The Lady's Ghost
Page 30
“Yes, in your dotage already,” he drawled. Clary giggled. “And you, my lady of the sea, you’re nothing but a chick, still wet behind the ears.”
“Chicks don’t have ears.” And they were off, engaged in the amiable arguing that was entirely too like flirtation for Portia’s peace of mind. She set Tony down in front of Ashburne Hall and called Clary away from where she sat chattering, Tony’s hand resting on her horse’s shoulder entirely, and quite deliberately Portia was certain, too close to her knee.
The duke insisted Portia stay at Tynesfield for the duration, supposedly so she could chaperone Lady Clarissa during his absence. That lady’s long-suffering governess could do as good a job as ever Portia could, and she suspected Ransley’s insistence was more a matter of guilt than expediency. Rather than argue with him and risk damaging his new-found accord with Giles, Portia had thanked Ransley prettily and moved into a guest room at Tynesfield. Ellie was delighted with their new accommodations, and especially with the company, though she’d admitted when pressed that even the duke’s underservants were inclined to come over snooty. Portia spent her days keeping Clary’s flirtation with Tony to a minimum, her evenings exploring a library every bit as good as Ashburne’s if less inclined toward spiders and mice, and her nights dreaming of Giles.
She might have withstood his absence better if she’d known he meant to return to her. But she didn’t have that certainty. She knew now why Roger hadn’t wanted her, having married her only for the money he thought she possessed. It was no fault of hers that he’d set her aside immediately after consummating their union. She ought to have been more sure of Giles, but she could take no comfort from how desperately he had wanted her. Giles Ashburne was not a man to be led around by the heartstrings.
Every moment that passed after Courtland’s death, Portia had felt Giles withdraw from her a little further. The retreat had become precipitous when Ransley appeared on the scene. The duke had carried them away to Tynesfield and sent for Mr. Millbank to attend to Giles’ wound, and Portia had never seen him from that moment to the day he left that he was not in Ransley’s company. Now that she was no longer his sole ally, it seemed Giles had no further use for her, and Portia remembered too late that she could expect little justice and less consideration from the Ashburnes.
And yet, she could no more cease worrying about Giles and wishing for him than she could fly to the moon and back.
So Portia kept Clary reminded of the manners expected of Quality, shooed Tony away from Tynesfield half a dozen times a day, and watched for Giles. And waited.
Finally, after a sleepless night spent listening for ghostly footsteps, after sending Tony to the rightabout at least a dozen times, and after brangling with Clary for having been so cruel as to send him away, Portia collapsed on a chair in the library and realized quite suddenly that she was not just an Ashburne. She was a Durose, with the same stubborn determination that had led Tony to tell Ransley he’d continue to pay Lady Clarissa his attentions with or without the duke’s permission.
Where had that willingness to defy anyone and everyone in the pursuit of what she wanted gone? Had Roger and five years of scraping by on what he left her blasted it, or James and a year of the contempt heaped upon a penniless relation nibbled away what was left? Certainly all the discomforts of Ashburne Hall could not have done it, and yet Portia realized she’d become prepared to make do with what was given her and not seek more.
Portia looked around Ransley’s bright and gleaming library and realized three things. The first was that it would be an unjust world indeed if Ashburne’s library did not one day look like this. The second was that she wanted to see it when it did. And the third, which went so deep as to be more an unearthing than a revelation, was that she simply could not rest until she’d seen it as no mere guest, but the mistress of Ashburne Hall. And not because she’d come to love the place.
Portia jumped up and hauled on the bellpull. “Hailston,” she said when the butler appeared in the doorway, “prepare a carriage and groom for Lady Clarissa and myself and see to it that our bags are packed. We are going to London.”
*****
It was not nearly so easy as that, of course. Late the next morning, Clary’s maid was still wailing about the impossibility of packing appropriate attire without two days to prepare and at least some idea what events were to be attended, the cook was insisting upon just another few hours to complete baskets for the travelers’ sustenance, and the stable boys were fighting over who got to ride postilion. Or so Ellie told Portia as she did up her hair that morning, such brangling being carried out well away from the ears of the Quality.
