Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] Read online

  "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.

  She glanced back at Lord Bryght. Had he known, or had he been inexcusably daring? His expression provided no answer.

  "You—"

  His finger touched her lips to silence her. "We must attend the monarch."

  The crowd had quieted to attention and were all facing the royal party. The king and queen had come with little ceremony, only accompanied by a half dozen ladies-and gentlemen-in-waiting and a small body of the Guards. They went immediately to inspect and watch the troops on display.

  Portia took the time to gather her wits and steady her nerves.

  She had to recognize that her reaction to Bryght Malloren was alarming. Even now, without looking at him, she felt his presence beside her in a way she ha
d never experienced with any other person. Whenever he spoke, his mellow voice seemed to stroke her senses and destroy rational thought.

  She slid a look sideways. The sight of him fascinated her. He was beautiful—long, lithe, and elegant—but there was something about him that could perhaps be called presence. It was in every small movement of his body, in the lines it assumed, and even the play of sunlight over the planes of his face. She wished she were an artist....

  She called herself to order. He's a bully, a gamester, a hawk, and probably a heartless seducer, Portia. Be on your guard.

  He caught her slanting look. "And what do you think of our monarchs, Hippolyta?"

  Sensitized to every aspect of him, Portia was turning dizzy. She looked away to study the young king and queen. "They seem rather ordinary. But... good. They look like good people."

  How inane.

  "In many ways they are. They favor fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire. Do you think they will alter the tone of Society?"

  Portia looked around. The flock had quieted with the appearance of royalty, but she did not think it was changed. "No."

  "You are doubtless correct. What do you think of fidelity and quiet evenings by the fire?"

  "They sound delightful." For a moment, Portia regretted the admission, thinking it too revealing, but then she relaxed. It should certainly show him she was not a woman for his amusement. The idea of Bryght Malloren faithful to one woman and content to stay home toasting his toes at the fire was ridiculous.

  Having done their duty to the troops, the young king and queen strolled about the park, stopping to chat briefly to this person or that. Everyone bowed or curtsied as they passed, as did Bryght and Portia when the royal couple strolled near by.

  At such close quarters, Portia could see that the queen was indeed very plain, but looked kind. The king was handsome enough but seemed rather anxious.

  She wondered what he could have to worry him. He was not penniless and plagued by a seducer of devastating charms and no moral fiber whatsoever.

  The royal party re-assembled and rolled away. The courtiers stirred into chattering motion again and Portia took control of the situation. "I will not allow you to kiss me again, my lord. It is most improper and could destroy my reputation."

  He turned them back toward Oliver, waiting at quite a distance. Portia had not been aware that they had come so far.

  "On the contrary. It could make your reputation."

  "Not in a way I would like, my lord."

  "So, if you have no desire to be famous, and no desire to be seduced, what do you plan for your stay in London?"

  "Nothing. We are merely here whilst my brother attends to some business."

  "Business to do with the Earl of Walgrave, perhaps?"

  Portia had briefly forgotten their perilous situation, but now she stiffened. "That is none of your concern, my lord."

  "How excessively private you are, Hippolyta. One might almost think you had secrets to hide...."

  "Doesn't everyone?" But then she remembered wanting to advertise the fact that Oliver had nothing left to lose. This was an excellent time. "One secret is that Oliver lost his estate at play. He is as good as penniless, my lord."

  He accepted the news without surprise. "In that case, if you will take some well-meant advice, Miss St. Claire, you will stop your brother from gaming further."

  "How?" she asked bleakly.

  His expression was surprisingly understanding. "Ah. As bad as that, is it? Then get him away from London."

  "You played with him last night, my lord," she said frostily, "so why the pious sermon?"

  "Because I played with him last night."

  She glared at him. "At least he won. You lost, but I suspect you will be back at play tonight."

  "Almost certainly, but I have not yet lost my all, nor do I have dependents to consider."

  Gracious heaven, for all his poise and power this man, too, was helplessly entangled in the vice. Portia wanted to plead with him to abandon gaming, plead just as strongly as she had with Oliver.

