Carolyn Jewel (10 page)

She allowed him to see her opinion of that. Magnus got up and put more coal on the fire, a welcome distraction, actually.

Crispin wasn’t having any of it. “If I must rearrange a meeting or two, then I shall, and there’s an end to it. I will be here. The last Sunday in May.”

This, then, was her way out. He’d given her the rope that would save her. “Thank you, my lord. How kind. It will mean a great deal to have you there.”

Eleanor gave her a panicked look. “But Portia, the house is so very small. If you’re to be married here, where will everyone stay? There’s no place suitable for Mr. Stewart and his family to stay in Up Aubry, and Aubry Sock is too far away. As is West Aubry from the Grange. No, the wedding must take place where we can accommodate the people who will insist on being here.” Her voice trembled. “Doyle’s Grange is lovely. I adore it, but there is so little room for guests—and when it is in this condition… In West Aubry, there’s the vicarage and several inns where guests might be made quite comfortable.”

Once again, Crispin settled everything. “Your guests are welcome to stay at Wordless. There’s plenty of time to open up the house, Mrs. Temple. I am happy to do so.”

“Brilliant, Word. And generous. You see?” Magnus said to Eleanor. “It’s settled as easily as that.”

“Northword Hill is at your complete disposal.” Crispin looked to Magnus. “You are not to be out of pocket for this, do I make myself clear? Whatever staff you hire will be employed by me. My valet will be more than happy to assist with the arrangements. I know Mrs. Temple will manage everything beautifully, and I shan’t have to worry about a thing. Nor will Portia.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Portia said. She smiled with pure relief. “That is very kind of you to offer your home.”

He waved a hand. “It’s the least I can do.” Then he gazed at Portia. “I look forward to meeting Mr. Stewart.”

Three days later

P
ORTIA STOOD IN FRONT
of the lavender, scissors in hand. The rowan tree was to her right, leaves no longer drooping, just as Hob had foretold. She broke off one of the forming lavender blossom heads and rolled it between her fingers. Even this early in the season, the scent was lovely. Her heart pinched at the thought that she would not be here to see it in full bloom. Nor any of the rest of the garden.

Jeremy and his mother had arrived several hours ago and after much ado, Mrs. Stewart was resting upstairs. Jeremy, Magnus, and Crispin were ensconced in the back parlor while Eleanor was driving the servants to distraction overseeing preparations for her and Magnus’s departure for Brighton. Portia had escaped the chaos at the first opportunity.

Boot heels clicked on the stone steps. Not her sister-in-law, thank God. Too fast to be Magnus. Her brother never walked when he could stroll nor hurried when he could walk. Hob never moved that quickly either. Those footsteps came too quickly for anyone but Crispin.

She turned and saw him striding toward her in his tasseled Hessians and snug breeches. The lawn was muddy from the most recent rain, and he had to slow down, not much, but some, when he left the path to head her direction. When he reached her, she curtseyed and then, from deviltry, added, “Good afternoon, my lord.”

He stopped in front of her seconds before she would have been required to move, if only to avoid being run over. He ended up too close. He’d walked out without a hat, which she found absurdly thrilling despite it being obvious he’d come here with his annoyance in tow. She stood her ground. Besides, two steps back, and she’d be standing in the lavender.

“Is that woman somewhere near?” He lifted a warning hand. “You know who and what I mean. Can she see or hear us right now?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then don’t curtsey.” His mouth thinned. “It’s not necessary. Not when it’s just the two of us.”

“You think not?”

“That hasn’t changed.” He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He was splendid in high passion, and it made her sorry for the anger that zinged between them. “She isn’t here to cry mock tears and convince us all she mustn’t be upset lest she melt away in a puddle of grand emotion.”

She crushed the bits of lavender in her free hand and let the bruised and torn pieces fall to the ground between them. “Why are you here?” She waved a hand. “Out here, I mean. Glaring at me as if I’ve gone into your room and mixed up all your papers. Or poured ink on your best shirts.”

His mouth twitched down. “As if you couldn’t guess.”

“I can’t.”

He worked his jaw, and she was tempted to take a step back. She didn’t though. “What the deuce, Portia?”

“Don’t scowl like that.” Never mind that he was glaring at her, he was all bluster. Eleanor was inside the house and could not see them. With the side of her thumb, she smoothed away the furrow in his forehead. She had the private pleasure of seeing him struggle to master himself, and it made her feel better, knowing that he might be feeling as to sea as she did. “Did no one tell you your face will freeze in that expression?”

He took her hand and held it. “You can’t be serious about this fellow.”

She pasted on a smile, but that did nothing for the lurch in her chest. “I like his mother.”

“A delightful woman, I grant you that.” He’d always been scrupulous in that way, honest even when it would have been easier not to be. “I can’t say I find her son equally delightful.”

“Stop.”

“Your face will freeze like that,” he said.

“If it does, at least I won’t spend the rest of my life with an ogre’s glower.”

He burst out in laughter, and she tried not to and failed. “Imp.”

“The largest imp there ever was.” She curtseyed to him, and she almost, almost, felt as if all was well between them. It wasn’t. It never could be, no matter how many times they fell into sin or avoided it.

