“See to your luggage,” Portia replied, tearing her gaze from the decaying flowers. “I’ll have someone fetch my trunks up later.”
Without another word, she hurried up to the second floor, hoping to catch her grandmother at tea. Her pulse thrummed frantically as her feet flew up the stairs, beating out a rhythm on the steps that matched the tempo of her heart.
That she did not come across at least one servant as she hurried to the drawing room heightened her unease. Where was everyone? The house seemed preternaturally still. Not a single sound save the whisper of her footsteps on the carpet and the anxious rasp of her breath.
“Grandmother?” she called, pushing open the partially closed door and stepping into the drawing room. An empty room stared back, dark and musty. The drapes sealed out all light and made her feel as though she had stepped inside a tomb. Turning, she headed for the salon, Astrid’s room of choice.
Upon entering, Portia did not find Astrid with her usual gaggle of Society matrons, duchesses like her mostly, all as cold and reticent as herself. Instead an altogether different breed of visitor occupied the room’s confines. A stranger. A Goliath of a man wearing an ill-fitting jacket.
They sat side by side in a double chair-back settee that looked dangerously close to collapse. Portia glanced about the room, thinking to spy a maid tucked away in a corner, serving as chaperone. No such luck. Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze on the pair. True, Astrid did not rank among her favorite people, but Portia had never marked her the sort to cuckold Bertram. She was a stickler for propriety.
The stranger withdrew his great paw from where it fondled one of Astrid’s curls. He moved slowly, the backs of his fingers skimming Astrid’s shoulder as though loathe to relinquish his hold.
Astrid rose hastily to her feet, her muslin skirts rustling softly on the air. Her guest followed, unfolding his monstrous frame from the settee, an expression of mild annoyance on his blunt features. The walnut wood legs creaked in relief to be freed of his considerable burden. At least Astrid had the grace to look discomposed, flushing as she patted her honey blond curl, as though she needed to make certain it still hung there and he had not taken it with him.
“Portia,” she greeted, a tight smile fixed to her face. As if nothing untoward occurred. Yet her voice gave her away. Usually modulated and dulcet in tone, it shook the barest amount. “I did not expect you home so soon. How was your trip?”
“Uneventful,” she murmured, managing not to choke on the colossal lie. Uneventful. The single word said enough, would serve to answer the question burning in Astrid’s eyes. No, she had not nabbed the wealthy groom she had been sent forth to snare.
Astrid’s slight shoulders sagged a bit, but she soon recovered and straightened her spine. “Forgive my manners, Mr. Oliver. Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Lady Portia.”
Mr. Oliver’s gaze shifted to Portia. He assessed her from head to foot, coal dark eyes shining with a feral gleam. She felt instantly wary, like a hare caught in the hound’s sight. He stepped forward and bowed over her hand.
“Delighted,” he murmured, eyes trained on her face.
Her wariness intensified. She was no beauty to produce such an immediate reaction in men. Only one man had ever treated her as though she were anything beyond the par. The same man, she quickly reminded herself, that had so devastated her heart. Reclaiming her hand, she inclined her head in stiff greeting.
“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, swinging his avid gaze to Astrid. “It escaped my attention that your husband possessed a sister. And such a lovely one.”
Portia drew a shuddering breath. Possessed. He said the word as if she were just that—a possession.
Astrid gave a slight shake of her elegantly coiffed head at him. A slight motion, almost imperceptible, but Portia noted the gesture.
“Thank you for calling, Mr. Oliver,” Astrid said, all ice and vinegar again. The duchess Portia knew well. “I shall send word if I hear anything.”
A nasty smile twisted his lips. For a moment, she had a glimpse of a man with whom she had no wish to tangle.
“You’ll be seeing me soon, Your Grace.” He turned to Portia. “A plea sure, my lady.” With another clumsily executed bow, he murmured, “I’ll show myself out.”
Portia waited for the door to shut before rounding on her sister-in-law. With a hand propped on her hip, she asked flatly, “Who, precisely, is he?”
Astrid smiled heartlessly. “Always the blunt one. No wonder you can’t catch a husband. Gentlemen don’t care for such straightforwardness.”
