She had undoubtedly softened. “I was merely seeking a recalcitrant child. Edmund can be a handful at times, and I became concerned.” She gave Portia a sweet smile. “I’m sure you understand.”
Portia wanted to hit her. Edmund was hers. The pretty woman standing next to the duchesse—did she think so too? Had Edmund done the same to her? She swallowed. “I’m sure it’s a problem we can resolve.”
The duchesse’s smile broadened. “Indeed I believe it too. A charming room, is this not?”
They passed on to general conversation, but underneath lay menace. Portia danced again with Peter, and then with another of her erstwhile swains. After that she passed on to safer company, older gentlemen who’d known her all her life. She felt comfortable here, happy, but the time had come. She’d rested for too long on what was comfortable. If she wanted a life, she had to take it into her hands and move forward.
Venus. She was the mother of Cupid—Eros. Not in this life. They weren’t related. It appeared that the duchesse wanted Edmund for her protégée, not for herself. That could be a trick. Maybe Venus wanted every man she came across.
Portia knew the stories, as everyone did who had received a halfway decent education. But meeting these beings, even when she knew they existed, gave her a sense of awe she had to overcome if she was to achieve her ambition.
Which was what?
She knew immediately. Edmund to herself, as they were on their wedding day. Nothing else mattered more than that. She would fight for it with everything she had.
She watched her father charm and flatter the duchesse without appearing to. He complimented her grace, but not her beauty. He danced with her, and when he whisked her away, Portia spoke to the duchesse’s ward. “I’m sorry this has happened,” she said.
The other woman gazed in the direction of the dancing couple. “So am I. He’s a charming man.”
“Yes.” Charming? Surely more than that. Portia couldn’t think past her love for him. And now he had gone, she recalled what he said about that first night. She fell in love with him then, and every encounter after had only confirmed it. Then he’d given her the arrow, and that had escalated her emotions. If he’d waited, not introduced the arrow, they’d have got there anyway. She should have realised that weeks ago, but it had taken this shock. “What do you intend to do?”
“It’s up to the duchesse. I believe she intends to call him to account.” The woman, who had introduced herself as Susanna Howard, seemed almost apologetic. “She is headstrong, but kind at heart.”
“And vain,” Portia said, almost to herself.
“Yes, but you see, that is what she is. Part of her—attributes.”
Are you a nymph?
Susanna turned her head and confronted Portia directly. “No.”
That didn’t invite further questioning. Susanna’s eyes were somewhere between grey and green, the colour shifting in the light as she moved. “I am many things, but at the moment, I’m your husband’s betrothed. Which makes us related, does it not?”
Portia blinked. “At least you accept that he’s my husband.”
Susanna lifted a white shoulder, her body moving subtly inside her apple-green silk gown. “For now. My mentor claims that he signed a contract. I signed one, so I assumed he signed it too.”
Portia kept her voice low, for fear she would forget herself and shout. “Don’t you care?”
The other woman smiled. “Your father is a magnificent man. Don’t you think?” When Portia didn’t answer, Susanna sighed. “I care. Not as much as you, it seems. He cannot wander around Europe promising to marry all and sundry. Even if he is—who he is.”
Portia frowned. She was missing something here. Those last words—she meant more than Edmund’s secret identity. What? The source of Edmund’s wealth, perhaps. Portia had assumed he gained his wealth from his predecessor. Many did. Their courtship, conducted at a breakneck pace, hadn’t allowed for such niceties. Edmund had satisfied her father he could care for her, and that was all she knew.
“Perhaps you should return to your father’s house and leave the tangle in our hands,” Susanna continued, her voice cool and reasonable. “I promise we will not do anything unfair. You have to live in this community, do you not? You could become a widow very easily.”
A sharp note entered her mind. Was that a threat?
Susanna continued mind-to-mind. He will not die, just become someone else and you’d be free to start again. It would solve our dilemma.
It would. Not in any way she wanted to be a part of.
These two women wanted her husband. They wanted Edmund, but not for love. Not the same reasons she did. She cared for him. No, she wouldn’t give him up. Not that easily.
Not at all, she decided. Her mind eased once she’d made her decision. She would fight for the man she loved.
When the dance concluded, her father brought the duchesse over to them. “Thank you, your grace.” He bowed low. “You are well named, ma’am.”
“Indeed, I thank you. I haven’t enjoyed myself at an evening’s entertainment so much for years.”
Her father glanced at her and then held his arm out for the duchesse to take. “Could I venture to take you through to find some refreshments? What they have isn’t as grand as you’re used to, I’m sure, but we would be honoured if you’d take a glass of wine.”
Portia’s jaw dropped. It was like meeting someone completely different. Where had her father gone? That brusque man who had rattled off orders like a drum beating a tattoo?
Go up to your room and pack. You’re leaving tonight. Ah, there he was.
His orders didn’t make sense. What do you mean, Papa?
