Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (15 page)

"All the world games." He was still drawing her gently into his arms and, alarmingly, she lacked the will to resist.

But just then the swirling group of dog and children swung past, and Zeno performed a sharp turn to circle Bryght and Portia. In following, one child slipped and sprawled onto the ground with a wail.

Portia broke free of Bryght to help the child, but he was ahead of her. He swung the little girl smoothly to her feet, then crouched down at her level to straighten her hat on her short, mousy hair. "No great harm done, I think, little one."

"I'm muddy," the child said with a sniff.

"It'll wash."

"I hurt my hand." The girl held out her right hand, which was scraped a little on the ball of the thumb.

Bryght took it and gave it serious study. "Mainly mud, I think. Shall I kiss it better? Or shall I kiss your hand as a gentleman kisses the hand of a lady?"

The girl, who was about five, looked at him in a surprisingly coquettish manner. She was undoubtedly destined to be a minx. "Properly," she said, extending her hand, palm down in quite the right manner for a lady.

Bryght took the muddy paw and brushed a kiss over the knuckles, then rose to his feet. He gave a sharp whistle, and Zeno evaded a clutching hand and trotted over to his side. The flushed, excited children would have followed, but their nurse controlled them. Bryght sent the girl to join them and they all disappeared into one of the houses.

At the last minute, the children turned to wave and Bryght waved back, grinning.

"Little monsters?" Portia queried, aware that her heart had just suffered a serious blow. He might be an aristocrat, a rake, and a gamester, but he liked children and was kind to them. She didn't think she would ever forget him kissing the hand of a tearful infant.

"I'm waving them on their way," he replied. He fondled his dog's ears. "Miss St. Claire, may I present Zeno, the most stoical of dogs."

The dog had indeed reverted to a stationary pose and an attitude of endless resignation.

Portia extended her hand, and when the dog showed no sign of objecting, stroked his silky head. "He's beautiful." As beautiful as his master, she thought, for in their dark leanness and fine bones there was a similarity. "What is he?"

"A Persian Gazelle Hound. There being no gazelles nearby, he feels no duty to exert himself."

Portia addressed the dog. "Zeno, I think your master slanders you. You do not have the look of a sloth."

"Nor do I," said Bryght, "and yet am I not an idle, purposeless creature?"

Portia glanced up guiltily. It was as if he'd read her mind. He did look too alert, though, too strong, and too healthy for the life he supposedly led. "I do not know you, my lord."

It was supposed to re-create the proper order of things, to remind both him and herself that they were strangers from different orders of society.

But he said, "That can be corrected, Hippolyta." There was something in the tone, something in his eyes, that shivered along her nerves. "I would like to know you better."

Know?
As in the biblical sense?

Portia took a step back. "My lord, stop this." She bumped up against the hard railings, trapped and reminded of Maidenhead. How could she have forgotten that violent encounter?

"Stop what?" He was all innocence, the wretch.

Portia raised her chin. "I do not want your attentions, my lord." Even saying it sounded ridiculous and she thought he might laugh.

Instead, anger flashed in his eyes. "You refuse my
attentions
without even discussing the matter, Miss St. Claire?"

"Yes. There is nothing to discuss."

"It seems to me that there is a great deal to discuss."

"No!" she protested, thoroughly alarmed by how little she wanted to repulse him. "There is no price you could offer, my lord, that would persuade me to be your mistress."

He stared at her and now he looked just like her moonlight marauder—capable of attack. Portia earnestly prayed that a hundred eyes
were
watching this encounter.

But then the anger was leashed. "How very insulting," he drawled. His cold eyes studied her, from her neat hat to her sturdy shoes, and all the while his crop tapped against his glossy boots. "What if I were to pay all your brother's debts, Miss St. Claire? Would that weaken the shackles on your virtue?"

Portia felt her eyes widening. "He owes five thousand guineas!"

"Is he worth five thousand guineas?"

"His estate is."

The light had entirely left him and he was darkly sober. "Everyone has his or her price. Would you be willing to give yourself to me body and soul for five thousand guineas?"

He surely could not mean it, but out of fear she hit back. "Are
you
worth five thousand guineas, my lord?"

"Are you doubting my word?" he asked, coldly enough to freeze the pond.

"If I were to enter into such a wicked bargain, I would certainly have to see the money first."

His breath hissed in. "You are a reckless woman, my Amazon, to insult me so."

"I am not
your
anything, my lord." She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way with his crop.

"What if I make it ten thousand? Your brother clear of debt, your family safe in their home, a dowry for your sister..." He smiled, and his voice took on a satirical edge. "Would not
that
be worth your precious, too-long-hoarded virtue?"

The insult stabbed at Portia's heart, but she was frozen. If he were serious, she couldn't refuse. "You would pay all that?"

"Have I not said so?"

Portia gave a great, shuddering sigh and looked down. "Very well, my lord."

He slowly lowered his crop and Portia watched, shivering, as it tapped his glossy boot again.

"Joan of Arc indeed. Your family is not worth it." She could not read his tone at all.

She looked up to meet guarded eyes. "My family is worth any sacrifice, my lord. Is not yours?"

His chin jerked almost as if she had hit him. "I withdraw my offer, Hippolyta. I'm no woman's sacrificial pyre." With that he turned and strode away toward the mansion that was his home.

Portia sucked in a deep breath and told herself she was relieved. Of course she was relieved. Her family would never want her to purchase their security with her virtue. She had been raised to believe that death was preferable to dishonor.