The only thing that was ready was the coach: Ransley’s traveling chaise with, at Hailston’s insistence, a driver, postilion, and two outriders. It said something about how Ashburne’s star had risen at Tynesfield that the butler did not by so much as the twitch of an eyebrow bristle at Portia’s high-handed ordering of his grace’s equipage.
Portia had spent the night mentally telling over the money Giles had left her—that same bag of coins he’d tried to push on her for charity’s sake, which she’d found on her dressing table after he left. She had enough to keep them all in food and drink and lodge them until they got to Town. Once there, they’d needs must throw themselves on Ransley’s mercy, but the duke could hardly turn aside his own ward when he had, according to Clary, a grand townhouse that, if he had not already opened it, might be made habitable in half the time it took to think about. By such stratagems, she managed to avoid thinking about what she meant to do when she got there. And how very wrong it might go.
She was pacing in the morning room, ignoring Clary’s complaints that merely watching her was quite wearing her out, when the sound of a ruckus came from the great hall, a man’s voice rising over all to demand, “What the deuce is going on here?”
Portia knew before she rushed out that it was Ransley’s voice, but if he was back, then surely Giles was as well. She found the duke in the middle of the hall, still wearing his driving gloves and caped greatcoat. “Why are my best cattle fidgeting in harness on the drive while my household scurries around like demented rodents?”
“It’s my fault, Your Grace,” Portia said, her heart sinking in her breast. It was not fear of his wrath that disheartened her, though an absence of two months had not made Ransley any less formidable, but that Giles was not with him.
“Indeed?” Ransley allowed Hailston to take his greatcoat and began pulling off his gloves. “Would you care to enlighten me, Lady Ashburne?”
“I thought—”
“We thought,” Clary piped up from behind her.
“—to come to Town, Your Grace. To, to see you.”
“To see me.” For a moment, Portia thought Ransley might smile, but she was clearly mistaken, for his expression only got sterner. “And what prompted this sudden desire?”
Oh heavens! “I—”
“What the devil is about?” Giles demanded, striding into the great hall with a face like a thundercloud. “Ransley, your servants have all gone mad.”
“On the contrary, Ashburne. They are merely obeying the orders your— Lady Ashburne gave. They are preparing for a trip.”
“A trip?” Giles scowled at Portia. Her nerves gave way to relief at seeing him so hale and hearty. The wound that had still been so painful that he had suffered Ransley to help him into the curricle when they left clearly no longer bothered him.
“Indeed,” Ransley said. “Perhaps we might take a dish of tea in the morning room and discuss the matter. Hailston?” The butler vanished silently, and the duke ushered them all into the morning room. He hadn’t been there five minutes—five rather strained minutes, Portia thought, though Clary seemed not to feel the tension—when he announced that he needed a word with his ward and ordered her to join him in the library. Clary didn’t even have the grace to look nervous as she followed her uncle from the room. In fact, she tipped Portia a saucy wink before she closed the door, leaving
Portia alone with Giles.
Portia folded her hands in her lap so Giles would not see how her fingers twisted together and didn’t even try to prevent her eyes from seeking him out where he stood before the fire. His hands were clasped behind him and his eyes on the painting over the hearth, an insipid watercolor not meriting half so intense an examination.
“You appear to be in fine health, my lord,” Portia said to Giles’ back when he’d stood so for several silent minutes. “Your wounds no longer pain you?”
He didn’t answer for some time and when he did, his voice was cold. “A trip, Lady Ashburne? Where, pray tell, were you going?”
Portia gritted her teeth. “Oh, I’m in blooming health, I assure you, my lord. Thank you for inquiring.”
“Hell and damnation, Portia!” He swung around and glared at her. “Where were you planning to vanish off to? If I’d been a day later, I’d have returned to find you’d gone without a word.”
“If it’s a question of sending word, my lord,” Portia said sweetly, forgetting that she had no claim on him, “might I assume that all your missives have gone astray?”
“Damnation, what was I to write?”
“You might at least have let me know you weren’t languishing in Newgate Gaol.”
“Unlikely, with Ransley there to speak for me. As for the rest...” Giles laughed without amusement. “Your blasted brother-in-law’s as tenacious as a demmed lobster. Nothing escapes his grasp.”
“Don’t blame James on me,” Portia snapped. “He’s your kin.”