I will keep this woman busy while you leave. If the coachman keeps the lamps lit, you may reach London by morning. You need to make your claim, daughter.
Shock and then relief arced through her in a great wave. He had a plan, and it was a good one. Their coachman had travelled to London many a time, taking them for shopping expeditions or for short trips to the city to visit the theatre. He could negotiate the roads better than anyone.
Yes. She could get there before the two women if her father kept them busy, and they wouldn’t have a coachman half as good as hers. What of my clothes, and my other belongings?
I’ll get your maid to pack and send you what you need.
I shouldn’t go on my own. Even as a married woman, travelling on her own was perilous to her reputation. As an immortal she could defend herself against most dangers that might assail her on the road.
Take one of our maids. Carter is here attending your mother. She can go with you.
That still wasn’t entirely respectable, but she could get past that. Her heart beat faster. Yes, she could do this. If she wanted to discover what Edmund was up to, then she should take this opportunity.
She turned to Susanna with a bright smile. “Do you plan to stay in Dover for long?”
“Just enough time to buy some essentials,” Susanna said. “We’d be delighted if you would join us tomorrow.” So they could keep an eye on her, no doubt.
“I would be delighted—” she began, only for her father to interrupt her.
“You have forgotten you promised to accompany your mother to your Aunt Bessie’s?”
Since Portia didn’t have an Aunt Bessie, it took her a moment to catch up. “Oh, that’s right, I’m so sorry.” She gave Susanna an apologetic smile. “If you are here on Saturday, I could drive into town and meet you. That would be a rare treat.”
“I’m afraid we’re planning to drive to London on Saturday,” the duchesse said. She paused, glanced at Susanna. “However, if it would help to further our acquaintance, to ensure we do not create a spectacle for half of London to gawp at, then it is an excellent idea.”
It would be, if she were here. Since most people attended church rather than travellin
g on a Sunday, that would give her even more time. By the time they reached town, Portia could be living with Edmund again. Unless, of course, he did make a habit of passing from woman to woman…
No, she could not believe that. It would not happen. She was determined on it.
An hour later, she’d excused herself and headed to her bedroom. If she left too early, they might suspect her. There Carter waited with the clothes she’d planned to wear in the morning. She stripped out of her finery as fast as she could, and while she was dressing in the simpler garments Carter packed the ball gown away. In London she might need such fine clothes, especially if that was all she had until her other things arrived.
Although fear clutched at her, she refused to allow it to take control. She would do this.
Portia and Carter left the inn by the back door and walked slowly through the yard, making their way past the ostlers and servants. They kept their hoods up and their heads down until they’d walked under the arch separating the yard from the street. Then they quickened their pace.
Her father had sent orders for his carriage to be prepared. It waited for her at the end of the street, for fear anyone from the ball might see her and report it to the duchesse. The carriage had a small representation of her father’s crest on the panel, but he kept covers in the vehicle and the footmen had the sense to deploy them now, so panels covered the crests. The set of matched bays were unmistakeable. Anyone seeing them would know Sir Mortimer Seaton was about.
The fresh horses stamped and blew through their noses as Portia and Carter approached. Carter wore a simple though appropriate outfit so that if questioned she would claim she was Portia’s companion, not her maid. That would help give her respectability.
They’d made their plans as carefully as they could, given the circumstances. Portia and Carter scrambled in and the footman hastily let up the steps and closed the door.
They set off, but stopped when they’d cleared the town to turn up the carriage lights. Her father rarely travelled without them. They could get as far as Rochester if they travelled through the night. She could get to London by Saturday. That was all she wanted, and she prayed they’d make haste.
Chapter Eleven
More asleep than awake, Portia watched the streets of London as they passed through them, her maid by her side. They had travelled eighty miles or so in a little under two days, the coachman setting a spanking pace but unable to do the journey any faster.
The duchesse would be stuck in Dover until Monday at least now. Elation filled Portia, even though the journey had tired her. She’d worried frantically about everything, not knowing if she’d find him or if she was doing the right thing.
His sister had been in danger. Was she still? Was he in danger now, and was she running straight into the arms of his enemies?
The coach jolted over uneven cobbles and she had to grip the seat in order to prevent a tumble. The concentration on the immediate helped her. She had wondered whether to wait, put up at an inn, but that would be to delay when every moment could mean success or failure. She had to talk to him. If he’d lied to her about the address he left with her, then she had no clear plan. Find an inn and search.
The coach rumbled over smoother streets when it reached the modern part of London, where the roads significantly widened. They drove through a square, the central railed garden bordered by stuccoed houses, larger than the ones they’d passed so far.
They turned up one of the streets abutting the square and drove halfway down before stopping outside a gracious house, shallow steps covered by a pillared portico leading to the shiny front door with its big brass knocker.
According to polite etiquette, she should send a servant to the door with a card. According to practice, she shouldn’t be calling unannounced an hour before the fashionable dinner hour. At the reminder, her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since the morning. With any luck she’d be sitting down to a meal soon.
