Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (10 page)

As the young men talked she saw that they were impressed that Oliver had played against Bryght Malloren—win or lose. Merely speaking to a Malloren would be an event for them.

So why, she wondered, had Lord Bryght played against Oliver?

She made the mistake of glancing over at the man just as he looked across toward her group. He caught her look and raised a brow. Then he bowed farewell to his friends and came over. Though he, too, wore fashionably heeled shoes, he managed not to strut or mince at all.

Portia's heart-rate increased with every smooth step he took. This was ridiculous! He was a bully and a gamester, the type of man she abhorred above all.

He was powdered and wore snowy lace at neck and wrist. His earring was a large pearl. When added to his gold-braided green silk and white stockings it should all have removed the sense of darkness that she had retained from their first meeting. It did not. The gorgeous plumage could not disguise the predator's body, and the artificial paleness of his hair gave his lean face even more dark beauty and strength.

Dangerous, Portia. Dangerous.

He bowed before her.
"
'
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.'
" She had forgotten the power of his resonant voice.

She instinctively raised her mask between them. "You have the wrong play, my lord. My name is Portia."

"Ah yes, the guardian of the door. And also the defender of mercy.
'The quality of mercy is not strained....
' Does that fit better? I hope your brother conveyed my apologies, and that I am forgiven."

Oliver had not mentioned any apology, but Portia didn't say so. "I do not wish to speak of it, my lord."

She was very grateful for the protection of the mask, but wished desperately that her unruly body was entirely within her command. Her heart was racing, she knew her cheeks were flushed, and her voice was not as steady as she wished.

He took no offense at her chilly manner, but turned to bow to her brother. "And Sir Oliver. Most enjoyable hand or two we had. We must re-engage one day."

Oliver returned the bow, flushed with pleasure. "Of course, my lord."

As Oliver introduced his friends, Portia forced herself to remain silent, but she hated to see her brother preening to be merely spoken to by Bryght Malloren. His two friends were acting as if a god had come amongst them.

Damn the Mallorens anyway. All this wretch was was a gamester. She breathed deep and slow, commanding herself to icy calm. What she needed to do was find out this man's intent toward her brother.

The wretch turned back to her, not obviously discouraged by the smooth white mask between them. "You are fixed in London at the moment, Miss St. Claire?"

"For a little while, yes, my lord."

"London is greatly favored. I confess I found our last encounter unforgettable."

Portia almost answered that honestly, and told him what she thought of their last encounter, but she forced a neutral answer. "I too have not forgotten, my lord." She added a dart. "I hope your letter proved to be all that you expected."

Something flickered in his eyes. It could be admiration or anger. In the sunlight she realized his eyes were remarkably fine. They were a hazel that could flash green on occasion, or catch the sun with flecks of gold, and they were framed by rich dark brows and lashes. It was hard to ignore eyes like that.

A quizzical widening of those eyes told her that even the mask could not hide the fact that she had been staring. She looked away, grateful that it at least hid her blush.

Then Oliver said, "Bless me, Portia, there's no need to actually
use
the mask."

Reluctantly, she let it fall. "There is a chill wind at the moment." She directed a meaningful look at her unwanted companion.

He did not take the hint. In fact his eyes glinted with knowing amusement. "May I hope you are enjoying London, Miss St. Claire, despite the
chilly
weather?"

"It is very interesting, my lord."

"You may have an opportunity to see the king and queen today."

"That would be a great honor, my lord." Since he wouldn't take the hint and go away, Portia felt obliged to look at him, and was immediately trapped.

It was not fair that any man be so beautiful. Beautiful as a fine horse, or a hawk on the wing, or lightning searing across a storm-dark sky. She hastily looked away and knew her cheeks were pink.

He was a gamester and a wretch.

"Now
what can I have done to offend you, Hippolyta?" he murmured.

She turned to face him. "I will thank you not to use such names to me, my lord."

His eyes laughed at her. "Why not? It's the fashion. Is it not, gentlemen?"

The pigeons adoringly cooed their agreement.

"If you do not care to be the queen of the Amazons," he continued, "or the queen of the fairies, what persona do you want? What quality do you wish me to praise?"

Portia wished he would just go away. "I would wish to be admired for my
inner
qualities, my lord—my wisdom, or my virtue." She put especial emphasis on the last word, for she could not feel at all at ease with his attentions.

"Virtue is so dull," he complained. "I will call you Minerva then, the goddess of wisdom."

"I would much rather you not," she snapped.

"But to go always by your own true name is to be intolerably provincial. Is it not, gentlemen?"

"Oh aye, milord," they agreed in unison.

"Indeed it is, Portia," added Oliver.

Portia gritted her teeth. "Then perhaps I am intolerably provincial, my lord."

"Alas, perhaps you are."

Portia felt a strong desire to hit him over the head with her mask, but suspected that might be his intent. She had the infuriating feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking.

He smiled. "But fresh country manners are often pleasing to the jaded palate of London, Miss St. Claire. I predict that you will do very well. It must come in the blood."

Portia could not understand what he meant by that wry comment. He must be referring to Oliver, but Oliver was hardly a shining example of success.

"Aye, my lord," said Oliver proudly. "Portia could be a great success if she moved in fashionable circles."

Lord Bryght glanced around. "This environment is not fashionable enough for you, Sir Oliver?"

"No, no, my lord," Oliver stammered. "You mistake me. It is just that Portia is used to the country, and reluctant to mingle with Society."

