interesting test of loyalty. Four servants had reported attempts to bribe them, and he’d dismissed one footman caught trying to obtain that letter. As far as he knew, the rest of the staff had stood true.
This had all convinced him, however, that though Nerissa had beauty enough to cause riots, she had the soul of a whore, and the instincts of a snake. He stopped sometimes in the midst of perfectly ordinary activities and thanked God that he had not ended up married to her. He pitied poor Trelyn, who did seem to be growing suspicious that his prized possession was not completely unflawed.
Bryght had thought, however, that his experience had taught him to guard both his heart and his temper. Which brought his thoughts back to Nerissa’s relative, Portia St. Claire.
Perhaps his interest in Portia was simply that she was Nerissa’s opposite in looks, in temperament and—he hoped—in morals. To marry any woman for that reason, however, would be folly.
Marry?
He was not going to marry the likes of Portia St. Claire.
He reached for his brandy glass. If he married at all, it would be a practical business arrangement with plenty of money attached, as it would be with Jenny Findlayson.
His hand paused. He no longer had the slightest desire to marry Jenny Findlayson.
A week ago the prospect had been unexciting but acceptable, and he had been sure he could be a courteous and considerate husband. Now it was different. Now it would be hell.
He could date the change to the moment in St. James’s Park when he had gone from Portia to Jenny.
Jenny had seemed coarse. Not in her manners—for though she came from merchant stock she had been raised a lady—but in her style. She really did seem to think that her fortune would buy him—buy whichever man she chose—like a slave.
He sucked in a breath. As he had tauntingly offered to buy Portia. No wonder she had been devastated.
Zeno looked up again.
“Yes, my friend,” said Bryght. “I did make a wretched business of it, but it is for the best. She will doubtless never speak to me again, thus saving me from foolishness. Let’s hope her brother’s affairs can be sorted out and she’ll soon be safe back in the country on her five thousand pound estate.”
The dog continued to look at him. “You think I should ensure it? Damnation, five thousand is not exactly nothing to me, you know.” He sighed. “Oh, very well. It will be a cheap price to guard against doing something a great deal worse. But it will have to be done secretly or I doubt she’ll take the money. And the funds will have to come from the tables.”
Bryght gently dislodged Zeno’s nose and stood up. “Let us hope there are plenty of plump pigeons ready to be relieved of a feather or two.”
Chapter 8
After her devastating encounter with Lord Bryght, Portia was consumed by the desire never to set eyes on the man again. That meant she had to have matters settled and leave London as soon as possible.
She hurried back to Fort’s house, praying that he would have arrived. Surely he could not be far behind his possessions and servants. The haughty footman was a great deal less friendly this time, and tried to shut the door in her face.
Portia, however, was so forceful in her demand to be allowed to leave a note that he showed her to a reception room. It was a very plain reception room—not the one she and Oliver had used before—but at least she was given pen and paper.
Portia found her hands were shaking almost too much to write. She would benoman’s whore, not even for ten thousand guineas. Not even Bryght Malloren’s…
She sucked in a deep breath and settled to write to Fort.
Suspecting that the footman would read the note as soon as she left, Portia was discreet. She merely gave their direction and said that she needed to see Fort as soon as possible.
