Seven Wicked Nights (40 page)

In the main, he failed.

Hob backed away from the rowan tree and sent a dark look in his direction. “Don’t worry, Miss, if the sapling looks ill for a bit. Root shock, you know.” He nodded sagely but, to Northword’s eye, his look was tainted with distrust. Hob knew men weren’t to be trusted. “Give her time. Don’t overwater.”

“I shan’t, then.”

“I’ll watch over the tree, Miss. Even after thee’s away.”

“I know you will.” She focused on Hob. He, Northword, might as well not be anywhere near. “Thank you. That would be a great comfort.”

“Ah,” said another woman. They all turned, him, Portia, and Hob. Mrs. Magnus Temple walked toward them.

Portia’s brother had married eight months ago. Magnus, it turned out, had met his wife during one of his visits to Northword’s London home and had been waiting ever since to have a Church living that would support a wife. As it happened, the living at West Aubry had always been Viscount Northword’s to give, which he had done as soon as practical after the previous possessor passed away. Within weeks, Magnus was married. Think of that. Waiting years to marry the woman you loved. Until the time was right and not a moment past then.

Northword had stood up for Magnus at the wedding, which took place by special license at Northword House in London. He’d offered them the chapel here, not even half a mile up the slope at Northword Hill and been refused. They would be married now, please, not in the time it would take to open up the house. And so it was done. Had been done, without Portia knowing about the marriage until Magnus had written to her. The couple had honeymooned in Bath, where Northword had a house he’d offered to them for a month.

“There you are, Portia.” Mrs. Temple arrived at the site of the tree planting and pursed her lips. She pointed at the undisturbed ground between the tree and the lavender. “What are those?”

“It’s spring,” Portia said. “Crocuses grow here every spring. You cannot hope to obliterate them all.”

“I can and I shall do so.” Mrs. Temple gestured at Hob and stepped around the patch of ground where the flowers were opening to the sun. “Dig them up, please.” She curtseyed to Northword and went so far as to bow her head. Her pretty blonde head. “Lord Northword.”

He bowed. “Mrs. Temple. Good morning to you.”

The woman had the most angelic smile he’d ever seen. “Portia, my dear. Might I have a word?”

Chapter Two

I
N THE FRONT PARLOR
, Portia stood with her back to the fireplace and smiled at her sister-in-law. Until recently, she’d not needed the ability to feign a smile or good cheer or any other mood. She was learning that most useful skill, though at times she feared the effort would turn her into a completely different person. Alone, she was Portia. Around Eleanor, she was another woman entirely. A false Portia. A Portia without truth.

Eleanor had stopped by the desk where Portia used to sit when she did the household accounts. The household accounts were now Eleanor’s domain. Her sister-in-law perched on the edge of the chair and, one hand on her lap, tapped a finger on the blotter. She gazed at Portia with an open, guileless concern that made her heart break.

“Yes?” Portia looked at the chair nearest the desk and decided she didn’t dare sit. She wasn’t good at interpreting Eleanor’s sighs and silences, though it was safe to assume Eleanor would be heartbreakingly disappointed when Portia failed to divine what was expected of her from all the things she did not say.

Her brother’s wife was generous and kind and assiduous in managing Magnus’s household, and she loved Magnus. She lived for Magnus, and Portia adored Eleanor for loving her brother with such honesty. And yet, other than Magnus, they had nothing in common. Their minds, their interests, did not intersect at any point, and she felt guilty for her failure to genuinely like Eleanor.

The finger tapping continued. “Dear, dear Portia.”

She smiled despite her dread of the conversation to come.

“What
are
we to do about you?”

“Nothing.” She managed, she hoped, to keep a pleasant expression. Her stomach contracted into a painful lump. “I am content as I am, you know.”

“But, Portia, my dear.” Eleanor tapped the lump that was Portia’s gardening gloves. “You might be brilliant, you know.”

She maintained her smile for, alas, Eleanor meant socially brilliant. Brilliant in fashion.

