Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (49 page)

When they arrived at Malloren House, the whole staff was out to congratulate them and to welcome Lady Bryght. Bryght wished them at the devil but went through the motions. Portia, he noticed, even managed to smile and he loved her for it.

Then he could take her to his study, a room he hoped she remembered well and fondly.

He eased off her cloak then drew her into his arms. "Lady Bryght suits you. You shine like a candlelit window in a winter storm."

He felt her shiver, and prayed it was with desire. But when she looked up at him, he saw only bewildered pain. "Promise you will take me to Overstead," she whispered.

Abruptly he let her go. "For God's sake, Portia, is this some kind of test? Fetch me the horn of a unicorn? Tomorrow we go north," he said firmly. "Later we will visit Overstead."

Chapter 23

Portia wanted to argue, but what was the point? She went to the fire to warm her hands, and to put distance between them. She wish the heat could penetrate deeper, into the icy core of fear and pain.

She kept fighting, fighting against her terrible suspicions, but he kept reinforcing them.

He knew that her mother and sister had gone to Manchester. How did he know that unless he had agents down in Dorset? She had realized soon after her request that no messenger could get to Dorset and back in time for the wedding.

Now he was being unreasonably stubborn in his refusal to go to Overstead.

She was sure Bryght was never unreasonable, and she feared she knew what his reasons were.

She thought briefly of telling him everything in the hope that there was an innocent explanation, but if the worst was true he was capable of anything. She certainly doubted that he would give her the chance to flee, to run off alone and find out the truth.

And that was what she was going to have to do. She didn't know how she was going to escape, but she had to.

She didn't hear him approach, so she started when he slid his hands over her exposed shoulders. "We can do better than this, Portia. Can we not at least try?"

Portia wanted nothing more, but had lost faith. She didn't resist, however, when he freed her hair from its pins and spread it around her shoulders, turning her to face him. "Your hair is like flame, and could warm my soul. Can you not tell me what stands between us?"

His fingers traced the swell of her breasts. She watched those long clever fingers, remembering other pleasures and trying to hold back any response.

"I know you better," he said, "than to think you mindlessly demanding..."

Portia made herself see his gentle words as a trick, a trap, designed to pry free her secrets.

He sighed and raised her chin. "Could you perhaps say something?"

At the blend of desire and anger in him, her heart began to race and her mouth went dry. She said the first neutral thing that occurred to her. "Where's Zeno?"

He laughed, bitterly. "Surprisingly to the point. Enjoying his mate, or thinking of it constantly. Boudicca has come into heat."

Portia knew she was red. "We humans have no need of heat."

"Some warmth is pleasant, however."

She flinched at the edge in his voice. "I'm sorry if you find me cold. But we are married. You do not need my consent."

"Do I not?" After a dangerous moment, he asked, "Are you by any chance thinking to withhold your warmth until I do as you wish and take you to your home?"

The thought hadn't occurred to her, but now she grasped it. "Yes."

After a moment he let her go. He picked up her velvet cloak and the pouch of money. "Come." He was leading the way into the bedroom.

Portia almost refused, but what good would it do? She would not respond, she vowed, no matter what pressure or skills he brought to bear. She would not.

But he led her through his bedroom, through a small dressing room, and into another bedchamber where a fire glowed in the hearth, and a warming pan protruded from the big bed.

Portia looked at him in total bewilderment.

"Your bedchamber," he said. "As you see, the servants have followed the fiction that it will be used. Do you need help with your gown?"

"N—no."

"Then I will say good night."

"But..."

He turned in polite, distant query.

"But it's only seven in the evening."

"There are books. I have work to do." After a moment he added, "I will not beg you or rape you, so I see no alternative." With that, he went back through the door and closed it with a click.

Portia felt like a child sternly rebuked. But she was not a child, nor was she concerned with childish matters. She had to remember that.

There were, as he said, books—some poetry, some sermons, a book of travels, and Mr. Richardson's
Pamela.
Had the story of the maid who trapped the lord into marriage been left here deliberately?

She was burningly aware of Bryght, not many doors away, available for pleasure if she would but submit. She grimly chose a book of sermons and sat to read.

Her eyes tracked the words but her mind wandered, seeking an innocent explanation for his refusing to take her to Dorset. She found none except an arrogant insistence on his way that was almost as bad as her suspicions.

She let the book droop onto her knees and stared into the flames as she reviewed her recent past and the disaster of it. She couldn't even see a point at which she could have stopped the wheel of fortune and escaped....

It was hours later that she stirred, thinking she might as well go to bed, and abruptly realized she was a fool.

She'd been given the ideal opportunity to escape and make her way to Overstead and she had wasted it.

She looked out of the window at the dark. There was no clock here, but it must be late. It was too late to venture anywhere. But this might be her only chance.

She took a deep breath. If it had to be done, she would do it. But how?

She wondered if she ought to go first to Dresden Street to check if Oliver was there, but if he'd arrived in Town she couldn't imagine him not coming to see her.

