Carolyn Jewel (3 page)

“Yes, Eleanor.” It had been a shock when Crispin arrived at the Grange, despite her knowing he was to visit. No longer a married man. A widower. He’d walked in, and her heart had somersaulted in her chest with the same thrill as always. The years fell away to leave her with bare emotion despite knowing that aspect of their acquaintance was over. Over. Over and over. He was a man of the world now. He had been another woman’s husband.

“In London, among the Ton, others will misunderstand your familiarity and think you uncouth. Nothing could be further from the truth. For all that you have red hair and make no effort to improve yourself, we will make a success of you. I promise you. Honestly, my dear sister, if only your hair were walnut brown, I am convinced you would have a dozen more admirers.”

“I’m pleased with the one I have.”

“If you won’t do anything about your hair, you really ought to follow my advice as to your wardrobe. When I was in London, everyone wanted to know the name of my modiste. Everyone! Twice I had to intervene when other ladies tried to hire away Bridget.”

“Thank you, but I do not wish to go to London.” My God. They were back to London and the inadequacies of her dress, yet another familiar topic between them.

“Think what you may do there.
My
family, as you know, is easily as old as Lord Northword’s. Why, Ryans have been in Kent since the days of William the Conqueror.” Her smile made Portia wish she had the knack of looking so perfectly helpless. “While I love Magnus madly and think there can be no man finer, the fact is Temples are not so old a family as the Ryans.”

“We Temples are a youthful lot.” She nodded and nursed her faint hope that the conversation might be diverted again. “Not at all impetuous. Why, my grandfather took twenty years to decide whether he ought to move the hen house.”

Eleanor frowned and waved a hand. “I ought to have spoken to you before Lord Northword arrived.” She fluttered her eyes, and Portia suppressed the urge to comfort her.
There, there, you poor dear thing.
“I assure you, I did not anticipate your manner with him would be so familiar.” A cloud of discontent floated in her cerulean eyes. “If I’d known…

“I am Magnus’s wife and
I
should never call Lord Northword anything but that, unless it is
my lord,
or
sir
and therefore, you mayn’t either. You’ll surely meet other men of his rank, and higher, even, and with them you must be scrupulous.”

Portia nodded, and it was killing her, it really was, to speak of anything even tangentially to do with Crispin. “I do see. Thank you. You would have warned me. I understand. I’m sure you ought to have.”

Eleanor nodded as if Portia had given voice to the obvious. “Everything depends upon your appearance and your connections. Everything.” You’d think she was a surgeon discussing treatments for a dread disorder. “You have not my family’s standing, but I shall be there at your side to remind everyone. If we have Lord Northword’s support, why, you might marry very well indeed.”

“Yes, thank you. I believe I will, of course.” There were times she was convinced her sister-in-law was clever and possibly even diabolical. Such as now. “But I am not going to London.”

“Of course you are. I understand you have an arrangement with Mr. Stewart, but such arrangements come to naught all the time. No woman ought to marry until she has met at least eleven gentlemen who would be suitable husbands.”

“Eleven?” How odd. Her sister-in-law’s mind often confounded her this way. “Why not thirteen? Or a hundred?”

Her eyes went wide and, oh, Lord, they sparkled with joy. Too late Portia realized the error of expressing curiosity over the number of suitors one ought to have. Eleanor reached for Portia’s hand. “Thirteen would be unlucky, and a hundred is far too many. No, eleven is the perfect number. Never fear. I will guide and advise you.”

Portia summoned a weak smile. Eleanor’s fingers were soft and limp and milky white. Which fact brought home the shameful truth that, having removed her gardening gloves, she could see dirt under her fingernails. She drew away her hand and clasped them behind her back.

“I’m so glad we had this chat.” Eleanor rose and took a step toward her. “You understand now how vitally important it is for you to be circumspect in everything?”

“Yes, thank you.” Frustration threatened to burst from her in one long, terrible scream that dammed up in her throat. A vision of Eleanor in tears kept the impulse under control.