Portia expelled a heavy sigh. When Astrid had first joined the family, Portia felt the sting of her words daily. She had even retaliated in kind. Yet that was then. Unable to summon forth a scathing retort, she only felt a bone-deep weariness.
Her sister-in-law eased herself onto the chaise with a natural elegance that Portia had always envied. She watched as Astrid carefully positioned the pillows at her back. Finally she looked up, saying with the mildness of one remarking on the weather, “Your brother has left.”
“Left?” Portia felt herself frown. “Left for where? When will he be back?”
“Perhaps I am not being clear.” Smoothing both hands over her striped muslin skirts, she straightened her spine. “He has left us.” Another pause. “Abandoned us, to be accurate.”
Portia sank onto the chaise, mouth working in bewilderment before she choked, “How can that be?”
Astrid looked out the window. “He absconded with the jewelry. Mine, your grandmother’s, even the little he found in your room. He should be well out of the country by now.”
Portia shook her head. It didn’t make sense. True, they were well in the dun, but why would Bertram wish to leave all the privileges of his rank for life abroad? Here, at least, he had a roof over his head. Creditors here couldn’t lay claim to their property and would grant him much more latitude than those on foreign soil.
Even if they couldn’t afford to outfit their own pantries, there would always be parties where he could eat his fill of lobster bisque and salmon pas-ties.
“It would seem his only choice,” Astrid added coolly, as if she could read any one of the dozen questions whirling around Portia’s head.
Portia looked more carefully at Astrid’s face, searching beyond the neutral mien, the remote gaze. There, beneath the calm façade, lurked a bone-deep sorrow. The type of pain one couldn’t hide, no matter how hard they tried. Bertram’s abandonment had cut deeply. No mistake about it.
“He’s not coming back. To do so, he must face the House of Lords on felony charges. Lord Ashton paid me a visit yesterday morning and apprised me of the situation.” Astrid’s upper lip curled ever so faintly. “Your brother didn’t even have the courtesy to leave me a note. I had to hear it from someone else.”
“What did Lord Ashton say?”
Astrid gave her head a small shake. Composed again, she continued. “Apparently, Lord Ashton and several others in the House of Lords suggested to Bertram that he quietly depart.” Her lips curved humorlessly. “You can’t hang someone if he’s not in the country, after all.”
“Hanging? For what offense?”
“It seems we cannot ever accuse your brother of being unenterprising.” Astrid smiled coldly. “Bertram got mixed up in forging bank notes. I suspected something was amiss. He was still losing at the tables.” She snorted. “Everyone knew that. Yet he always had the blunt for the hells.”
“Forgery,” Portia breathed. A hanging offense. No wonder her brother ran. His peers would feel pressured to mete out the same sentence they had so uncomprisingly been issuing of late given the recent rise of forgery.
Recalling Astrid’s guest, she queried, “Who is Mr. Oliver? How is he involved in all this?”
“He’s the lender to which most of Bertram’s debt is due.”
“We cannot be held accountable for Bertram’s debts.”
“True, but neither can we feed and attire ourselves. And it’s n
ot as though we’ve anything to sell. Bertram already sold off everything that isn’t entailed.”
“So what does this Oliver fellow want?” Portia asked, unable to forget the man or his measuring gaze.
“Simon Oliver is a socially ambitious man. He wishes to move in more elevated circles.”
And no circle was more elevated than that of Astrid and her friends. Simon Oliver could do no better than gaining acceptance among Astrid’s august set.
“And that is all he wants? An introduction to the ton’s drawing rooms?” Portia snorted and crossed her arms, unable to forget the sight of his large hand on Astrid, unsightly against the pale glow of her skin. “I don’t think so. Out with it, Astrid.”
Almost instantly, the ice queen vanished. Bright splotches broke out over Astrid’s fair skin, a rare display of emotion for her taciturn sister-in-law.
“And what is it to you?” Her nostrils quivered. “Why am I even explaining any of this to you? As I recall, you’ve bigger plans. Shouldn’t you be off arranging a grand reunion with your mother?” she mocked. “Oh, that’s right. You haven’t heard from her in what? Two years?”