"Poor Portia." Lord Bryght's tone of mock-commiseration had her hands tight on the stick of her fan. "Then we must encourage you. With your permission, Sir Oliver, your sister could stroll with me for a moment or two."

Oliver looked stunned and rather alarmed, but he stammered out his permission. Portia wanted to object, but was not sure if it would be proper. What harm could there be, anyway, in walking among the crowd with this man?

He extended his arm, and she curled her hand around it. Despite the coolness of the green silk, she sensed the warmth of flesh beneath, and the controlled strength of his body.

A strength she knew only too well.

That reminded her that he had manhandled her and that she disliked him intensely.

As they moved away from her brother, she went straight on the offensive. "I cannot imagine what you are about, my lord, to be singling me out in this way."

"Perhaps I just want to see you by daylight and at close quarters, Miss St. Claire."

She raised her chin, and looked firmly ahead. "If you had any decent shame, my lord, you would not refer to our previous meeting."

"But I don't have any decent shame." Softly, and deep-voiced, he said, "Sunlight becomes you, Hippolyta. It puts golden sparkles in your hair."

Portia's heart trembled, but she refused to be thawed. "If you intend to shower me with flattery, my lord, you should know I pay no attention to false coin."

"False? Do you have not one feature of which you are proud?"

"You twist my words. Pride is a sin."

"Honesty is a virtue, though. How would you describe yourself? In honesty."

She did look at him then. "Small, thin, and past the age of being foolish."

A strangely warm smile flickered. "Are we ever past the age of being foolish, dear lady? At least you must be cheap to feed."

"On the contrary," she lied, temper rising. "I eat like a horse."

"Have you thought of being treated for the worm?"

"My lord. Really!"

"And what of your hair? How would you describe that?"

Portia was about to fall into a full-blown argument with him when she became aware of a number of eyes upon them—some direct, some peeping slyly, or even from behind masks. Pride demanded that she keep her temper. "My hair is the color of rust, I believe, my lord."

"Rust," he said dryly. "And was it metal gray before you went out in the rain?"

"No," she said between her teeth, "but it will doubtless turn to gray in the not too distant future."

"You being so advanced in years?"

"My being so hounded by rascals."

He raised a brow. "Miss St. Claire, I find you absurd, and suspect you are begging for compliments."

"I am not!" But Portia was aware that she was beginning to enjoy this. She glanced cautiously at him and caught a glint of teasing humor in his eyes.

It was extremely hard not to respond to it.

"Then I won't give you any compliments," he said, eyes still smiling. "I agree. You are short and scrawny and have rust-colored hair. I must warn you as well that some of the rust has flaked onto your nose." He reached out and touched her nose, then looked at his finger. "And does not easily come off."

Portia would not smile, she would not. "I know I have freckles, my lord. You do not have to point them out."

"And your nose is too short," he continued. "I have to admit that your mouth is unfortunately charming, but I suspect you could rectify that by pursing your lips together very tightly.... That's it exactly!"

Conquered, Portia burst out laughing. "You are the most infuriating man I have ever met."

"Excellent. You will not soon forget me, then." As Portia struggled for a witty riposte, he added, "We should move on."

Portia became aware that they had stopped for their debate, and thereby become the cynosure of many more eyes. She gladly walked on, face burning. "You are making a spectacle of me, my lord!"

"Do you not want to be famous?"

"Not at all."

"What, then, do you want, Miss St. Claire?"

His tone was so gentle that Portia was strangely tempted to tell him, to pour out all her secret hopes and dreams, but she was—as she had said—past the age of being foolish. She stated firmly, "My desires are none of your concern, my lord." Then she wished she had not used that particular word.

He let it pass, and she knew it was deliberate. "So you make your home in the country, Miss St. Claire."

"Yes, my lord." Portia was both relieved and disappointed to have moved onto such safe ground.

"And do you have family other than your half-brother?"

"A half sister. Prudence is sixteen and very pretty. She would love to be here," she added wistfully.

"I would not recommend it, however, unless you have a formidable protector. Pretty sixteen-year-olds from the country are such tempting morsels."

"Then all London should be ashamed."

"Undoubtedly," he said dryly. "Your sister is with your mother, I assume. And you are the support of them all."

Portia glanced at him in surprise. "I, my lord? Oliver is the head of the family."

"But is he the support?"

He was far too close to the bone. "My family affairs are none of your concern, my lord."

"You are undoubtedly correct. But having been somewhat discourteous at our first meeting..."

"Somewhat?"

"...I am making your present well-being my concern. If this is your first visit to London, Miss St. Claire, we must seduce you."

She turned sharply to look at him.
"What?"

He was all innocence. "Seduce you to the pleasures of London, of course."

Her heart steadied a little, but she prickled with an awareness of danger. "I refuse to be seduced, sir." She launched it as a formidable warning. Heavens above, it was unbelievable that such a man have any interest in her, but her instincts were sounding the alarm.

His right hand covered hers on his arm. Warm and strong, it flexed slightly as his lids lowered in a way that raised her pulse rate again. "If you were over-eager, Hippolyta, there would be no challenge in it, would there? I can never resist a challenge."

They had stopped again and Portia knew she should be concerned about what everyone was thinking, and yet...

In one smooth movement, he raised her chin and brushed his lips across hers like gentle fire.

She snatched herself away, looking around in alarm. No one was looking at them, however. The king and queen had just arrived.