“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mirabelle, “your attention please.” She came to stand behind Portia, using the contrast in size to emphasize Portia’s supposed youth.
The silence became complete.
“My friends,” said Mirabelle, “I present to you, Hippolyta.”
Bryght was at the rear of the room, concentrating on whist. He heard the change of sound in the room that doubtless meant the star of the evening had arrived, but his attention was on Mr. Prestonly’s next card. The man was an unexpectedly shrewd player and was giving Bryght a challenge. He was glad of it. Plucking helpless pigeons, even fat ones, was not at all to his taste.
In a rare burst of unnecessary movement, Mr. Prestonly heaved himself up and craned his neck. “Little thing. Pretty, though. Looks a mere child.”
It was clear he did not consider this unattractive. Bryght fingered with satisfaction the two hundred guineas before him. He was starting slow but planned to relieve the merchants of at least two thousand before the night was over.
That would be a comfortable start to getting Portia St. Claire out of London, and out of his life.
Sir William said somewhat testily, “Pay attention to the game, Prestonly.”
Mr. Prestonly sat and played low. “Nothing’s happening yet.” He leered at Bryght. “Don’t you ever feel tempted to buy one of these innocents, my lord, and practice for your wedding night?”
“Do you think I need practice?” asked Bryght coolly, considering carefully whether Prestonly was likely to have the last spade. He made his decision and led the five.
Prestonly grimaced and discarded a diamond. “It’s different with a nervous virgin, my lord. I know. Been married twice. And then there’s the slave girls…”
He stopped because Bryght intended him to stop, and had sent the message with his eyes. Bryght was wondering whether getting Portia safe back in Dorset was worth this.
Prestonly paled and concentrated on his cards.
“My dear Bryght,” said Andover mischievously as he took the trick and led a diamond. “I do think you should practice for your wedding night.”
Bryght flicked him a look. “What wedding night?”
Sir William played the jack. “What of Jenny Findlayson?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “You’ve been raising hopes there.”
Bryght almost denied the interest, but realized in time that Sir William was a friend of Mrs. Findlayson’s brother. He could hardly tell the man that the widow was his contingency plan in case Bridgewater needed more money than they could raise by other means.
Or had been. He doubted it was possible anymore.
It was one thing to marry in cold calculation, meaning to deal honestly with a wife. It was another to marry completely against his inclinations. Hell for both parties.
He didn’t care to look too closely at where his inclinations lay….
Bryght found he’d lost track of the play. When had that last happened to him? “Jenny is a very attractive woman,” he said vaguely, searching his memory. Had Prestonly discarded a diamond or a heart?
“Your play, I believe, my lord.”
Damnation, that was Prestonly prompting him, and not without a sneer. He pulled his mind back onto the game and banished all women from it.
A diamond. Which meant…
“I present to you Hippolyta.”
Bryght froze in the act of choosing his card and swiveled, icily certain of what he would see.
At first he thought he was mistaken.
An elfin-slight figure shimmered gold and white on the dais. Long dark curls hung to her waist and her features were much coarser than Portia St. Claire’s. He heard Mirabelle describe her as a fourteen-year-old who had come up from the country to learn earthy pleasures from a gentleman. It was possible. Some country girls raised a dowry this way.
She looked a mere child, though.
He should have turned back to the game, but something held him gazing at the girl. She looked young and vulnerable, and much too small to be roughly violated by one of these men.