“Twenty months,” Portia automatically corrected.
“Yes, well. Perhaps you’ll run across your brother in your travels. Send him my regards, would you?”
“Astrid—”
“No,” Astrid broke in. “You care only for yourself. Selfish. Like your brother. What a pair you are.”
Portia winced. No one had ever laid that particular accusation at her feet. She had never thought it possible. Yet to be compared to her brother…Her stomach rolled, rebelling at the thought. Portia had long grown accustomed to her family’s rebukes and criticisms. She could have expected Astrid to hurl almost anything upon her head. Yet not this.
“I am selfish?” she demanded, her temper taking over whether she willed it or not. And along with her temper came weariness. Weariness of the expectations, of being relied upon to save the family from the mess her brother had created.
“Yes, selfish,” Astrid continued. “You might have gulled your grandmother, but not me. I know you’ve deliberately sabotaged every chance for a match.”
Portia gasped. “I wouldn’t say I deliberately—”
“Well, you hardly went out of your way to be appealing.” Astrid nodded briskly, decisively. “If you possessed one shred of responsibility, you would have made a match that benefited the family. Do you think I had a choice? No. Father bade me wed Bertram and I did.” Derision laced this last bit. “And I shall continue to do what duty requires, even if it means tolerating that jackanape’s hands all over my person.”
“You would permit Simon Oliver liberties?” Portia demanded in horror, watching Astrid raise her forgotten teacup to her lips, noticing the slight shake of her hand. She took a sip, blinking her eyes fiercely, as if tears threatened.
The realization dawned, gradual and unwanted—Astrid was more affected than she would have Portia know. Not such an ice queen, perhaps. For the first time, she truly saw Bertram’s wife. Saw her as woman trying to survive forces beyond her control and cling to what dignity she could. A heart beat beyond that icy exterior, bleeding from wounds of its own. Had Portia never bothered to take a hard look before? To see beyond the outer shell?
Astrid set her cup back down with a clack. Her chest lifted with a sharp breath and her eyes, glittering with resolve, met Portia’s. “Simon Oliver has made his desires clear. Along with gaining entrance into Society, he desires my…company. And I find I’m in no position to refuse.” She spoke so coldly one would think her impervious, un-bothered to offer up her body as ser vices rendered. Yet Portia had seen the way that hand trembled and knew differently. “I know my duty,” Astrid repeated. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Portia lowered his gaze. Duty. Duty drove her to make such a sacrifice. Could Portia permit her? Could she stand aside and let Astrid whore herself so that she could enjoy her independence? So she could cling to a dream, a fantasy that her mother would one day return for her?
“Someone has to,” Astrid added. “Especially now that your grandmother is ill.”
Her head snapped up. “Ill?”
“Yes, ill,” Astrid replied, her voice sharp, clipped. “She’s an old woman, Portia. Old women fall ill. Unfortunately, we haven’t the funds to pay for a proper physician. We must appease ourselves with Cook’s home remedies.”
“Where is she now?” Portia demanded, surging to her feet.
“Resting.”
Portia swallowed and blinked back the burn of tears. Tears of shame and self-loathing. Astrid had it about right when she called her selfish. She felt every bit that. And more. A mirror had been held up to her face, and she didn’t like what she saw—a selfish, immature girl who clung to impossible, romantic ideals.
“I’ll do it,” Portia announced with far more bravado than she felt. Her heart fluttered like a wild bird in her chest, panicked at her words, at their significance.
Astrid frowned, her expression dubious. “I don’t understand—”
“I shall wed.”
Astrid stared. It took a full moment for her to respond, and when she did it was in a voice full of mockery and scorn, its sting wholly felt. “Of course you will.”
“I will. You have my word.”
Astrid studied her, from the hem of her gown up to her unblinking gaze. “You’re serious. Now. After all this time, you’re agreeing to marry. Why?”
Portia looked away and fought to swallow the painful lump that rose to choke her. Her thoughts drifted to Heath. She closed her eyes and the delicious memory of his body pressing into hers surged forth. A memory so achingly real that a burning sob scalded the back of her throat, threatening to spill.