“You’ve led a sheltered life here at Doyle’s Grange. You do not see things as I do.” She cocked her head. “If only Magnus had brought you to London. In time, you would have sparkled. I am convinced you would have had a dozen beaus. Some gentlemen prefer a quiet woman such as you are, though I think if you had ever been to London, you would have come out of your shell. I’ve seen you smile, my dearest sister, and I cannot believe there is not a young gentleman of exemplary manners and family who would not see you smile and fall instantly in love.”

“I do not wish to have a dozen beaus or to dance away the night.”

“You are not too old to marry well. Imagine the good you would do your brother if you did.” She bent toward Portia, so earnest and mistaken. “Our connection to Lord Northword might be of great assistance in that.”

“Magnus cannot afford to send me to London so that I may dance with gentlemen who do not suit me. Particularly when I have already found a man who does.” She folded her hands together and struggled to match Eleanor’s cheerful concern. “I’m sure you did not bring me here to talk of this.” She smiled brightly. “Is there something I may assist you with? The household accounts, perhaps?”

Eleanor blinked rapidly and Portia felt horrible for her relief at diverting the conversation from the subject of suitable husbands. “What good fortune it is to have you for my sister. Without your kindness, I’d have a far more difficult time. Your brother, too, appreciates all that you do here.”

“How may I be of help?” She was not safely off the shoal yet. The most innocent remark or expression might send Eleanor’s mind reeling off toward ballrooms and dancing.

“If I may be honest—”

“Please.”

“It’s not so much what you may do, but what you ought not do and say. Especially if we are to engage Lord Northword’s assistance.”

“Oh?” This, too, was familiar territory.

Her sister-in-law’s lips set in a grim line. “I should hate for anyone to take offense when I know you do not mean to offend.”

“Indeed?”

“I know you will feel the same when I tell you this. I think that, living here as you have all your life, you are not aware of certain expectations.”

“Indeed, I hope not to offend anyone. Have I?” She did not hide her surprise, nor her concern, for if Eleanor, who was made of all that was light and sweet, thought she might have offended anyone, she may well have done so.

Eleanor intertwined her fingers. By now, Portia knew better than to think her distress would last beyond the next twenty minutes, but it was impossible not to feel the cruelty of allowing anything to beset her. Her sister-in-law lived so deeply in her emotions that it was probably for the best they never lasted for long. “You mustn’t be so familiar with Lord Northword.”

Portia clasped her hands behind her back. “You think I am?”

“You know I adore you and think the world of you.” Her puppy-eyes softened, and Portia’s heart fell at the possibility that Eleanor was about to lose track of their conversation again. “You did wonders before I came here. Looking after Magnus and the house.”

“Thank you.”

The corner of Eleanor’s mouth twitched down. “But, Portia, my dear, Lord Northword is a nobleman. A viscount.” She leaned forward. “The head of an illustrious and very old family.”

“I am aware.” As if she didn’t know.

“I thought my heart would stop when I overheard you call him by his Christian name.” She patted her chest as if she suffered still. “The proper style, the dignified style, is either
my lord,
or
Lord Northword
or, so as not to repeat oneself too often,
sir
. You would know this if you had ever been to London as I have. If your circle of acquaintance included men such as Lord Northword. Men who, I assure you, would not be as tolerant as he. Was there ever a man so forgiving? Besides Magnus.” Her mouth firmed. “I think not.”

She mentally counted to five. “The mistake is mine, of course. It’s just that I’ve always called him Crispin.”

Eleanor gave a frustrated sigh. “But, my dearest. Portia. How can I explain this? All our plans depend upon Lord Northword wishing to do you a service.”

“What plans do you mean?”

“He is your brother’s patron.” She wrung her hands, and even Portia, who wasn’t inclined to think much of helpless women, felt that familiar tug on her emotions that made her wonder if Eleanor hadn’t hit on precisely the behavior that ensured she would always come away with what she wanted. How could anyone bear to see Eleanor unhappy? “If we are to succeed, you must show him the respect due a man of his rank and influence.”

