It proved to be just as Nerissa said. They arrived at the double-fronted house to find every window lit, with the blinds drawn back. They joined a queue of gorgeously dressed men and women waiting to mount the central staircase to greet their hosts. Portia’s eyes began to hurt from the glare of gold lace and jewelry.
The heat from bodies and candles was appalling. She saw a few women and one man faint and be carried away, and prayed she would not similarly disgrace herself.
Eventually they had the opportunity to greet Lord and Lady Debenham and move into the rooms. No question here of sitting to talk, for all the furniture had been removed.
Despite the crush, Nerissa was in her element, greeting and being greeted by all. She charted a course through the crowded rooms like the expert captain of a vessel—always heading forward, but tacking from one group to another. Portia and Lord Trelyn floated behind like bum-boats.
Portia was introduced to so many people her head was swimming. Lord Trelyn stood by his wife like someone showing off a prize possession. Or guarding one.
Then a tall man in black velvet and rubies approached and made a bow. Nerissa extended her hand and the man’s lips passed the correct distance over it, but the sudden coolness could be felt.
“Lord Rothgar,” said Nerissa, and Portia snapped to attention.
There was not a great resemblance between the marquess and his brother except in height and aura. Lord Rothgar’s hair was powdered, but she fancied it was pure black underneath. His features could be called handsome, but they would make no one think of an angel, not even a devilish one.
Upon introduction, he bowed over Portia’s hand with exquisite grace. “Another St. Claire. London is blessed.”
She dropped a curtsy. “I cannot compare to Lady Trelyn in beauty, my lord.”
“One such beauty is enough for any world, Miss St. Claire. Perhaps you should seek instead to rival her in virtue.”
He contrived to make it seem an insult. Apparently all Mallorens were alike in that at least.
She met his eyes. “Surely everyone should aspire to virtue, my lord.”
His lips twitched in a dismissive smile. “What an extraordinary notion.” With a bow to Lord Trelyn, he moved on.
Portia hissed in annoyance and would very much have liked to continue the debate.
Nerissa gave a nervous laugh and fanned herself rather rapidly. “So you are willing to take on Rothgar, too! I confess, you are bolder than I. The marquess disturbs me.”
“He cannot hurt you, my dear,” said Lord Trelyn, but he gave Portia a curious look. She feared she would have to endure another inquisition later.
Nerissa smiled at her husband. “Of course he cannot hurt me, Trelyn. He would not dare. He is so strange, though, and they do say his mother was mad.”
“Mad?” Portia asked in surprise.
“’Tis said she killed her child—a younger one than the marquess, of course—and then herself. There is bad blood in the Mallorens.”
“If it is that bad blood you refer to,” said Lord Trelyn, “then only Rothgar has it. The others of the brood had a different mother—a charming woman. I remember her slightly.”
“How fair you are, Trelyn,” said Nerissa rather sourly. “You must admit that they are all wild.”
“That, I admit, my love. Alas, there is another of that wild brood here tonight.”
Portia followed his gaze and saw Bryght in full dress of russet velvet and powder. Her heart began to pound and she had to suppress a desire to edge away, to try to melt back into the crowd.
She reminded herself that he could not in honor approach her.
Portia glanced at Nerissa’s husband and was reassured by the intense dislike in his expression. She wondered why Lord Trelyn felt so strongly, though. He was looking at Bryght as if he were a rival….
Portia suppressed her lewd imaginings. First Lord Heatherington, now Lord Bryght. There were doubtless a host of reasons for Lord Trelyn to dislike the Mallorens.
She kept a wary eye on Lord Bryght, though, and thus saw him heading towards her. Suddenly hot, she fanned herself vigorously, still watching him over the fan.
He did not approach them directly, for he had to stop and greet a number of people, including that Mrs. Findlayson, whose grip on his arm at one point seemed almost clawlike. If Portia needed more evidence of his wickedness, there it was. The whole world knew he was wooing Mrs. Findlayson and her fortune. He had absolutely no business flirting with another woman, making wagers with her, overwhelming her senses on a brothel bed, and pursuing her thereafter.
He could not approach her.
