Seven Wicked Nights (48 page)

Jeremy and his mother had arrived several hours ago and after much ado, Mrs. Stewart was resting upstairs. Jeremy, Magnus, and Crispin were ensconced in the back parlor while Eleanor was driving the servants to distraction overseeing preparations for her and Magnus’s departure for Brighton. Portia had escaped the chaos at the first opportunity.

Boot heels clicked on the stone steps. Not her sister-in-law, thank God. Too fast to be Magnus. Her brother never walked when he could stroll nor hurried when he could walk. Hob never moved that quickly either. Those footsteps came too quickly for anyone but Crispin.

She turned and saw him striding toward her in his tasseled Hessians and snug breeches. The lawn was muddy from the most recent rain, and he had to slow down, not much, but some, when he left the path to head her direction. When he reached her, she curtseyed and then, from deviltry, added, “Good afternoon, my lord.”

He stopped in front of her seconds before she would have been required to move, if only to avoid being run over. He ended up too close. He’d walked out without a hat, which she found absurdly thrilling despite it being obvious he’d come here with his annoyance in tow. She stood her ground. Besides, two steps back, and she’d be standing in the lavender.

“Is that woman somewhere near?” He lifted a warning hand. “You know who and what I mean. Can she see or hear us right now?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Then don’t curtsey.” His mouth thinned. “It’s not necessary. Not when it’s just the two of us.”

“You think not?”

“That hasn’t changed.” He jammed his hands into his coat pockets. He was splendid in high passion, and it made her sorry for the anger that zinged between them. “She isn’t here to cry mock tears and convince us all she mustn’t be upset lest she melt away in a puddle of grand emotion.”

She crushed the bits of lavender in her free hand and let the bruised and torn pieces fall to the ground between them. “Why are you here?” She waved a hand. “Out here, I mean. Glaring at me as if I’ve gone into your room and mixed up all your papers. Or poured ink on your best shirts.”

His mouth twitched down. “As if you couldn’t guess.”

“I can’t.”

He worked his jaw, and she was tempted to take a step back. She didn’t though. “What the deuce, Portia?”

“Don’t scowl like that.” Never mind that he was glaring at her, he was all bluster. Eleanor was inside the house and could not see them. With the side of her thumb, she smoothed away the furrow in his forehead. She had the private pleasure of seeing him struggle to master himself, and it made her feel better, knowing that he might be feeling as to sea as she did. “Did no one tell you your face will freeze in that expression?”

He took her hand and held it. “You can’t be serious about this fellow.”

She pasted on a smile, but that did nothing for the lurch in her chest. “I like his mother.”

“A delightful woman, I grant you that.” He’d always been scrupulous in that way, honest even when it would have been easier not to be. “I can’t say I find her son equally delightful.”

“Stop.”

“Your face will freeze like that,” he said.

“If it does, at least I won’t spend the rest of my life with an ogre’s glower.”

He burst out in laughter, and she tried not to and failed. “Imp.”

“The largest imp there ever was.” She curtseyed to him, and she almost, almost, felt as if all was well between them. It wasn’t. It never could be, no matter how many times they fell into sin or avoided it.

“Portia.” Crispin threw an arm wide. “Fifty if he’s a day. I don’t care how much you like his mother. What do you mean by this?”

She freed her hand from his and clasped her hands behind her back. She never had liked dealing with what people meant rather than what they were saying and right now Crispin was not saying what he meant. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.
What do I mean by this?
What do
you
mean?”

“I’m not asking you anything.”

“My mistake.” She tapped her toe, and even though on the grass her boot made no noise, her irritation with him was plain enough.

“I’m demanding that you explain why you’re marrying a man old enough to be your father.”

“Sit, Fido,” she murmured. “Good dog.”

He took a step forward. “Don’t make light of this. You don’t love him. Don’t insult me by telling me you do. I know when a woman’s in love.”

“I’m sure you do.” And that came out too hard and too resentful.

“Mrs. Temple is right. You don’t love him.”

She set free her hands to break off another stalk of lavender and tap his chest with it. “You’re a worse bully than her.”

“I’ve not bullied you since you were ten. You wouldn’t stand for that from me.” He flexed his fingers then crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do you love him?”

So much was already broken with her life, she did not wish to have it fracture now by telling him things she did not care to admit to herself. Before Crispin arrived, she had been at peace with her decision to marry, indeed, she had been near to desperate to leave Doyle’s Grange, and the sooner the better. She reached behind her and broke off another stalk of lavender.

“The truth.”

“We’ve discussed this until it’s dead. Exploded.”

When she looked at him again, he frowned at her. “No, we haven’t. We haven’t discussed this at all.”

She stared at the crushed lavender on her palm. “Perhaps I don’t wish to discuss it. There’s nothing can be done.”

“Did what happened at Wordless mean nothing to you? Is that what you’ll have me believe?”

Guilt slid down her spine, but she ignored it. “Don’t tell me what I feel. Or what I ought to do. Or think or decide about anything.” She glared at him. “I am capable of making my own decisions, you know. I think I know what will make me happy.”

He snorted, and that earned him a glare. “I demand an answer.”

His curt words got her back up. “Do you, now?”

Being Crispin, he wasn’t concerned with the sort of manners he used with Eleanor. “I do.”

“What do you expect me to do about that?” In a fit of pique, she curtseyed. “My lord.”

“Stop that. I’ve told you it’s nonsense.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t at all. Stop telling me it is.”

“Portia.” His attention was too much for her just now. That sort of attention. His looking at her the way he had at Wordless. “Please. Do you love him even a little? How am I to bear the thought of you marrying a man you don’t love?”