So, she needed transport to Dorset.

It was too late for a stage, so she would have to wait for the morning. If she left now, how was she to avoid capture until the morning, and then travel on the stage with the Mallorens on the hunt? Bryght would know exactly where she had gone.

Almost she gave up, but then she realized she had one possible course. Fort. It was he, after all, who had alerted her to the problem, and he had said he was going to Dorset in the morning to check on the matter.

He had also made it clear that he had forced her into this marriage out of deep hatred for the Mallorens.

She clasped her hands, going round and round the dreadful dilemma. She couldn't stay to be dragged north when she needed to discover what had happened to Oliver and rescue him if he was still alive. But surely she couldn't run off on her wedding night with her husband's worst enemy!

She was hesitating now out of simple terror, but she made herself go forward. She had no choice.

She had the pouch of guineas. Did she have any clothes? When she opened the chests and armoires she found that all her belongings were neatly disposed there. Of course they were. This was now one of her homes along with Rothgar Abbey and a place called Candleford Park.

Refusing to think of such things, Portia took off her wedding gown and hoops, and lacy stockings, and changed into a plain dark brown traveling gown, woolen stockings and sturdy shoes. She slipped the pouch of guineas into one of the pockets beneath her skirt and put on her warm brown cloak.

She sadly folded the beautiful lace stockings and put them away in a drawer, wondering if by some miracle she might wear them again one day, for Bryght. She paused in the act of closing the drawer. If that became true, it would mean that she was misjudging him. She couldn't imagine what his reaction would be to this flight then.

He'd promised to drag her back by the hair if she ran off. There was anger in him, perhaps the more dangerous for the coolness he used to hide it. She remembered their first meeting when his anger had escaped his control, and shivered.

She would not let fear rule her.

She did, however, wish she had a pistol.

* * *

At least Portia knew a way out of Malloren House as long as that door was barred rather than locked. She slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for any sound. The solid house was peaceful, though.

She had to pass Bryght's rooms to get to the door to the servants' stairs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if he really were calmly applying himself to whatever work he did. She hadn't discussed it with him, but it did appear he was not entirely idle.

She gave herself a shake and hurried on. Just as long as he didn't check her room before morning.

The unobtrusive servants' door opened with efficient silence and she felt her way down the dark stairs to the bottom. There she paused for signs of people in the passageway, but most of the servants would now be in their beds.

She entered the corridor, found the door to the outer passageway, and was once more in darkness.

A few steps forward brought her to the outer door and her fingers found the bar across it. She let out a long relieved breath. The marquess had made sure it would be secure, but only against intruders.

Who, after all, would wish to escape this grand house?

She lifted the bar and set it aside, opened the door, and was outside in the chill dark. She hesitated a moment, aware that this might be the end of all chance of happiness.

But any chance had been lost hours ago, perhaps days ago when Bryght arranged for her brother's abduction.

There was an icy damp that threatened rain, and Portia pulled her hood up. This time she went away from the square toward the mews, made a circuitous route to a nearby street, and set off for Fort's house.

She was almost becoming accustomed to roaming London in the gloom, she thought wryly. In fact there could be some to relief in being set upon by thieves and put out of her misery.

She reached Abingdon Street without hazard, however, and had to consider her next problem—whether to try the front door again, or a back entrance. She shrugged and marched up to rap on the door.

It was the same footman, and his jaw dropped.

"Tell Lord Walgrave I am here." Would the servant know that Miss Portia St. Claire had married Bryght Malloren today? Was that why he looked so astonished?

No, he was just dumbstruck at her boldness, but when she stepped forward, he let her in. He wore a sneer that said he knew she'd be out on her ear in a moment, but he allowed her into the house and led her to a tiny, bleak reception room. It was definitely the place to put unwanted visitors of the lower orders, but she was in, which meant Fort was at home.

The footman left, but in moments was back, looking rather resentful, to lead her to another room.

This was a handsome study, and Fort was there.

As soon as the door closed, he said, "What in Hades are you doing here?" He was simply astonished.

"I want to go with you to Overstead."

He gaped. It was the only word for it. "But this is your wedding night!"

Portia's face was hot. "What's that to do with anything? Bryght refuses to take me there. He says we are to go north. He won't change his mind, so I am resolved to go alone."

"But... but what have you done to him?"

Portia frowned at him. "Done?"

"Have you drugged him? You haven't shot him, have you?"

At his alarmed tone, Portia bit her lip to stifle a giggle that would be part tears. "Of course not. I made it clear that I did not wish.... He is far too much of a gentleman..." Tears threatened, to become a reality. "I have retired for the night."

"'Struth." Fort was looking at her as if she were a loaded weapon. "And you want me to take you to Dorset, a three-day journey?"

Portia eyed him with disgust. "Why do I have the feeling I'm lucky not to be bundled back to Malloren House on the instant?"