Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (11 page)

She glanced back at Lord Bryght. Had he known, or had he been inexcusably daring? His expression provided no answer.

"You—"

His finger touched her lips to silence her. "We must attend the monarch."

The crowd had quieted to attention and were all facing the royal party. The king and queen had come with little ceremony, only accompanied by a half dozen ladies-and gentlemen-in-waiting and a small body of the Guards. They went immediately to inspect and watch the troops on display.

Portia took the time to gather her wits and steady her nerves.

She had to recognize that her reaction to Bryght Malloren was alarming. Even now, without looking at him, she felt his presence beside her in a way she had never experienced with any other person. Whenever he spoke, his mellow voice seemed to stroke her senses and destroy rational thought.

She slid a look sideways. The sight of him fascinated her. He was beautiful—long, lithe, and elegant—but there was something about him that could perhaps be called presence. It was in every small movement of his body, in the lines it assumed, and even the play of sunlight over the planes of his face. She wished she were an artist....

She called herself to order. He's a bully, a gamester, a hawk, and probably a heartless seducer, Portia. Be on your guard.

He caught her slanting look. "And what do you think of our monarchs, Hippolyta?"

Sensitized to every aspect of him, Portia was turning dizzy. She looked away to study the young king and queen. "They seem rather ordinary. But... good. They look like good people."

How inane.

"In many ways they are. They favor fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. Do you think they will alter the tone of Society?"

Portia looked around. The flock had quieted with the appearance of royalty, but she did not think it was changed. "No."

"You are doubtless correct. What do you think of fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire?"

"They sound delightful." For a moment, Portia regretted the admission, thinking it too revealing, but then she relaxed. It should certainly show him she was not a woman for his amusement. The idea of Bryght Malloren faithful to one woman and content to stay home toasting his toes at the fire was ridiculous.

Having done their duty to the troops, the young king and queen strolled about the park, stopping to chat briefly to this person or that. Everyone bowed or curtsied as they passed, as did Bryght and Portia when the royal couple strolled near by.

At such close quarters, Portia could see that the queen was indeed very plain, but looked kind. The king was handsome enough but seemed rather anxious.

She wondered what he could have to worry him. He was not penniless and plagued by a seducer of devastating charms and no moral fiber whatsoever.

The royal party re-assembled and rolled away. The courtiers stirred into chattering motion again and Portia took control of the situation. "I will not allow you to kiss me again, my lord. It is most improper and could destroy my reputation."

He turned them back toward Oliver, waiting at quite a distance. Portia had not been aware that they had come so far.

"On the contrary. It could make your reputation."

"Not in a way I would like, my lord."

"So, if you have no desire to be famous, and no desire to be seduced, what do you plan for your stay in London?"

"Nothing. We are merely here whilst my brother attends to some business."

"Business to do with the Earl of Walgrave, perhaps?"

Portia had briefly forgotten their perilous situation, but now she stiffened. "That is none of your concern, my lord."

"How excessively private you are, Hippolyta. One might almost think you had secrets to hide...."

"Doesn't everyone?" But then she remembered wanting to advertise the fact that Oliver had nothing left to lose. This was an excellent time. "One secret is that Oliver lost his estate at play. He is as good as penniless, my lord."

He accepted the news without surprise. "In that case, if you will take some well-meant advice, Miss St. Claire, you will stop your brother from gaming further."

"How?" she asked bleakly.

His expression was surprisingly understanding. "Ah. As bad as that, is it? Then get him away from London."

"You played with him last night, my lord," she said frostily, "so why the pious sermon?"

"Because I played with him last night."

She glared at him. "At least he won. You lost, but I suspect you will be back at play tonight."

"Almost certainly, but I have not yet lost my all, nor do I have dependents to consider."

Gracious heaven, for all his poise and power this man, too, was helplessly entangled in the vice. Portia wanted to plead with him to abandon gaming, plead just as strongly as she had with Oliver.

Then she reminded herself that Bryght Malloren was no concern of hers. If he lost every penny and shot himself as her father had shot himself—

Her mind balked at the image, and the words escaped. "I wish
you
wouldn't play." When he turned to her, mildly surprised, she hastily added, "I wish no one would."

His lips turned up. "What then would we do with our long evenings? Ah yes, sit by the fire with our faithful spouses...."

Portia knew she was an awkward red. "You mock, my lord, but it would be better."

"Undoubtedly." The amusement faded. "You frighten me, Miss St. Claire."

"Of course I don't."

"I mean, I am frightened for you. You have something of the Joan of Arc about you."

"I'm no religious zealot, my lord."

He frowned slightly and looked alarmingly serious. "But you are fierce, brave, and have high ideals. That is dangerous in this cynical age. In a just cause you wouldn't hesitate to take appalling risks. I would not want to see you go up in flames."

"There is no danger of that." But his words struck a chord of uneasiness in Portia. She lived these days with a sense of hovering disaster.

"Is there not? You would have shot me that day, wouldn't you?"

She colored at the memory, but said, "Yes."

"Why?"

"I was supposed to allow an intruder to break into the house without objection?"