“I’ll apologize to Lord Northword for you.” The cloying scent of lilies floated between them when she stretched to press Portia’s upper arm. “Please, don’t feel you need say anything at all. I’ll put everything right with Lord Northword, rely on it. I am happy to help you through this difficulty.” She threw her arms around Portia and kissed her cheek. “You’ll adore London just as I did.”

When they parted, Eleanor checked the watch pinned to her bodice. “Goodness, we’ve hardly time to dress for luncheon. Do wear the pink frock we made for you. That’s your best gown. Together we shall dazzle Lord Northword with our beauty.”

“Yours perhaps.”

She giggled. Good heavens, Eleanor giggled. “Men like pink on a woman.”

Portia hated pink. She hated pink beyond anything. She especially hated that shade of pink in that thick satin. The gown was awful on her.

“I cannot wait for London!”

A
T A QUARTER TO TWELVE
, Portia walked into the parlor a silent horror in a pink gown festooned with lace and bows. The very latest in London fashion, she had been assured. In order to accommodate her height, Eleanor had sewn frothy tulle over a five-inch layer of satin stitched to the bottom of the original hem. Though Portia did not entirely object to lace or bows, she objected to their combination almost as much as she objected to the unrelenting pink of…everything.

She was early to luncheon on purpose. God forbid she should make an entrance dressed like this. She sat and scooted her chair closer to the table while she exchanged a commiserating glance with Hob. One of Eleanor’s early changes at Doyle’s Grange was to put Hob into what amounted to livery when he served their meals. With Crispin here, the costume had been embellished beyond the bronze frock coat, breeches and heeled shoes with silver buckles. Now his costume included a powdered wig and a tricorn hat that refused to sit straight on his head. She found scant consolation in the knowledge that Hob looked as ridiculous as she did.

Two minutes before noon, Crispin strolled in with Eleanor on his arm and Magnus on his other side. “Portia.” He lifted his free hand in greeting, and his gaze swept her up and down. His eyebrows shot up. She wanted to shoot him dead for that taken aback look. “Heavens, don’t get up. Please.”

He was dressed for the country, but you’d never mistake him for anything but a man of fashion. A man who was not from Exmoor. His toffee-colored hair was too perfectly cut. A grown man now. Not the young man she’d so desperately loved. With all that had happened between them, the awful strain of those last days, he’d moved on in his life. It was she who had been unable to move forward.

Crispin led Eleanor to the table and touched his fingers to the top of her chair while she sat. Magnus brought a chair closer to Eleanor but before he took his seat, he waved his arms in the air as if he were summoning food and refreshments by magical means.

This brought Hob away from guarding the door. He pushed a wheeled cart to Eleanor and then brought over, one plate or dish at a time, a selection of meat, cheeses, cakes, biscuits and various other comestibles. There was even a pot of coffee. Without a moment’s hesitation, Crispin poured himself a cup, adding sugar and milk. So deftly done that one had to imagine he frequently sat down to coffee. It was a luxury here. And a rarity. This, too, was a habit of his of which she had no knowledge. She had herself never acquired a taste for coffee.

Conversation moved from politics to horses, to racing phaetons and the state of the poor who lived between Aubry Sock and West Aubry. Portia had little to contribute to the conversation. Every time she looked down or caught a glimpse of the frock Eleanor had so lovingly helped her make, she shuddered.

Hob brought over a plate of sliced duck and for a time there was no noise but that of silverware against the best china and teacups or coffee cups clicking against a porcelain saucer. She stared out the window. Clouds that promised rain all but blocked out the sky. She poked at her duck and set herself to mashing the remains of some cheddar. The thought of eating did not appeal. If this kept up, she’d waste away and become delicate through lack of appetite. She’d never look well in pink, though. Not with her hair. She didn’t even want to look at Crispin for fear she’d see in his eyes a reflection of how unsuited she was to gowns with lace and frills. He unnerved her, to be honest.

Magnus gave a great harumph and took a large helping of duck. “Are we ready, do you think, Eleanor, for our journey to the seashore?”

