Carolyn Jewel (4 page)

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Nonsense to be so formal, and you know it.” He rested his wrist on the edge of the table and his frown deepened. “I wish you would stop it.”

Eleanor gave a gentle sigh. “But, Lord Northword. Good manners are never nonsense. She ought to show you the respect due from a woman of her position. Indeed, to all men of your standing.” In tandem, Magnus and Crispin stared at Eleanor. She gazed back with that helpless gaze she’d so perfected. No one said anything for too long.

Crispin took a sip of his coffee. “Portia and I are old friends.”

“What will people say when we are in London and she speaks of you with so little respect?” Her mouth trembled. “She will make entirely the wrong impression.”

Crispin turned his head to her, and their eyes met. For a moment, it was as if they were lovers still, with none of their mistakes and missteps between them. Her heart stopped beating and did not start again until he looked away.
Thank God
. Thank God he had not acknowledged that moment.

“Eleanor,” she said out of pure desperation for a change in subject. “Were you not telling me you have a list of improvements you’d like to make to the Grange? Is there anything I may do to assist with that while you and Magnus are in Brighton?”

Crispin gave every appearance of being fascinated by Eleanor as he was not by her. Watching him, Portia wondered if his late wife had been anything like Eleanor. She’d never been able to pry much information from Magnus on the subject of Lady Northword, other than to have him say she was the daughter of a duke and quite beautiful. Once, after one of his visits to London, he’d let slip that her health was delicate. Portia had understood that to mean she was in a way of giving Crispin his heir. But there was never any announcement and never any letter of congratulation to write.

“The Grange is perfect just as it is.” Magnus helped himself to more cheddar.

“Darling man.” Eleanor patted his arm. “That’s because you have never known Doyle’s Grange to be other than what it is. Of course you love your home. It would be unnatural if you did not.”

“Quite right, my dear.”

“Change is upsetting, I will never deny that.” She smiled as she cut a slice of duck. From over Eleanor’s shoulder, Portia watched raindrops hit the windows, pinpricks of water on the glass. “There are improvements to be made here. Am I not fortunate to have Portia to assist me?” She swept a hand in an arc. “I have such plans for this room.”

Underneath the table, Crispin stuck out his leg and stepped on Portia’s toes. “What do you think?”

“About what?” That earned her another puppy-eyed gaze from Eleanor. She stabbed her duck with her fork and wished she’d thought to feign illness and stay upstairs in her room. “What do I think about what, my lord?”

“The plans for redecorating, of course.”

“Nothing.” He was only trying to make conversation, and here she was turning into the sort of dismal drear no one liked at all.

He looked around the table. A diamond winked amid the lace of his neckcloth. The young man she’d known would never have worn a diamond or the fobs hanging from his watch chain. Nor the signet ring gleaming from the index finger of his right hand. “All I know is I’ve no taste in such things.”

“I’m sure that’s not so, Lord Northword.” Eleanor returned him a brilliant smile. “Why, Northword House is all that is tasteful and elegant.”

“My wife managed all that. I was happy to have her do so.”

Magnus took Eleanor’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “Everything I have is yours, as you well know. Do what you will with the place, though I don’t see how it could be improved.”

“But Magnus!” She went wide-eyed again. “The room is green, and green, my dearest Mr. Temple, is not a color I appreciate.”

“No?” He kissed her knuckles again. “Away with it then.”

Crispin looked to Portia. His expression was bland, but she was convinced he was taunting her. “What color would you do the room in?”

“Green, I fear.” She had been a fortnight with the painters choosing that shade of green and another week before she was satisfied all the colors were exactly perfect for the room. It was six weeks before the room had been painted to her satisfaction. “If I had known Magnus was going to marry, I’d not have had the work done.”

Eleanor gave one of her delightful laughs. “One acquires a certain sensibility when one has lived in society. I have seen, as you have not, Portia darling, some of the great houses of London. Northword House, for example. So inspiring, my lord. I am most anxious to see it again, and I do hope one day that Portia, too, will see the house so that she will understand precisely what I mean to do here at the Grange. After all, Lady Northword was a woman of exceptional taste, and one will never go wrong studying what she wrought at Northword House.” She took a tiny bite of duck. “I will never forget how kind she was to give me a personal tour when I first called.”

This fascinated her. “You met Lady Northword?”

“I like to think we became friends.” Eleanor touched the strand of pearls around her throat. “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Lord Northword, to speak of your wife. I know you mourn her still.”

He nodded. “Not at all, Mrs. Temple.”

“Your wife and I had a great many interests in common.”

“Did you?”

Portia accepted the sting to her heart. She had nothing in common with Lady Northword. What had brought her and Crispin together was not what made a man settle on the woman he would marry. She shredded her duck until she had reduced it to a paste. Half an hour, she told herself. In half an hour, she could plead a headache and retire to her room. Which happened to be green.

“Oh, yes, my lord. We spoke at great length of how one ought to decorate and arrange one’s home. To be sure, Doyle’s Grange can never be on the scale of Northword House, or Northword Hill.” Eleanor surveyed the room, eyes moving over the architectural features and, no doubt, totting up all that must be removed, repainted or destroyed in order to make Doyle’s Grange over in the exquisite sensibilities of Lady Northword.

“The parlor, for example, might be made quite lovely. Lady Northword had the most exacting opinions about parlors. She had a particular horror of green, and ever since I have shared that opinion. Even so,” Eleanor went on, “there is a charm here that can be brought out. A few of Magnus’s best paintings might be hung on the walls, for example.” She gazed at Magnus. He gazed back, besotted and beguiled by his wife, and Portia could only feel the hollow certainty that she would never, not in a hundred thousand years, gaze at her husband that way.

