The Devil She Knows (4 page)

New York, New York, October 1880

P
ortia paced in front of the upstairs drawing room's marble columns and closely watched herself in the mirror above the black marble mantel. The sun's dying rays plummeted through the stained glass transoms and slowly spilled crimson over the bronze maiden standing there.

A thousand lizards rioted in the void known as her stomach. She didn't want to think about them, the four hundred guests waiting at the church to see her married, or the clock ticking off the minutes till she, her father, and stepmother left for the ceremony. For one thing, they should have departed—she cast yet another glance at the curlicued bit of machinery facing the mantel—almost ten minutes ago.

But everything in this Manhattan town house moved at her father or stepmother's command. A year of expensive finishing school and another year touring Europe had shown her a broader palette of delights than the rigorous schools she'd attended earlier had taught her. She'd danced until she fell into bed exhausted at dawn, practiced notes backstage with opera stars, compared French poets to their Greek models in London drawing rooms, and more—always attired in the latest gowns from Paris.

And completely lacking Gareth Lowell's presence. She'd considered wearing his watch again, since the tiny enameled pendant could be hidden inside ballgowns and punctuality was an asset. But she needed no reminders of his autocratic ways, even if he was an honest man unlike most in her father's circle.

All those days and nights had also confirmed the advantages a matron enjoyed over a schoolgirl, such as not having to answer to anyone whenever she wished to say what she wanted or go where she pleased.

Only a few more minutes left until she headed her own establishment and set her own rules. Having her own house—no, houses—would be much better than living at her parents' beck and call. An enormous country estate, the proud horse farm which had been neglected for far too long, the town house which had been rented and abused. She could have all the books she wanted, sing for as long as she wanted….

None of which mattered, since it wouldn't bring her Gareth.

She went back to what she could do for now: practice wearing her wedding dress.

Good, she wasn't tripping on the double lace flounce any longer. She was also moving so smoothly that the pearls holding down the rows of chenille fringe covering the skirt fluttered gracefully, rather than wrapping around each other.

Managing the yards of cloth was far trickier because she couldn't pick up her skirts. Instead she had to carry her mother's Bible, with its precious letter to her. The trustee of Mother's estate had delivered it that morning, too late for Portia to read it before the ceremony.

Glass shattered next door. “You clumsy idiot, how dare you curl my hair that way!” a woman screeched.

Portia grimaced, all too familiar bile rising in her throat. The new French maid, the third this year, had probably tried to make her mistress look attractive rather than fashionable.

“But, madame…”

Thud!

Babette yelped.

Portia wheeled for the door and rattled its knob. It was locked as usual, unlike those at Aunt Viola's home. “Ma'am? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” her stepmother answered. “But I'll need a few minutes longer than I expected.” She ended the last syllables with a vicious snap.

“And Babette?” Portia queried. Usually there was more noise to her stepmother's rage than actual hitting. “Can she help me finish?”

“Don't be absurd; you're already dressed. Your father and I will come for you when I'm ready.”

Portia mimed hurling a kick at the unresponsive door. But perhaps the mansion's mistress would behave better now, since she'd been reminded of the need for haste.

She went back to tramping through the drawing room. Once she had her own house, she'd be able to dictate little things, such as granting the Catholics the nearly unheard of benefit of hearing Mass every weekday. Of course, she'd have to give the Protestants something equivalent, like going to church as often or a few minutes of leave to walk in the garden.

She'd be a countess, with responsibilities and people dependent on her. She wouldn't be bored by endless conversations about the shape of a bustle or the latest color to be touted by Paris. She'd be part of a family which dated back centuries and spoke casually about matters of war and peace, while moving in the highest circles.

Focus on the dress, Portia. You gave your word to marry the man and Gareth Lowell would expect you to always keep your oath, no matter what.

She'd mastered the long train in order to be presented at the English court. It was a pity that her wedding day wouldn't feature any helpful footmen with rods to keep yards of ruffled brocade and tulle veils from tripping her.

She could barely breathe, of course, since Babette had laced her corset under the senior Townsend female's ambitious stare. But that had been happening for months now.

Portia reached the corner, pivoted, and kicked her train back into place behind her. Yards of brocade rustled smoothly over the oriental carpet.

She gave herself a jubilant thumbs up in the mirror. Something was going right, at least. Maybe she could succeed, instead of nervously looking over her shoulder for prying eyes calculating where her next flaw would appear.

“Portia.”

The voice was deep, slow, and very western. Familiar—far too familiar, it resonated in her very bones.

“Gareth?”

She swung around and stared at more than six feet of abominably attractive masculinity. Her treacherous heart tumbled through in her chest.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded. Miraculously, her train piled up neatly at her heels like a cavalcade called to a sudden halt.

“Through the rear garden and over the balcony, of course.” He raised a very black, superior eyebrow at her. “Why? Did you ask your father to post extra guards on the roof, the way Donovan would in Tucson?”

“No, of course not. He didn't consider it necessary.” The presence of two presidents, plus two presidential candidates, on the guest list had galvanized New York's police chief into covering the streets with his finest men.

Gareth shook his head slowly, never taking his silver eyes off her. “In his shoes, I'd personally take some responsibility for the contents of the house, both material and human.”

He wore a cutaway coat and striped trousers, the same extremely formal attire that every guest attending the ceremony would wear. He could have walked into the Court of St. James and been granted an audience with Queen Victoria.

She'd never seen him dressed like this. But somehow he looked just as comfortable as in scarred leather and canvas, bedecked with notched guns ready to spit fire.

Instinct, too deep to be denied, compelled her to take a step closer. Her fingers ached to touch him, but she pushed herself back. She was engaged. That was it, betrothed to another man.

Gareth himself would expect her to honor those vows.