Weeks before Crispin’s arrival, Magnus and Eleanor had engaged to spend a fortnight in Brighton. They had rooms reserved at a favorite hotel, and Portia had been looking forward to several blessed days alone. She’d planned to stay up all hours, sleep away the mornings, and spend her afternoons transplanting crocuses to the rear lawns. That, alas, was not to be.

Once they had realized Crispin’s visit would overlap with the Brighton trip, Magnus had suggested Portia ask Mr. Stewart to bring his mother to the Grange for a visit so as to avoid any hint of impropriety. This was done and the invitation accepted. As it turned out, however, Crispin had an appointment in West Aubry during the days that Magnus and Eleanor were to be away, discovered too late to even think of putting off the Stewarts’ visit.

“Indeed we are.” Eleanor put her hand over Magnus’s and there was just no denying that when she looked at her husband, she glowed. “After Brighton, London. I hope, Lord Northword, that you will be in town then, for I know Portia is looking forward to seeing Northword House.”

His expression smoothed out. “I don’t know my schedule. I dare say it’s possible.” Crispin glanced at her, but Portia averted her eyes just in time. Having him here was much, much more difficult than she’d imagined. And that hint of distance in his voice? He did not want her in London any more than she wanted to go. The fact that Crispin and Jeremy must inevitably meet only deepened her tension and anxiety. “If I am not in town or at home, do please call. The housekeeper will give you a tour.”

“You’ll be in London for the sessions, I imagine,” Eleanor said. “I know Mr. Temple would like to attend them while I show Portia the delights of Bond Street and my favorite shops.”

Portia did her best imitation of one of Eleanor’s helpless smiles. She hated herself for it, but she did it. “I have been thinking,” she said for Eleanor’s benefit, “that if your London excursion comes off, I’m sure Mr. Stewart and his mother would love to accompany us. Would that not be agreeable?”

Crispin returned a shallow grin. “I should be delighted to show all of you Northword House.” He cut a slice of duck. “If I am in town.”

“Portia dearest, are you certain Mrs. Stewart can withstand such a journey? It’s such a long way for a frail woman.”

Oh, how neatly her trap was sprung. “What a disappointment if she cannot. But let’s not despair. I’ll settle everything when they are here and write to you at Brighton.”

“Have you been to Brighton, Portia?” Crispin pushed his cup forward so that Hob could refill it from the coffee pot. “Thank you.”

“No. I’ve not been.”

“You’d like it immensely. Seeing the ocean. Everyone ought to see the ocean at least once.” He moved her untouched teacup out of his line of sight. Candlelight reflected off his hair and turned the darker streaks in his hair to bronze. He was astonishingly confident of himself and at ease with the sort of conversation that took no toll on anyone. “Tell me, ladies, have you bathing costumes?”

Eleanor fluttered her lashes. “I have, my lord. It’s new, and I’ve been keeping it secret from Magnus.”

Portia wished she were married already. She wished she were nowhere near Crispin or Doyle’s Grange. The light in the room shifted with the gathering clouds and she seized on that as an excuse to stare out the window. She’d rather count cracks in the plaster than torture herself by watching Crispin bring Eleanor under his spell.

“And you, Portia? Have you a bathing costume?”

“I haven’t.” She looked away because she couldn’t bear that there was so little left of the woman Crispin had once loved. Eleanor made a face at her, and, perhaps a shade too late, Portia understood why. She coughed and patted her upper chest. “Forgive me. My lord. I have no bathing costume, secret or otherwise. But I cannot go to Brighton in any event, sir. And while I should like to see London, sir, I expect that won’t be possible. Not until after I am married.”

Crispin leaned sideways against his chair. He’d dressed elegantly this afternoon, hadn’t he? A far cry from the country clothes he’d worn when he’d lived at Wordless. His coat was the finest wool, his shirt a delicate lawn, and his waistcoat, well, that was heavy silk embroidered with tiny points of gold thread. “What’s got into you?”