Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (47 page)

"What's the matter?" asked Elf, dismissing the maid. "Portia, what is it? You really cannot back out now. You can't."

"I suppose not." But Portia was tempted. Rip off the cords, through the window, and away.

"Bryght will make you a good husband."

"But I hardly know him. I'm not like you. I've been raised to see marriage as a holy vow."

"So have I," protested Elf.

Portia pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean that the nobility marry for money, for land, for titles. I have always intended to marry for..."

"For love?"

Portia shook her head. "Not even that. For a deep regard. For absolute trust in my partner's integrity. I have rejected offers because I wasn't sure of that and now I'm going to marry a rakish gamester."

"He's not quite that bad," Elf protested.

"Whatever he is, I hardly know him."

But, Portia reminded herself, in the biblical sense she knew him all too well. "I'm sorry, Elf. Just bridal nerves."

With that, she raised her chin and headed off to her wedding.

Chapter 22

Bryght was genuinely nervous that Portia would not turn up for her wedding. That would certainly create a stir for Rothgar had arranged for it to be in the Chapel Royal with the king and queen in attendance.

When she appeared, small and shining in a remarkable dress, he let out a slow sigh of relief. He had her, and what he had, he held.

When she arrived by his side, Bryght took her hand, searching her face for a hint of her feelings. She was too calm, but she didn't appear terrorized or in despair.

It would be all right.

When it came time to say her vows, she said them clearly and firmly, as did Bryght. When it was over, he turned her and kissed her lightly—a kiss, he hoped, of peace. "You will be as happy as I can make you, Portia. I promise."

She frowned up at him as if puzzled, but then she did smile back.

They signed the register as was the new custom, so that all marriages should be properly recorded, then traveled back to the reception at Trelyn House in a coach accompanied by Elf and Brand. As usual, Elf could be relied on to cover awkward silences with chat.

Bryght was just aware of Portia and desire, and aware that it would be many weary hours before he could surrender to that desire. He would have liked to at least look at her, but as Elf had insisted that they sit side by side he would have to gaze sideways like a lovesick fool.

He was such a fool, of course, but he hoped he could conceal it.

Once in the house, they greeted the monarchs, who had arrived first, then Nerissa fussed them into position to receive their guests and their best wishes.

All went smoothly until Kinbolton, damn him, said to Bryght, "I assume Barclay's here. Need to have a word with him."

"No," said Bryght, knowing Portia must have heard. "He's out of Town."

"Pity."

Kinbolton went on into the rooms and Portia smiled and greeted the next person in line.

Bryght waited for the cannon to explode.

As soon as they had greeted the last guest Portia drew Bryght to one side. "This Barclay is a close friend of yours?" She was quiet as a naked blade is quiet.

"Very close," he said.

"A gamester?"

"Hardly that."

"But he plays?"

"Everyone plays."

Her eyes flashed. "Would this perhaps be the same Major Barclay who cheated Oliver out of his estate?"

"Gentlemen don't cheat at cards, Portia."

"Hawks do," she spat.

Damnation, she couldn't do this here. "Portia, Barclay is not a hawk. Nor am I. Yes, he won your brother's estate, but he won it in fair play." When she started to argue that, he said sharply, "Later. We can discuss this later."

She pulled on a cloak of composure, but the expression in her eyes was seething. "I want to discuss it
now."

"We are the focus of too many eyes."

"Then let us leave."

That showed how angry she was. "Don't be absurd. We can't leave before the king and queen. Come and talk to Aunt Caroline."

She sucked in a deep breath, but allowed herself to be led over to his elderly aunt.

There he left her, for he felt sure there was much less chance of disaster if they kept apart.

Brand came over and grinned. "I do like variety in a family. A few weeks ago Cyn and Chastity were wandering through their reception like sleepwalkers, blushing and smiling every time their eyes met."

"Perhaps, being older, Portia and I have more control and discretion."

"Perhaps," said Brand. "But I tell you, when I choose a bride she'll be a quiet, comfortable woman."

Bryght looked at him. "You mean some people get a
choice? "

He left his brother laughing and moved through the room, talking to one group then another, hoping he was giving a fair representation of a happy but mature bridegroom whose mind was too well-disciplined to be obsessed by the marriage bed.

He saw Portia catch Fort's eye and cross the room directly to him. They didn't blush and smile, thank God, but there was something between them. Even as Bryght took part in a desultory discussion about poor relief, he watched his wife.

Therefore he saw Fort give her a letter.

* * *

Portia had been trying to be polite to strangers at the same time as she tried to come to terms with the fact that the horrible Barclay was a friend of Bryght's. It was so wearing, that when Fort caught her eye she was glad to go to talk to him. At least with Fort she didn't have to pretend.

"I know that look," he said. "You'd like to spear someone. Remember you're the happy bride."

"Happy! You're partly responsible for this. If it hadn't been for that duel—"

"But I wanted this marriage. It'll serve very well, and you'll do all right out of it."