She whirled away from him and the lavender, and walked away from the tree that was her permanent farewell to Doyle’s Grange. He followed. Of course he followed. He never knew when to let well enough alone. She let out a breath. “I am weary of all this interference in my life. Yours and Eleanor’s. If it continues any longer, I swear to you, I will marry Jeremy tomorrow and you and Eleanor can go to the devil.”

“I’m not going anywhere with that woman. Besides, you can’t. The banns haven’t been read.”

She snorted. “Scotland’s not far.”

His eyes pierced her, and she was sorry she looked because she couldn’t forget the feel of him, the rightness of having her arms around him and her heart beating in her chest. He said, “You’re too young to be marrying.”

She stopped walking and stared at him, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Laughter bubbled up and for her very life she could not keep it back. He was so ridiculously earnest. She managed to draw in a breath and suppress her mirth long enough to speak. “You ought to be mocked for uttering such an absurdity. Too young? Good heavens, you can’t be serious. I’m twenty-seven. Better if you agree with Magnus and remind me at every turn that I am on the verge of too old to be marrying.”

“You’re not too old.” He yanked his hands free of his pockets and gesticulated.

“You shan’t find an answer in the air. Nor change my mind, either, not with all the bluster in the world.”

“Bluster. I’m not blustering at you. And that isn’t what I meant at all. You’re too young to be marrying
that
man.”

She folded her arms underneath her bosom and gazed at him, tapping one foot on the ground. He stared at her bosom. She looked too, brushing at her bodice. “Have I got something on me?”

He lowered his voice. “Come away with me again. To Wordless. Right now.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She pointed at the house. “Because the man I mean to marry is inside.”

“It didn’t stop you before.”

“I was upset. Not in my right mind. That shouldn’t have happened. You said so yourself.” She closed her eyes a moment and tried to put the ring of truth and conviction into her words. “It was habit. That’s all. As you said, it’s how we are. That doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t change anything.”

“Meaning?”

“I can’t stay here. I won’t stay here with all”—she waved a hand—“that. Not even for you.”

“For yourself. For God’s sake, Portia.” He ran his hands over the top of his head, leaving his hair in disarray. “I’ll speak frankly, if you don’t mind.”

“Would you?” she said with full irony. “Just this once.”

He threw one arm wide. “I thought the man was going to pull down my britches and kiss my arse.”

She took a step away from him. “You don’t have to marry him.”

“Nor do you.”

“Yes, I do.”

Crispin opened his mouth to speak and then didn’t, then blurted out, “What?”

Chapter Eleven

S
HE WATCHED
C
RISPIN’S EYES
get big, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh at him or be insulted when she realized what he was thinking. She put her hands on his chest and gave him a push. Anger was quite useful at times. It kept her from bursting into tears. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No.”

“That I’m marrying him because of that?”

He refused to be budged. “Why else would a woman feel she has to marry a man?”

“I am not with child, Crispin Hope.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You thought it.” Her breath caught at the insult. “Go to hell.”

“I’m convinced I shall. Why else would you marry that arse-kissing toady?”

“He’s not.” She made fists of her hands. “Because I want to.”

“He is. Believe me, I have met my share of men like him.” He crossed his arms, and he only did it to make himself seem bigger and more powerful. Well, she wasn’t about to be cowed by him. “I don’t believe you want to marry him. Not ten seconds after I met the man I knew you couldn’t possibly be in love with him. You’re marrying him because you don’t want to be here. There, I’ve said it.”

“You certainly have.” She bit off the words.

Crispin seemed to realize he’d spoken out of turn again, for he flushed. “I won’t apologize for telling you I don’t like him. Someone needs to tell you that you can do better.”

Anger boiled up. She was speechless with it. And thank God, for she’d have said words she would surely regret.

He reached for her, but she stepped to the side, and he missed his target. “Don’t marry him. You shan’t be happy.”

She tucked her hands behind her back and cocked her head. “Will you tell me who I ought to marry? Please. I should like to know. There aren’t many eligible men here. Men I’d want to marry, and it’s been years since any unattached gentleman came to the Grange to ask my brother if an offer would be kindly received.” She rocked on her heels. “The blacksmith is handsome enough, I suppose, but he’s already got a wife. If you tell me to go to London and find a husband there, I’ll never speak to you again. You and Eleanor can dry each others’ tears over that.”

He took her by the shoulders and stared at her. “I’m serious about this. He’s not anything like your equal.”

“You are not my father. Nor are you my brother. Nor anyone else with authority over me. How dare you tell me not to marry a decent man?” She twisted away from him. “Under the circumstances, he’s the best I can do.”

“No, he isn’t.” He grabbed her upper arm and turned her to face him. “Look at me.”

She thwarted him by staring at the sky. Amid the blue, the moon was a pale crescent, washed out by the late winter sun.

“You are a stubborn, stubborn woman. Look at me.”

She did and ought not to have because the moment she did all her resentment evaporated.

“I’ve no authority over you, God knows that’s so. But who else will you trust with the truth? Your sister-in-law? Or will you tell Magnus the reason you’re marrying a man you don’t love?”

“You know I can’t.” Tears burned in her eyes, and she had to look away to keep him from seeing how close she was to tears. She couldn’t. She could not complain to her brother about his wife nor breathe a word about her unhappiness.

“Come here.” Crispin tugged on her arm and spread his other arm wide and she walked into his arms where she had always been safe and where all was right with the world. “Tell me. You’ll feel better for it, you know you will.”

“I’ve tried to like her. I’ve tried. And I can’t.” She rested her forehead on his chest. He smelled good, and his body was warm. “She’s empty and shallow, and she loves Magnus, that’s obvious to anyone with eyes, but she doesn’t love Doyle’s Grange.” She lifted her head and Crispin used the side of his thumb to wipe away her tears. “I knew there was no hope when she didn’t laugh after Magnus told her his ridiculous joke about how it came to be called Doyle’s Grange.”