“Aye, he’s my kin,” Giles growled. “More’s the pity. And he’s made some powerful friends, who’re doing what everyone swears up and down can’t be done. I don’t know if they can block me forever, but they’ve done an excellent job so far.” He dragged his hand through his hair and sat down next to her on the couch. “Truly, Portia, what was I to write? That I was free of Amelia’s murder but still a landless, title-less corpse?”
Portia’s heart gave a painful thump. “You’re not a corpse,” she said, reaching automatically to put her hand on his. He turned his hand over and studied the fall of her fingers against his, his manner almost detached. “You might have written,” Portia said again.
He seemed not to hear. “Where were you going? Rosewood’s closed to you and you haven’t anything but the pittance I left you.” The reminder of his charity closed Portia’s throat and his face hardened when she failed to answer. “I forget I know so little of you. Perhaps, like Lady Amelia, you have a lover to fly to.”
“Lady Amelia never had a lover,” Portia said, finding in his accusation a kind of courage, for he seemed as hurt by the words as she. “And neither have I. She had only a stranger who fed her pretty words and lies. For that, I had Roger.”
“Roger!” On Giles’ lips, the name was a curse. “That double-damned blaggard—”
“I feel rather sorry for him, actually.” As lowering as it was to discover Roger had only wed her at Courtland’s instigation, it meant his coolness towards her was not her fault. It was nothing Portia had done that sent Roger to plunder his way through the demimonde, burying himself in the arms of every woman but her. “All those years fearing it would come out that he killed Lady Amelia, believing he could slit a woman’s throat while in his cups—”
“It didn’t stop him drinking,” Giles said, his voice hard. “It didn’t stop him turning himself into an unprincipled rake with a reputation as wide and murky as the Thames. The stories I heard in Town....” He shook his head. “I forget myself. If, then, it is no lover you fly to, Portia, where do you fly?”
Portia curled her fingers in his and took heart from the instant strengthening of his grip, as if he feared she’d withdraw her hand. “To Town.” She took a quick breath for courage. “To you.”
“To me?” His smile was charmed. And charming, she’d seen it so rarely.
“You had not written,” Portia reminded him. “If your case is going so... slowly, how can you spare the time to travel to Ashburne Hall? Is there some proof you require for your claim or—”
“There is nothing I require at Ashburne Hall.” Giles took both her hands in his. “I came to Tynesfield, and I came for what is right before me.” His grip was so tight her fingers were growing numb, but she didn’t care. “I hadn’t heard from you—I’m not the only one to be scolded for not writing, madam—and I worried you’d left Tynesfield. I’d no idea where you could go, nor how I’d find you if you did. And I realized that I didn’t...” He paused so long, she turned her eyes up to his, and saw a fire warming their depths. “I didn’t care if I ever got Ashburne Hall back if I didn’t have you. What say you, lady? I may ever be a man without title or home, but I’ve money enough to keep us in comfort. I’ll never be a man of pretty words, but I promise, if you accept me, I’ll keep you in my heart until the day I die. I—”
Portia pressed her fingers to his lips, lingering a moment at their softness. “I’ve lived with money and I’ve lived without. But I’ve never lived in a man’s heart. Yours is the only home I’ll ever need.”
He let out his breath in a gust that fanned her face and gathered her against his chest, holding Portia so close she could hardly draw breath. Then, as if he could wait not a moment more than she, he drew back far enough to bend his head to hers. Portia met his kiss eagerly, a great bubble of relief and joy and passion rising inside her. She could have swooned in his arms and wouldn’t have cared so long as he never stopped kissing her, never stopped holding her against him as if she were the dearest treasure the world possessed.
Finally, he set her from him, his black eyes bright. “If Parliament decides in my favor, you may yet be Lady Ashburne to a living lord.”
“If it does not,” Portia said, twining her arms around his neck, “then I shall be Mrs. Ashburne, and happy so.”
FINIS
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About the Author
Colleen Ladd lives in the mountains of northern Colorado with her family, including three goofball dogs and two lunatic cats. When she’s not writing, she is a volunteer firefighter and medical first responder. She’d never make it as a Regency lady at a fancy ball, but would certainly enjoy looking on from the sidelines.
You can reach Colleen through her website at: www.colleenladd.com
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Colleen's Bio
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter T
welve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Colleen's Bio