“Portia.” Crispin threw an arm wide. “Fifty if he’s a day. I don’t care how much you like his mother. What do you mean by this?”

She freed her hand from his and clasped her hands behind her back. She never had liked dealing with what people meant rather than what they were saying and right now Crispin was not saying what he meant. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.
What do I mean by this?
What do
you
mean?”

“I’m not asking you anything.”

“My mistake.” She tapped her toe, and even though on the grass her boot made no noise, her irritation with him was plain enough.

“I’m demanding that you explain why you’re marrying a man old enough to be your father.”

“Sit, Fido,” she murmured. “Good dog.”

He took a step forward. “Don’t make light of this. You don’t love him. Don’t insult me by telling me you do. I know when a woman’s in love.”

“I’m sure you do.” And that came out too hard and too resentful.

“Mrs. Temple is right. You don’t love him.”

She set free her hands to break off another stalk of lavender and tap his chest with it. “You’re a worse bully than her.”

“I’ve not bullied you since you were ten. You wouldn’t stand for that from me.” He flexed his fingers then crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do you love him?”

So much was already broken with her life, she did not wish to have it fracture now by telling him things she did not care to admit to herself. Before Crispin arrived, she had been at peace with her decision to marry, indeed, she had been near to desperate to leave Doyle’s Grange, and the sooner the better. She reached behind her and broke off another stalk of lavender.

“The truth.”

“We’ve discussed this until it’s dead. Exploded.”

When she looked at him again, he frowned at her. “No, we haven’t. We haven’t discussed this at all.”

She stared at the crushed lavender on her palm. “Perhaps I don’t wish to discuss it. There’s nothing can be done.”

“Did what happened at Wordless mean nothing to you? Is that what you’ll have me believe?”

Guilt slid down her spine, but she ignored it. “Don’t tell me what I feel. Or what I ought to do. Or think or decide about anything.” She glared at him. “I am capable of making my own decisions, you know. I think I know what will make me happy.”

He snorted, and that earned him a glare. “I demand an answer.”

His curt words got her back up. “Do you, now?”

Being Crispin, he wasn’t concerned with the sort of manners he used with Eleanor. “I do.”

“What do you expect me to do about that?” In a fit of pique, she curtseyed. “My lord.”

“Stop that. I’ve told you it’s nonsense.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t at all. Stop telling me it is.”

“Portia.” His attention was too much for her just now. That sort of attention. His looking at her the way he had at Wordless. “Please. Do you love him even a little? How am I to bear the thought of you marrying a man you don’t love?”

She whirled away from him and the lavender, and walked away from the tree that was her permanent farewell to Doyle’s Grange. He followed. Of course he followed. He never knew when to let well enough alone. She let out a breath. “I am weary of all this interference in my life. Yours and Eleanor’s. If it continues any longer, I swear to you, I will marry Jeremy tomorrow and you and Eleanor can go to the devil.”

“I’m not going anywhere with that woman. Besides, you can’t. The banns haven’t been read.”

She snorted. “Scotland’s not far.”

His eyes pierced her, and she was sorry she looked because she couldn’t forget the feel of him, the rightness of having her arms around him and her heart beating in her chest. He said, “You’re too young to be marrying.”

She stopped walking and stared at him, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Laughter bubbled up and for her very life she could not keep it back. He was so ridiculously earnest. She managed to draw in a breath and suppress her mirth long enough to speak. “You ought to be mocked for uttering such an absurdity. Too young? Good heavens, you can’t be serious. I’m twenty-seven. Better if you agree with Magnus and remind me at every turn that I am on the verge of too old to be marrying.”

“You’re not too old.” He yanked his hands free of his pockets and gesticulated.

“You shan’t find an answer in the air. Nor change my mind, either, not with all the bluster in the world.”

“Bluster. I’m not blustering at you. And that isn’t what I meant at all. You’re too young to be marrying
that
man.”

She folded her arms underneath her bosom and gazed at him, tapping one foot on the ground. He stared at her bosom. She looked too, brushing at her bodice. “Have I got something on me?”

He lowered his voice. “Come away with me again. To Wordless. Right now.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She pointed at the house. “Because the man I mean to marry is inside.”

“It didn’t stop you before.”

“I was upset. Not in my right mind. That shouldn’t have happened. You said so yourself.” She closed her eyes a moment and tried to put the ring of truth and conviction into her words. “It was habit. That’s all. As you said, it’s how we are. That doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Meaning?”

“I can’t stay here. I won’t stay here with all”—she waved a hand—“that. Not even for you.”

“For yourself. For God’s sake, Portia.” He ran his hands over the top of his head, leaving his hair in disarray. “I’ll speak frankly, if you don’t mind.”

“Would you?” she said with full irony. “Just this once.”

He threw one arm wide. “I thought the man was going to pull down my britches and kiss my arse.”

She took a step away from him. “You don’t have to marry him.”

“Nor do you.”

“Yes, I do.”

Crispin opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, then blurted out, “What?”

S
HE WATCHED
C
RISPIN’S EYES
get big, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh at him or be insulted when she realized what he was thinking. She put her hands on his chest and gave him a push. Anger was quite useful at times. It kept her from bursting into tears. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No.”

“That I’m marrying him because of that?”