But honesty told her there was a touch of regret in her heart. If it hadn't been for that cruel comment about her long-hoarded virtue, the wicked plan might have been attractive. His words had reminded her, however, that she was past her prime. They had made it clear that his proposal had been a heartless joke springing from disdain not attraction.

He had never been serious.

When the door closed behind him, Portia regained some strength in her legs and could go on her way with dignity. She walked out of Marlborough Square, resisting all temptation to look back, or to think of what might have been.

* * *

Bryght stalked into the library and slammed the door so hard he only just avoided Zeno's tail. The dog gave a reproachful yelp and settled before the fire with a sigh.

"Now that was a fine piece of work." Bryght splashed some brandy into a glass and downed it. "Such charming behavior would be bound to win the heart of any lady!"

Zeno opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them.

"Quite. What would your mate do if you told her she was stale on the shelf, a dried-up stick, a confirmed ape-leader?"

Bryght went to throw himself in a chair by the fire. Zeno, knowing his duty, rose to rest his head on his master's knee.

"Stop play-acting," said Bryght. "You have no sympathy for me, and you're right. But she made me lose my temper. She seems to have a way of making me lose my temper, the wretched woman. I am normally in control of my emotions and my life."

Zeno made no response to this, so Bryght stroked him gently, being soothed by the silky warmth.

"I express an interest in improving my acquaintance with the lady, and she immediately assumes that I wish to set her up as my mistress."

Zeno shifted so his big brown eyes looked straight at Bryght. "Of course I didn't," said Bryght. "The thought never crossed my mind."

He was brought to a halt, however, and forced to review recent comments about mates and winning hearts. "I cannot even consider an honorable offer, and if I did she'd doubtless still faint with horror. She approached a liaison with me with all the enthusiasm of someone wading the Shoreditch."

Zeno closed his eyes and snuffled.

"Be fair, my friend. I cannot possibly consider marrying a penniless woman, never mind one whose brother is like to be a money-drain. She would expect me to constantly tow him out of River Tick. I simply cannot afford it.

"What of Bridgewater?" he demanded of the dog. "I have promised to support his endeavor."

Zeno shifted so Bryght's hand would work on another part of his neck.

"The woman is not even a beauty. She's far too thin, and she
is
rather long in the tooth."

Bryght put down his glass on a tambor table by his elbow and picked up a tortoiseshell snuff box. He took a pinch and inhaled it, hoping the stuff would clear his brain enough to drive Portia St. Claire out.

It didn't work.

What was it about her?

The way she moved, perhaps. It was so light and graceful that other women appeared clumsy by comparison. Even Nerissa.

The way she spoke directly to a point and was not afraid to make her meaning clear. The fluttering, arch uncertainties of fashionable ladies were beginning to grate on him.

The way her clear blue eyes twinkled when she was amused.

The way she tilted her chin when she was angry. The way she fought against the odds. He grinned.

The way she tried to shoot an intruder.

That was where it had first started, this madness. He didn't know another woman who, alone in a house, would have come down to face a housebreaker with a pistol, let alone fire it.

Other women had more sense, he told himself. Portia lacked all reasonable discretion. The thought of what could have happened to her in Maidenhead if he'd truly been a villain was enough to make his hair stand on end. And London was far worse. He didn't dare consider the things that could happen to such a woman in London with only Oliver Upcott for guide and protector.

Why on earth was he interested in a woman who seemed to create trouble as easily as cats create kittens?

Because she had fire in her, and when she smiled, she glowed.

Was she really Nerissa's cousin? He supposed so, but they were very different.

He could only be grateful for that.

Even though Nerissa St. Claire had chosen Trelyn over himself, Bryght had continued to think warmly of her. He didn't despise anyone for bowing to their family's wishes. In fact, Nerissa's acceptance of her duty to her family had gilded her other virtues.

His eyes had been opened in Maidenhead, when he'd read that letter and recognized her distinctive writing and perfume. Shock had turned him mad for a moment, and the name St. Claire had inflamed him further. As a consequence, he had behaved abominably.

It had not taken many minutes in the cool night air that night for him to realize his error. Nerissa did not even know that her letter was missing so Portia St. Claire could not be her tool. She had to be an innocent, her presence in the house a damnable coincidence.

And he had been brutal to her.

He winced. No wonder she was inclined to think the worst of him now.

It had been an excellent lesson, however, on the depths to which a wanton woman could drag a man, and one he had heeded. He had thought his heart and temper well guarded now.

After all, since Maidenhead he'd had his illusions about Nerissa thoroughly shattered. Bryght had even received recent hints that he could have regular enjoyment of Nerissa's charms if he groveled enough.

When whores were free.

Of course, groveling meant giving up that letter, her very explicit letter to her principal lover. If that came into her husband's hands it would open his eyes.

Bryght grinned and savored more snuff. That's what was behind everything now. Nerissa would do almost anything to get that letter. Bryght was holding it to make sure she didn't tamper with his family. He was deriving considerable pleasure from watching her try to get her hands on it.

To torment her, he'd even told her where it was—in a book of sermons which sat by his bed. It had turned out to be an interesting test of loyalty. Four servants had reported attempts to bribe them, and he'd dismissed one footman caught trying to obtain that letter. As far as he knew, the rest of the staff had stood true.

This had all convinced him, however, that though Nerissa had beauty enough to cause riots, she had the soul of a whore, and the instincts of a snake. He stopped sometimes in the midst of perfectly ordinary activities and thanked God that he had not ended up married to her. He pitied poor Trelyn, who did seem to be growing suspicious that his prized possession was not completely unflawed.