Where was he?
Feeling like a hunted creature, she edged her way around the room. A smile here, a polite comment there, now and again pausing to listen to those who wished to speak to her, to touch her…She had noticed before that some people liked to touch her, as if she were a holy relic or a good luck charm.
But her black dress felt hot and uncomfortable, and the weight of the cloth, as well as the expectations of those present, began to tell on her. No matter how hard she tried to remain calm, her sense of being under siege grew. Eventually, no longer able to bear it, she looked about for somewhere to escape. A few hasty steps took her to a closed door, and a moment later Portia slipped inside the unoccupied room.
Blessed peace and quiet. The room was cool and dimly lit, and she gave a ragged sigh of relief.
If she had to smile once more or listen to one more tale of Lord Ellerslie’s cleverness and bravery, she thought she might scream. Lara would have her taken to Bedlam in a closed carriage, to be locked up with the other lunatics. And then Marcus Worthorne would have to rescue her. It might be worth it if he would wear his dashing Hussar’s uniform.
The nonsensical thought made her smile as she began to prowl the room. That was when she noticed where she was; in the Campaign Room. Lara had gathered together her father’s military memorabilia—tattered maps and diaries and military honors, as w
ell as the boots he wore at Waterloo—and now they were all here on display. Portia had not been to worship at this shrine for ages.
Her stiffened petticoats and black silk skirts rustled loudly as she moved from glass case to glass case, peering at the contents. Here was a specially struck medal from the Prince Regent, and an urn presented to him by the Prussians. She bent to read a page from one of his diaries, struggling to make out the smudged writing by the single gaslight.
Lara had hung a portrait of her mother, the first Lady Ellerslie, above the fireplace. Dark-haired and gently pretty, she wore what Portia always thought of as a long suffering smile. Not surprisingly, perhaps. In his younger days, Lord Ellerslie had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and that, and army commitments, meant he was never home. Just as well that Lara’s mother was the sort of woman who suffered in silence. Portia didn’t think she would be so forbearing, but by the time he married her, Lord Ellerslie was too old to stray and his soldiering days were behind him, so she never had to worry about losing him to other pursuits.
He had met and married her within weeks. Her mother, Mrs. Stroud, discovering that he was staying with the brother of an old school friend of hers, had taken her on an impromptu visit. Years of telling her daughter that it was up to her to raise the family profile, and the family fortunes, had paid off. Portia had done her duty, received the elderly Lord Ellerslie’s attentions, and his subsequent proposal, with serenity.
They were married in the autumn.
She was carried off to London like a trophy of war, she remembered now. Another of the great soldier’s conquests.
Portia realized, with a little frisson of shock, that she was jealous of her hero husband. Not because he was loved by all and sundry, but because he had lived such a full and interesting life. He had done so much and achieved so much, and when he died, he had famously stated he held no regrets. She knew she couldn’t say that.
What had she done with her life thus far? What had she achieved? It seemed to her that she had lived her life entirely for the sake of other people; her mother and father, her husband, Lara and Aunt Jane, and the British people…Even Victoria expected her to behave in a certain way, be a certain person. Where was Portia Stroud in all of this, the vicar’s daughter who once wandered the country lanes? Had she completely vanished behind the mask of the woman she’d become?
Behind her the door opened, and she knew even before he spoke that once more he had found her.
“Portia…”
She spun around, her voice uncharacteristically shrill. “What do you think you’re doing? This was never part of our arrangement!”
He moved toward her in that smooth, catlike way, as if stalking her, hunting her. “Let’s make a new arrangement then,” he was saying. “I never did like the old one.”
“You know very well I cannot—” she began, stepping around him on her way toward the door.
He blocked her. “That word isn’t one I like either. You can do whatever you wish to, and so can I. Who is there to stop us?”
“We move in different worlds. If I did what I wanted to, I would soon lose everything. I have people who rely on me. I have people who depend on me.”
“How tiresome.” He sounded bored.
Perhaps it was because she knew it to be the truth, or because a moment ago she had seen her life with such depressing clarity, but she lost her temper. It went from tepid to boiling point in the blink of an eye. All the years of restraint and good manners—“Do not show the servants how you feel, Portia, it is not befitting a lady!”—of holding herself back—“My dear, it is most unladylike to laugh in front of others, even your husband. Now, now, do not weep. Be a strong little general!” It was suddenly too much, and a red mist formed in front of her eyes.
She went for him, whether to hit him or push him, she didn’t know, only that she was so furious she needed some physical outlet. He caught her wrists and pulled her, struggling, against his body. She could feel him laughing and it only made her more furious.
“Let me go, you scoundrel!”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“You shouldn’t be here…”
“I wanted to see you again,” he said in a low voice, “and I didn’t intend waiting for your permission, not when it was clear to me that you wanted to see me, too.”
She gave an angry laugh. Good God, were those her fingers, crooked like claws? The emotions surging through her frightened her, but at the same time she was elated. She was showing her feelings and the relief was wonderful.
“You will destroy me,” she reminded him, and herself. “I will lose everything.”