She tripped out of the coach when the footman let down the steps and almost skipped up to the front door. She rang the bell herself, the pull sliding from its socket with well-oiled ease. Even the clang was musical.
A man opened the door and lifted a brow. He stared at her, and Portia became aware of her travel dirt. Although their journey wasn’t too arduous, she’d had just the one suit of clothes, not including her packed ball gown, and it showed. Dust and creases marked the green broadcloth, although they hadn’t concerned her before this man glared at her. He made her feel like a worm under his foot.
Portia lifted her chin. “Is Mr. Welles at home?”
The being relaxed a trifle. “I think you have the wrong address, ma’am. There is nobody called Welles here.” Instead of closing the door on her, he paused. “Do you mean someone of the duke’s family?”
“Duke?”
“This is the residence of the Duke of Kentmere. Until recently his mother and sister lived here. Were you allied with them?”
“Who is it, Reader?”
At last, a voice she knew came from inside the house. Portia cried out in relief. “Edmund!”
Silence from inside, and then in a cool voice, he said, “Who is it, Reader?”
“Edmund, it’s your wife!”
The man staring at her hesitated, then opened the door at a sharp command from inside. She read confusion in his mind, and the pause caused by his anxiety that he might upset his master. The man behind him she couldn’t read at all, and that hurt because Edmund had always opened to her. She couldn’t see him yet, only hear his voice.
“Let them in, Reader. There’s some misunderstanding. I want to see who claims she’s my wife.” Only curiosity coloured his tones. None of the anxiety Portia felt and the surge of joy at hearing his voice again. “Don’t create a scene for everyone to witness.”
At that prompting Reader opened the door wide enough to admit Portia and her companion.
Edmund stood in the hall, but a different Edmund. His austere features showed no softening or the warmth his eyes habitually held when he looked at her. He was dressed in sombre colours, but in a coat so fine it took her breath away. She’d thought his country coats special, but this was something else. She’d only ever seen him this grand on their wedding day. Nobody could surpass his elegance. His fair hair that she’d seen tousled into a wild mane around his head lay smooth and shining under the light of the hall lantern. He appeared untouchable, perfect. But still her husband.
“Edmund, I worried. I didn’t know what had happened. You said you would write, that you would send for me as soon as it was safe.” Aware of the mortals, her maid and his servant, she stopped.
He frowned, the small crease between his brows the only one that marked his face. “This is novel. I have never had someone claim to be my wife before. As far as I know, madam, I am unmarried.”
Shock stopped her throat, made her gasp for breath. “Edmund?”
“I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to use my name. Comely you might be, but I cannot recall having made your acquaintance. May I have your name, ma’am?”
She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Welles. Portia. Edmund—”
He held up a hand in command. “Please, ma’am. Strangers generally address me by my title, at least until I get to know them better.” He turned his back, but not before she felt a curious mind in hers, darting in to read her. “Show her out, Reader. I do not know her after all.”
Shock held her rigid and ice trickled down her spine.
When someone touched her from behind, she spun around, her body going into automatic protection mode.
Carter stood before her, her hands shielding her face. “Ma’am. I don’t know what this is, ma’am. This is your husband.”
“Out,” Edmund said coldly from behind her.
Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall. Slowly she turned around to face him. “You will not
deny me. I have proof, but I want to know why you would do something so cruel. Are you in trouble?” She left her mind open for him to communicate with her mentally.
A sharp spike pierced her mind, forced her back. “Leave.” The bored tones had gone, replaced by menace. He would hurt her, maybe even kill her if she didn’t go.
Here she was, on her own, facing a situation she had no idea how to cope with. Right there, standing rejected in his elegant hall, she made a discovery. Being on her own was strengthening. Nobody was there to question her decisions and nobody cared.
Absolutely nobody.
Edmund had already disappeared, going into a room at the back of the hall. Portia had no doubt that if she tried to follow him, she’d be forcibly removed. Although she had power of her own, enough to overcome a mortal manservant, she doubted she could stand for long against her husband.
So she left, descending the shallow white steps that led to the front door and climbing into the carriage. The crest was showing. No doubt people would gossip, but she didn’t care. Her father didn’t have to please the people of this city to make a living, and at the moment, her family mattered most.
Once the carriage was moving again, her brain clicked back into action. Carter sat opposite her, her face a picture of shock and misery. Portia closed her eyes and thought.
She should have shown him the letter he sent her, or any of the love notes he’d written to her in the month leading up to their wedding. He might have taken them from her and destroyed them. When she’d skimmed his mind, before he’d furiously shut her out, she read nothing. No knowledge of her person or her presence, so he wasn’t lying. And fear, right at the back, just a touch. Not fear of her, but of the unknown. More confusion than fear. What had happened to him?
In a flash she knew who to ask. She rapped on the roof of the coach to attract the attention of the driver. When he slid open the hatch at the front of the vehicle, she gave the order. “St. James’s Street, please. Number twelve.”
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 16