"A pistol ball in the gut is rather more than an objection, dear Amazon. What would you have done with me writhing to eternity at your feet?"

It was a disturbing picture but Portia would not let him see that. "Called for the Watch," she said crisply.

He laughed out loud. "You would, wouldn't you?" He touched her hot cheek with his knuckle. "You are refreshing."

Portia felt caught in a moment of eternity, and fought it. "Like an ice-cold bath, perhaps?"

His eyes seemed truly warm as he said, "Not quite so harsh, I think. Like a cool fountain on an arid summer's day."

Portia could find nothing flippant to say to this and stared at him like a wooden-headed ninny.

It clearly meant little to him, however, for he continued lightly, "May I hope that now you will delight Society a little more with your presence, Hippolyta?"

Wooden-headed? More light-headed. Portia felt giddy. Thank heavens it was proper to be supported by his arm, for she needed it. "I... I doubt it, my lord," she said unsteadily. "We do not intend to stay long, and we will be living quietly."

"Society is the loser thereby." But he delivered her to her brother without protest, bowed his farewells, and moved on.

Chapter 6

Portia watched Bryght Malloren stroll away, wishing there was somewhere nearby to sit down.

"Well, that will have attracted Society's eye," said Oliver. "But I wish you hadn't behaved quite so boldly, Portia. Staring up at him like that..."

Heat flooded Portia at the thought of the spectacle she had just made of herself. "I did no such thing," she declared, fanning herself vigorously with the mask. "Or at least, if I am to look at such a man whilst he talks, I have little choice. He is far too tall. It was all perfectly innocent."

But she lied. There had been nothing innocent about that encounter at all.

Oliver was not impressed by her words, either. "Just bear in mind that the aristocracy marry among themselves, and younger sons like Bryght Malloren don't marry at all except for money and land. How could they support a wife?"

At the tables, Portia thought. Except that Bryght Malloren loses. She summoned a light laugh. "Marriage? Who speaks of marriage?"

Oliver ignored her comment. "And sometimes they hunt for sport."

Portia shivered, for she feared Oliver had Bryght Malloren's intent exactly. If only she could understand why he would choose a poor squab such as herself as prey.

"See," said Oliver. "He is now paying court to Mrs. Findlayson."

Portia looked at the vivacious raven-haired beauty, swathed in a cloak of red velvet lined with dark furs. Five handsome specimens hovered around her like gaudy moths at a flame. Or like hawks on the hunt, more like. Bryght Malloren was certainly no fluttering moth.

But then, Mrs. Findlayson did not resemble any common type of prey.

Who, in fact, hunted whom?

"Which gentleman is Mr. Findlayson?" she asked.

"I told you, she's a widow, and looking to use her first husband's money—he was a tea-Nabob—to buy a grand second husband. Bryght Malloren stands high in the bidding."

Now why did that news give Portia a stab of agony?

"And anyway," Oliver continued, "a husband don't hang around his wife in public. It's not done."

Portia glanced around, seeing similar scenes everywhere—ladies preening, and gentlemen flirting, but none presumably with their proper partners.

So much for fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. He must have thought her ridiculous.

For her part, Portia thought Society's ways disgusting and frightening. If she married, she would not want to shame herself with other men, and she would be devastated to see her husband flirting with other women. Oliver was right. They had no place here except as spectators.

She suddenly remembered Maidenhead, and a letter. A letter, doubtless, from one of these women to one of these men. But not her husband. And that relationship had not been mere flirtation.

Had Bryght Malloren been the lover involved? But why then had he seemed so shocked? And yet he could not be the husband.

Perhaps he was a betrayed lover. A woman who betrayed her husband would not balk at deceiving her lover, too.

Perhaps, Portia thought with a start, Desiree was Mrs. Findlayson, the woman he was courting. The knowledge that his intended wife was so lewd would certainly shock a man, and had there not been mention of tea in that letter?

She glanced back at the scene and saw the widow laughing merrily at Bryght Malloren, her hand placed intimately on his chest. Portia wanted to snatch that intrusive hand away. If Bryght Malloren had been shocked, she thought tartly, it would appear he had made a good recovery.

Portia dragged her eyes away angrily. The man was no concern of hers, and she was no schoolroom miss to run mad over a virtual stranger!

However, now it seemed that everywhere she looked there were men and women behaving in an immodest way. She saw a woman allow a man a kiss on the lips whilst others nearby applauded. And only look where that man's hand rested! The scene in the park definitely resembled a flock of predators, and the chatter was beginning to sound just like the shrieking cries of birds of prey.

If she could not return to the simple, decent life at Overstead, then she would welcome Manchester. There were no such immoral goings-on there.

Oliver was saying something else, about money and Mallorens. "I beg your pardon," Portia said. "I did not hear you."

"I said that I'd lay my money on the Findlayson being Lady Bryght before the spring. She'd be a fool not to snap him up. He stands in line to be marquess if his brother dies."

"A somewhat unlikely event, I'd think. And she'd be a fool to trust her money to a man who will throw it all away at the tables." Then Portia realized what she had said and wished she could take the words back. "I'm sorry, Oliver...."