  Then she reminded herself that Bryght Malloren was no concern of hers. If he lost every penny and shot himself as her father had shot himself—

  Her mind balked at the image, and the words escaped. "I wish you wouldn't play." When he turned to her, mildly surprised, she hastily added, "I wish no one would."

  His lips turned up. "What then would we do with our long evenings? Ah yes, sit by the fire with our faithful spouses...."

  Portia knew she was an awkward red. "You mock, my lord, but it would be better."

  "Undoubtedly." The amusement faded. "You frighten me, Miss St. Claire."

  "Of course I don't."

  "I mean, I am frightened for you. You have something of the Joan of Arc about you."

  "I'm no religious zealot, my lord."

  He frowned slightly and looked alarmingly serious. "But you are fierce, brave, and have high ideals. That is dangerous in this cynical age. In a just cause you wouldn't hesitate to take appalling risks. I would not want to see you go up in flames."

  "There is no danger of that." But his words struck a chord of uneasiness in Portia. She lived these days with a sense of hovering disaster.

  "Is there not? You would have shot me that day, wouldn't you?"

  She colored at the memory, but said, "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "I was supposed to allow an intruder to break into the house without objection?"

  "A pistol ball in the gut is rather more than an objection, dear Amazon. What would you have done with me writhing to eternity at your feet?"

  It was a disturbing picture but Portia would not let him see that. "Called for the Watch," she said crisply.

  He laughed out loud. "You would, wouldn't you?" He touched her hot cheek with his knuckle. "You are refreshing."

  Portia felt caught in a moment of eternity, and fought it. "Like an ice-cold bath, perhaps?"

  His eyes seemed truly warm as he said, "Not quite so harsh, I think. Like a cool fountain on an arid summer's day."

  Portia could find nothing flippant to say to this and stared at him like a wooden-headed ninny.

  It clearly meant little to him, however, for he continued lightly, "May I hope that now you will delight Society a little more with your presence, Hippolyta?"

  Wooden-headed? More light-headed. Portia felt giddy. Thank heavens it was proper to be supported by his arm, for she needed it. "I... I doubt it, my lord," she said unsteadily. "We do not intend to stay long, and we will be living quietly."

  "Society is the loser thereby." But he delivered her to her brother without protest, bowed his farewells, and moved on.

  Chapter 6

  Portia watched Bryght Malloren stroll away, wishing there was somewhere nearby to sit down.

  "Well, that will have attracted Society's eye," said Oliver. "But I wish you hadn't behaved quite so boldly, Portia. Staring up at him like that..."

  Heat flooded Portia at the thought of the spectacle she had just made of herself. "I did no such thing," she declared, fanning herself vigorously with the mask. "Or at least, if I am to look at such a man whilst he talks, I have little choice. He is far too tall. It was all perfectly innocent."

  But she lied. There had been nothing innocent about that encounter at all.

  Oliver was not impressed by her words, either. "Just bear in mind that the aristocracy marry among themselves, and younger sons like Bryght Malloren don't marry at all except for money and land. How could they support a wife?"

  At the tables, Portia thought. Except that Bryght Malloren loses. She summoned a light laugh. "Marriage? Who speaks of marriage?"

  Oliver ignored her comment. "And sometimes they hunt for sport."

  Portia shivered, for she feared Oliver had Bryght Malloren's intent exactly. If only she could understand why he would choose a poor squab such as herself as prey.

  "See," said Oliver. "He is now paying court to Mrs. Findlayson."

  Portia looked at the vivacious raven-haired beauty, swathed in a cloak of red velvet lined with dark furs. Five handsome specimens hovered around her like gaudy moths at a flame. Or like hawks on the hunt, more like. Bryght Malloren was certainly no fluttering moth.

  But then, Mrs. Findlayson did not resemble any common type of prey.

  Who, in fact, hunted whom?

  "Which gentleman is Mr. Findlayson?" she asked.