Portia gritted her teeth. "Bryght is a gamester. When he's not a gamester, he's indulging in rash monetary speculations. He'll end up in debtor's prison."

"Very likely," he said in excellent humor. "He's apparently deep in Bridgewater's scheme, and that is likely to come to a disastrous end because I'm about to take a hand."

"But what about me?" she demanded.

"The Mallorens will take care of you."

Before Portia could tell him her opinion of this and him, he sobered and said, "I wanted to speak with you about something else, even if it is under the glowering eye of your husband."

Portia looked over and saw that Bryght was watching them. He wasn't glowering, but he didn't approve. She deliberately turned back to Fort with a smile. "Is something the matter?"

"Perhaps. You're not to worry, because I intend to look into it, but I have a letter here you should read."

"A letter?" Portia's first thought was of Nerissa's letter. That had surely burned, so what was this? A suggestive perfumed missive from a lover to her husband? The paper Fort passed to her, however, was plain and addressed to him.

She concealed it in her hand. "What is it?"

"It's from my steward. Find a private place to read it then tell me what you want to do."

With creeping unease, Portia went to the lady's withdrawing room. Finding it deserted, she unfolded the paper.

She skimmed over the salutations and general business, seeking something that concerned her.

I have to report some funny doings at Overstead, my lord. The family have left, for a visit north so it is said, but rumor reports that they are all rolled up. That young Sir Oliver has lost all at gaming.

Her mother and sister had gone to Manchester already? Hannah must have given up hope, but what must she be thinking about Portia's absence? And what was she going to think when Portia turned up married?

This wouldn't have alarmed Fort, however.

Portia read on.

A few days since, the young squire came back here, and in a pother they say, though perhaps just to find his mother and sister gone. He gathered a change of clothes, some money, and his favorite horse then dashed off toward Salisbury. He hasn't been heard of since. But a hat that seemed mighty like his was found on the road.

Round about that time, there were men here asking questions about him, and one of the pot-boys at the Bald Abbott heard them mention Rothgar. Knowing as I do that your father thought poorly of that man, I thought it wise to bring this to your attention, my lord, for I haven't been able to find word of Sir Oliver in these parts, and the marquess's men, if such they were, disappeared about the time the young squire did.

For all his foolishness, I would not like to see harm come to Sir Oliver, him being the old earl's godchild, and known to us all from birth.

Portia stared at the letter. Surely the marquess would not hurt Oliver. Surely Bryght would be no part of such a scheme.

But Bryght had said he would take care of her family's problems and make sure their home stayed safe. He might think disposing of Oliver was part of the solution.

She could be married to the man who had killed her brother....

She hurried back into the reception, which was now beginning to appear positively macabre, and found Fort standing alone. She slipped the letter back to him. "What should we do?"

"There's nothing you can do. I'm going to post down tomorrow and look into things. It might all be nonsense anyway."

She gripped her hands together, feeling the unfamiliar rings. "Oh, why did you not say something before the ceremony?"

"Because I knew you'd create a fuss."

Portia stared at him. "You
wanted
me married to him, even with this possibility?"

"Of course. Don't look so dismal. Perhaps Bryght will hang for it and you'll be free."

Portia was glad there was no lethal weapon within reach. "You kept this from me, then gave it me here hoping to destroy any chance of harmony in this match. How can you be so cruel?"

Color touched his cheeks but he met her eyes. "I do what I must."

She was appalled at the depth of his hatred. "Why, Fort?"

"I have my reasons. They are none of your concern."

"But they are ruining my life! Have you thought of that? What am I supposed to do tonight?"

He smiled then. "Are you going to refuse him? Gads, this is better than I thought. I wish I could witness it." With that he walked off, leaving Portia in despair.

She tried to persuade herself that it wasn't possible, that Bryght could not have been party to harming Oliver. Fort's malice to the Mallorens was so naked that she shouldn't believe a word he said.

And yet, she didn't think he would go so far as to make up that letter.

Bryght had thought it perfectly in order for a friend of his to win her home at cards.

He had deliberately seduced her into this commitment, without thought for her wishes.

An image of their naked bodies twined willingly together slid into her head and she fought it off.

It was followed by a memory of Bryght saying, "I do love you, though."

Could he love her and murder her brother? She thought perhaps a Malloren could.

She couldn't cower in this corner forever, but she lacked the courage to mingle as if nothing were wrong. She slipped away to the pale blue reception room—the one she had been shown to when she'd first visited Nerissa. It was deserted, being too small and plain to be open to guests.

* * *

Bryght had watched the two encounters between Portia and the Walgrave. At least they didn't seem to part on good terms, but nothing could persuade him the discussions were innocent.

What the devil could be going on, and what had been in that letter?

He was still struggling with his suspicions and desires—mainly a desire to wring Portia's neck and call Fort out—when Rothgar, damn him, told the king that Bryght knew about the tea trade. George insisted on discussing it, and one could not talk to a monarch with eyes wandering.