Sighing, she shoved him from her head, her heart, watching yet another dream—the dream of him—spread its wings and take flight. Even during her journey home, she had clung to the thin hope that she would see him again, that he would follow her, begging forgiveness, taking back all the terrible words he had flung at her and mend her bruised heart with sweet words. Dangerous thinking. The man had brought her nothing but grief.
She had refused his proposal—if what transpired between them in the library could even be deemed a proposal of marriage. That ugly scene still made her face heat. You lifted your skirts for me most willingly—no different than any other prostitute selling herself for the right price. A part of her hoped that he would somehow appear and erase those cruel words. Foolish, she knew. Words could never be erased. Nor would he ever try to do so. The hard, unforgiving glint in his eyes had attested to that.
Did her pride simply no longer exist?
Portia moved to the window that Astrid had looked out moments ago. There she gathered her resolve, wrapping it tightly about her heart as she stared unseeingly ahead. In time she would forget, her body would eventually cease to yearn for a man who had ravaged her heart and soul.
She touched the glass, cold and lifeless beneath her palm, and willed her heart to grow equally cold, numb. Dead. Lifeless in its own right. Then it could go forth and wed someone for which she felt nothing.
With that sole conviction, she willed Heath from her head…and let go of her other impossible, unattainable dream. Her dream for autonomy, freedom—for a mother’s promise.
Astrid shamed her, made her realize she had no desire to follow Bertram’s example and—if she were honest with herself—her mother’s example, too. Like them, she had fled duty, responsibility, never once giving thought to the effect it had on others. Astrid. Her grandmother. The tenants in Nottinghamshire.
“Duty,” she whispered, blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes. Lifting her gaze, she turned and met Astrid’s wide-eyed stare head on. “Tell me what I need to do.”
A thick gloom permeated her grandmother’s chamber. The drapes were drawn tight, only the barest thread of afternoon light creeping from beneath the worn damask. Portia hovered in the threshold, eyeing the figure beneath
the counterpane, still as stone—death—atop the bed.
Her grandmother’s cane was propped nearby, within arm’s reach, as if she might wake at any moment and reach for it, rise to her feet and heap the familiar, long-standing rebukes upon Portia’s head: Feckless female. Over-the-hill spinster. Incorrigible bluestocking.
Sadly, Portia wished she would. She would savor the sound of those denouncements if it meant her grandmother was whole again.
Portia approached cautiously, her feet shuffling slowly over the worn, threadbare carpet. A tight wheezing sound carried from the bed, rhythmic and repetitive as a metronome. Her grandmother’s chest rose and fell deeply, as if each breath were pulled—heaved—from some place deep within her chest, from a chasm where life clung by a fragile fist.
Portia stopped at the side of her bed, a sharp gasp tearing from her lips, harsh and ugly in the still of the room. She had not steeled herself for the sight. Her grandmother did not rest there. No. That imposing lady had disappeared. Only a shell of her former self remained. Loose skin hung off the bones of her face, sagging lifelessly.
Portia sucked in a lungful of the room’s stale air and rubbed her arms briskly, turning away, unable to look at the inert form on the bed and reconcile her to the vital woman who had bullied her…and loved her—at least as much as the crusty old Dowager Duchess of Derring could.
Portia glanced about the silent room. She could not remember the last occasion she had entered these rooms. As a child, she had not been allowed. And later, as an adult, she had taken pains to avoid the old termagant, feeling nothing save keen disappointment in her presence.
“Grandmother?” she whispered, reaching for the hand limp at her side, the skin thin as parchment. Portia handled it carefully, treating it like fine crystal.
“Grandmother,” she repeated, her throat suddenly thick. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything. You’ll see.”
For a moment, those lids flickered, as though struggling to open. Portia’s heart leapt and she squeezed the lifeless fingers. “Grandmother? Can you hear me?”
For the barest second those lids cracked to reveal a pair of pale blue eyes. They stared at Portia with familiar intensity. Yet unfamiliar was the satisfaction, the approval, glimmering there. Grandmother had heard her vow. Heard and understood.