He could not!
He did.
When he finally bowed before them, Portia was almost breathless.
“You look somewhat heated, Miss St. Claire.” He neatly appropriated her fan to ply it for her. “Perhaps you are not accustomed to such crowds.”
Portia wanted to cut him for breaking their pact, but did not dare do that here. “That is true, my lord.”
“Or have you been reading your Bible?”
Portia froze, staring into his eyes. They seemed more gold than green now, but they were the eyes that had watched her from inches away as he kissed her, stroked her….
“I read it daily, my lord,” she said icily.
He fanned her, undisturbed. “Perhaps I should send you a new one, then—if Lady Trelyn will permit.”
Nerissa laughed rather nervously. “A Bible, my lord? That would be a novel gift from you. Have you turned to religion?”
“Religion can be surprisingly rewarding, Lady Trelyn.” With that shot, he let Portia’s fan ripple shut and replaced it in her numb hands.
As they watched him stroll away, Lord Trelyn asked, “What was that about?”
“Nothing of importance, my lord,” said Portia quickly. But truly, she was feeling dizzy. Was it the heat, or his confidence? He seemed so sure of himself.
She told herself that bluff was part of a gamester’s stock-in-trade.
Nerissa studied Portia. “Lord Bryght is correct, though, Cousin. The heat does not agree with you. Your cheeks are clashing with your hair.” She charted a straight course for the stairs, saying, “You were generally admired, however. Your delicate build does serve to make you look younger than your years, and you are graceful in movement and manner.”
“Thank you,” said Portia, feeling rather like a schoolroom miss being told that her French exercise had passed muster.
Soon they were at the outer doors. The Trelyn carriage rolled up and they entered to go on to the Willoughby soiree.
A few minutes later, Bryght strolled down the stairs arms linked with Andover.
“Where now?” asked Andover lazily. “I have no idea why we are being so fine and sociable tonight, my friend. These affairs are demmed dull.”
“Lady Willoughby’s soiree, of course.”
Andover stopped to look at his friend. “Screeching sopranos and fervent harpists? My dear, I begin to doubt you.”
Bryght smiled. “How foolish.”
“Ah so. What then is the attraction at the Willoughbys’?”
“Merely that I am willing to hazard that the Trelyn party has gone on there.”
“With your luck at wagers, I take it as a certainty.”
“Knowledge, not luck. Which is why I generally win. At this time of year there are few entertainments that Lord Trelyn would think worthy of his presence. They have either gone to Lady Willoughby’s or home. My money is on the Willoughbys’.”
“How much?” asked Andover with a faint spark of interest.
They had reached the entrance hall, and servants brought their cloaks. “My dear Andover,” said Bryght, “do you really wish to part with more of your wealth?”
“I wish to part you from some of yours. I say they are not at the Willoughbys’.”
Bryght sighed. “A hundred only. I’m feeling compassionate.”