“Why are you here?” She reached for composure and pulled herself even further into a lady's elegant upright posture, as polished and refined as for her presentation to the Queen of England.

Gareth's eyes flickered. For the first time ever, he truly looked at her from head to toe, her face and her throat, her shoulders and the curves down to her waist. He had to drag his gaze back up to her face. His chest was definitely rising and falling a little faster.

Something feminine deep inside her stretched its claws and purred. A flower which had set root in finishing school, budded in Paris and London during dances and flirtations, reached a little farther toward the light, ruffling her throat and lungs until speech—even thought—became an effort.

“Why are you here?” she asked more slowly, her vowels somehow falling into her mother's softer, slower Southern accent.

“To take you away.” His tones were darker and rougher.

With him? Had he finally come to his senses? Oh please, dear God, let it be yes! Let the oldest dream finally come true.

But his face didn't betray any lover-like impatience and he wasn't holding out his hand to her. His eyes drifted over her with stunned fascination but he wasn't speaking enough of himself.

“Why?” Splintering hope cut an edge into her voice.

“You can't marry St. Arles.”

“What are you talking about?” she fenced warily.
Please tell me more about why you want me.

“I've been asking around about him.” He frowned and pushed his hand through his hair, disarranging the heavy locks. “Donovan asked me to do so, since he couldn't arrive until yesterday.”

Uncle William had started this
,
not Gareth
? She flipped a handful of chenille fringe back into place on her thigh, wishing she could rearrange arrogant men as easily. Why couldn't she ever be someone unique to him, for himself, and not because of his close ties to William Donovan?

“So? My father did, also.” As had every other wealthy American parent.

“What did he consider? Anything other than satisfying his wife's ambitions?” Gareth shot back.

Her jaw dropped in astonishment at his knowledge of her family's inner workings—and his willingness to discuss them.

“That's not kind,” she retorted.

“Your British earl has more debts than the Army has mules.”

“Yes, I know.” She shrugged, wishing nothing more than to escape this dream-raddled debacle. “Uncle William made sure I knew who the London and New York fortune hunters were. But my father promised he'd make sure my dowry was well protected. And St. Arles considers my music and wit to be worthy of a diplomatic hostess.”

“Do you honestly believe he loves you?”

Did he have to look as if he pitied her?

“Yes. My only doubts are my ability to be a good wife, a good English wife,” she asserted and silently damned her old playmate for reigniting all her old qualms.

St. Arles was a charming conversationalist—but he sparkled most when the topic was himself or he was on duty, as a diplomat serving his queen. He somehow turned tariffs into a series of jokes about the strong devouring the weak and thereby drew even her father's most insular political cronies into his charmed circle. Yet he'd never exerted himself to discuss her family in detail. Instead he'd shared details about the run-down estates he'd inherited and his dreams of Britain's future glory.

Gareth's eyes narrowed, as if he were scouting a trail across very rocky terrain.

“Portia, I've asked the women of the town about him. The women of ill repute,” he emphasized.

“Gareth!” she protested, appalled by his forcing such harpies into this day's solemnity. “Why are you telling me—”

“He treats them very poorly.”

She gaped at him. Albinia Townsend might believe female ignorance was the best road to marital happiness but Viola Donovan had no such hesitations. Portia considered herself quite well informed about intimate matters between men and women. But what did a bachelor's wild oats have to do with her?

“Black eyes and split lips are the least of it. Two girls have suffered broken arms in the past—”

“No!” Portia flung up her hand. White ribbons fluttered from her mother's bible like an Indian's delicate amulets.

“One day, he'll handle you the same way. Your only hope is that he needs your healthy body to bear his sons.”

“He calls me his princess and swears life will hold no meaning for him until I am his wife.”

“Your father's gold doesn't drip from his fingers yet,” Gareth said crudely. “Grow up, Portia, and start seeing the world the way it truly is, not a bonbon offered on a silver platter to you.”

She slapped him. The few hopes she still cherished, that Gareth Lowell might one day see her as a lover, fled screaming from her memories' bleeding grasp. St. Arles might not be perfect but at least he wanted her, unlike Gareth.

He caught her wrist and held it, breathing just a little too fast. His eyes narrowed under their dark brows and she was fiercely glad she'd finally riled him up enough to shake his self-control.

“If you're marrying him because you want to hurt me—”

“Don't flatter yourself!”

A muscle twitched hard in his cheek before he inclined his head, silently agreeing with her.

Why did that make her want to hit him again? Couldn't he acknowledge at least a bond of friendship between them?

“At least remember William and Viola Donovan will always take you in. You need only turn to them, even when you stand at the altar.”

“Are you mad? Do you know how much gossip that would cause?” Even her corset seemed to gasp in outrage.

Gareth released her as if dropping a scorpion. “Better a little chatter now than a lifetime of bitterness. But you can trust William and Viola to do—”

“What? The most notorious deed possible?” Walter Townsend's golden tones resonated through the drawing room, harbingers of the famous orator and backroom politician he was. His wife hovered at his shoulder, smugly certain of both her position and the situation's outcome.

Portia gulped unhappily. She could imagine several endings for this encounter, none of them gracious. She immediately caught her train up, ready to move in any direction.

“Why, everything possible for their niece, of course,” Gareth said smoothly, betraying no discomfort whatsoever. “Excuse me, sir, I'm Gareth Lowell. You may not remember me but we were introduced at the Vanderbilts' horse race last week.”

“Vanderbilts.” Portia's father, patriarch of a far older lineage, sniffed loudly before fixing his gaze on his daughter. “My dear girl, you are not yet ready and society abhors tardiness.”

She glanced down at herself, startled by the unjust description. Her stepmother chuckled and smoothed her dress over her ample hips, making her own bid for superiority in a blaze of over-corseted Parisian finery and clanking masses of rubies.