“You’re quite right.”

Eleanor straightened. “I am so glad you understand. He knows you do not
intend
to insult his dignity. He is a gentleman, after all. A nobleman. But I assure you, he feels it here.” She touched the middle of her chest again. “Naturally, he’s happy about your engagement, but he’s here in support of Magnus as he steps more fully into his position in West Aubry. He’ll want to see how the improvements at the church are progressing.”

“Yes, Eleanor.” It had been a shock when Crispin arrived at the Grange, despite her knowing he was to visit. No longer a married man. A widower. He’d walked in, and her heart had somersaulted in her chest with the same thrill as always. The years fell away to leave her with bare emotion despite knowing that aspect of their acquaintance was over. Over. Over and over. He was a man of the world now. He had been another woman’s husband.

“In London, among the Ton, others will misunderstand your familiarity and think you uncouth. Nothing could be further from the truth. For all that you have red hair and make no effort to improve yourself, we will make a success of you. I promise you. Honestly, my dear sister, if only your hair were walnut brown, I am convinced you would have a dozen more admirers.”

“I’m pleased with the one I have.”

“If you won’t do anything about your hair, you really ought to follow my advice as to your wardrobe. When I was in London, everyone wanted to know the name of my modiste. Everyone! Twice I had to intervene when other ladies tried to hire away Bridget.”

“Thank you, but I do not wish to go to London.” My God. They were back to London and the inadequacies of her dress, yet another familiar topic between them.

“Think what you may do there.
My
family, as you know, is easily as old as Lord Northword’s. Why, Ryans have been in Kent since the days of William the Conqueror.” Her smile made Portia wish she had the knack of looking so perfectly helpless. “While I love Magnus madly and think there can be no man finer, the fact is Temples are not so old a family as the Ryans.”

“We Temples are a youthful lot.” She nodded and nursed her faint hope that the conversation might be diverted again. “Not at all impetuous. Why, my grandfather took twenty years to decide whether he ought to move the hen house.”

Eleanor frowned and waved a hand. “I ought to have spoken to you before Lord Northword arrived.” She fluttered her eyes, and Portia suppressed the urge to comfort her.
There, there, you poor dear thing.
“I assure you, I did not anticipate your manner with him would be so familiar.” A cloud of discontent floated in her cerulean eyes. “If I’d known…

“I am Magnus’s wife and
I
should never call Lord Northword anything but that, unless it is
my lord,
or
sir
and therefore, you mayn’t either. You’ll surely meet other men of his rank, and higher, even, and with them you must be scrupulous.”

Portia nodded, and it was killing her, it really was, to speak of anything even tangentially to do with Crispin. “I do see. Thank you. You would have warned me. I understand. I’m sure you ought to have.”

Eleanor nodded as if Portia had given voice to the obvious. “Everything depends upon your appearance and your connections. Everything.” You’d think she was a surgeon discussing treatments for a dread disorder. “You have not my family’s standing, but I shall be there at your side to remind everyone. If we have Lord Northword’s support, why, you might marry very well indeed.”

“Yes, thank you. I believe I will, of course.” There were times she was convinced her sister-in-law was clever and possibly even diabolical. Such as now. “But I am not going to London.”

“Of course you are. I understand you have an arrangement with Mr. Stewart, but such arrangements come to naught all the time. No woman ought to marry until she has met at least eleven gentlemen who would be suitable husbands.”

“Eleven?” How odd. Her sister-in-law’s mind often confounded her this way. “Why not thirteen? Or a hundred?”

Her eyes went wide and, oh, Lord, they sparkled with joy. Too late Portia realized the error of expressing curiosity over the number of suitors one ought to have. Eleanor reached for Portia’s hand. “Thirteen would be unlucky, and a hundred is far too many. No, eleven is the perfect number. Never fear. I will guide and advise you.”