Eleanor continued. “Several rooms are in need of the attentions of someone with refined tastes. So as to bring out charms that currently are hidden. Imagine how much more easily this can be accomplished if Portia could see the homes that inspired me. My dear Mr. Temple, we simply must bring her to London!”

Portia shot to her feet. Crispin stood, napkin in one hand. Magnus, too, after a moment. “Do sit down, you two.” She drew a breath and then found everyone staring at her as if she’d gone mad. Perhaps she had. The walls closed in on her, and she wanted nothing more than to be anywhere in the world but there. “Forgive me. I don’t feel well at all.”

“Of course, of course.” Eleanor stood and pressed the back of her hand to Portia’s cheek. “I’ll send a tisane to you. You must rest, please.”

“Thank you. You are too kind.”

She did not go to her room. God, she’d suffocate in there with all that green that was so offensive a color to Lady Northword. Instead, she went out the front.

The heavy door slammed behind her.

A
FTER
P
ORTIA LEFT THE PARLOR,
Magnus sat again, but Northword stayed on his feet, in the grip of an understanding that cut to his core. Portia’s life and his had diverged beyond hope of any reconciliation beyond the polite exchanges of their letters. It didn’t matter that he found her more attractive than ever. It didn’t matter that from time to time they fell into the old habits of their past intimacy. The woman he’d loved was gone.

“My lord?”

Mrs. Temple’s overly sweet voice grated on his nerves, and he gazed at her, still lost in his thoughts. There was no reason to be concerned for Portia, Northword told himself. She was well looked after here, and before long she would be married and in the care of her husband.

“Lord Northword?”

The so-feminine lilt to the woman’s voice snapped him back to the present. Could such naiveté be genuine? The moment the doubt entered his head, he felt guilty. She was a lovely, delicate woman who had never, at any time that he’d observed, said anything to deserve an unkindness from him. But good God, Portia must hate being spoken to as if she cared for nothing but the color of the damn walls.

“Hullo, there.” Magnus rapped on the table. “Word, you great lump.”

“I beg your pardon.” He threw his napkin on the table and was in the act of sitting when the front door opened and then closed with more force than necessary. Uneasiness lodged in his gut and expanded to take up the whole of his chest. He did not care for the feeling. Out of the window, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pink and then the unmistakable deep red of Portia’s hair. What the devil was she doing outside when the skies looked ready to break open? She’d catch her death.

While he stared at that flash of receding pink, fat drops of rain hit the glass. She was out there, without a coat or cloak, and quite plainly, and to his mind, understandably upset. She had no one to talk to or rage at. He could not imagine her opening up to Mrs. Temple. Impossible, that.

“Excuse me, please.” He forced himself to smile at Mrs. Temple. “I have just recalled a letter I must write immediately. I can’t fathom how I could have forgotten to get it into the morning post.”

Magnus took a sip of his tea. “Give it to Hob when you’re done. He’ll get it to Up Aubry for you. There’s just time, I think, to make the afternoon post, if you’re quick about it.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll do that.” He bowed and hurried out of the parlor. He hadn’t even known his wife disliked the color green. Why had he not known that? By the time he’d fetched his greatcoat and hat and was himself outside and heading toward the rear of the house, rain fell steadily. Portia was long past the back gate and moving away from the Grange, her gown a splash of pink against the green of the field.

He started after her. He’d made up perhaps a quarter of the distance between them when, at last, she slowed, though she maintained a brisk pace and kept her head down. When she disappeared over the other side of the slope, he walked faster. Rain came down hard enough to pound on his hat and turn the surface of the path to mud. He lengthened his stride.

At the top of the slope, he caught sight of her again, moving rapidly toward the top of the hill that lead—eventually—to Wordless. And wasn’t that a fine joke that he should call his own home by the name Portia had given it in her letters. Wordless, because he was familiarly called
Word
by certain intimate friends, and he was never at Northword Hill. He’d told Magnus about that, and they’d taken to calling all manner of things Wordless.

He cupped his hands to the sides of his mouth. “Portia!”

Wind whipped away the sound of her name, but she stopped. Then, without turning to look, she darted off, skirts in her hands. Wasn’t that just like her, to be contrary and headstrong? He plunged down the hill and slid in the mud, though he managed to keep his feet. Once, she slipped, too, but as he had, she caught herself and kept going.

Water dripped from the brim of his hat onto his face and wherever the drops hit his cheeks his skin burned with cold. She slowed, and God knows she would have needed inhuman endurance to maintain her pace in these conditions.

He caught up at the stone fence that marked the border between the Grange and his property. From here, the side of Northword Hill rose up, turned a darker gray by the rain.

This time, he did not need to shout. “Portia.”

She stopped walking but did not face him. Her hands hung at her sides. Water ran down the back of her neck, making rivers of the tendrils of hair that had escaped her hairpins.

Northword took a step closer. Even if he’d been close enough to touch her, he wasn’t sure he’d dare. Never mind their difficulties, never mind the years and the chasm between them, he did not want to see her in distress. Not like this. “Portia.”

She whirled on him, eyes ablaze. Rain dripped down her face, and she shivered once. Gooseflesh pimpled her exposed skin. “What could you possibly want from me? There’s no need to humiliate me like this. Haven’t I done enough to push you away?”

“I didn’t come after you to humiliate you.”

“Well, you have. Lord Northword.” She walked away, keeping to the line of the fence, away from the Grange. The hem of her skirt was muddy for several inches, and the fabric was soaked halfway to her knees.

He followed and raised his voice to be heard over the rain and the distance she was putting between them. “Since when does my chasing after you to make sure you don’t catch your death of sleet and rain count as humiliation, I’d like to know?”