Just when he thought they were never going to arrive, the royal carriage drew up, flanked by equerries. The queen was plumper than ever after her last pregnancy—how many little princes and princesses was it now? Marcus wondered as he watched her lean upon her consort’s arm. He supposed he could see the attraction. They certainly looked a contented couple; a picture postcard for domestic bliss.
And then he forgot all about the queen as there was a sentimental “Oohh” from the crowd.
Portia had stepped down from the carriage and was walking toward the dais. She was elegantly beautiful in her gray silk dress and matching bonnet, her somber outfit a foil for her bright hair. The angel in widow’s weeds. But Marcus knew better. Portia wasn’t an angel; she was a temptress. Or she could be, if she would give herself permission to please herself.
There was much fussing about on the dais as the royal party and their attendants arranged themselves on the chairs provided. The statue’s creator gave a speech—some famous chap, although Marcus couldn’t remember his name—and London’s Lord Mayor, resplendent in robes and the gold chain of his office, also spoke for an inordinate amount of time.
“Load of waffle, if you ask me,” someone muttered behind Marcus. Several frowns were sent his way by a well-dressed group at the front of the crowd. A baby began to cry.
Marcus was watching Portia. She was wearing her usual half smile—her public mask. Beautiful but a mask nonetheless. He wondered what she was thinking behind it. What was she feeling? Was she missing him as much as he was missing her? Could he change her mind if she let him get near enough?
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely he might have missed the way her fingers trembled as she reached up to tuck a stray wisp of hair beneath her bonnet. His gaze sharpened and he noticed the pronounced shadows under her eyes. And her pallor; there was not a shred of color in her cheeks. She stared down, as if withdrawing into herself.
What had happened to his beloved in the time he’d been away? This was not the Portia he’d left at the station in Little Tunley. This was not the woman who swam with him in the sea and made love to him so openly and freely beneath the sky.
The speeches over with, the queen rose, casting a sharp glance back to Portia, who, taken by surprise, stood up abruptly. She swayed. Horrified, Marcus watched her lose her footing and begin to fall. Her head lolled back, her lashes fluttering, and she reached out for help.
There was a rush of blood to his head. “Portia!” Before he knew it, he was pushing through the crowd, fighting like a madman to get to the dais.
One of the queen’s attendants had seen Portia fall and was supporting her.
“Portia!”
At the sound of her name, her head came up and she struggled to right herself. She was already searching the sea of upturned faces.
“Portia!”
She found him. Her gaze locked with his and he saw her lips move. “No!” she said. But it was too late. He’d reached the five steps that led onto the dais and there was no going back. He ran up them. Someone grabbed at his arm, trying to stop him, but he pulled angrily away, reaching for Portia.
She was there, and he drew her into his arms, gazing down into her face, which was perfectly white. Her eyes were as blue as the sea at St. Tristan, but as dark and troubled as that sea had been calm. The others, the royal party and the strangely silent crowd, ceased to exist.
“Marcus, you should not be here. I told you it was over. This is wrong.” Her voice was hardly more than a breath.
“It doesn’t feel wrong to me.” He squeezed her fingers in his, raising them to his lips. He wanted to kiss her mouth. He thought about it, but there wasn’t enough time to do more than think.
There was a scream and then angry shouting. The crowd about the dais surged forward. Several of the queen’s guard surrounded him. Before he knew it, he’d been restrained by a great many hands and was being roughly pulled away.
“You monster!” the queen cried. She was glaring at him as if he was a rapist, or at the very least an assassin, and he realized—as someone called for his arrest—that was exactly what they believed him to be. Above the hubbub and confusion he thought he heard Portia’s soft, “Oh no!” and then an authoritative voice ordered again, “Arrest him!”
Marcus fought hard but was quickly overwhelmed and dragged backward down the steps,
sustaining a bruise or two. The police had him in custody now, and no matter how he tried to explain himself or demand that they release him, they would not listen. The crowd encircled him threateningly, waving fists and parasols, calling him names and screaming for his blood.
“Get him away from here,” the police constable shouted, “before they tear him to pieces. We don’t have enough men to hold them back.”
Marcus was hustled into one of their horse-drawn prisoner wagons. The door was slammed shut, enclosing him in semidarkness. He could still hear the voices outside. There was thumping on the walls and someone demanded he be hanged for laying a hand on “our Portia.”
It was insanity. The British public imagined he had tried to harm their darling and they wanted his blood. No amount of explaining would change their minds at the moment; they were beyond reason.
At last the wagon began to move. A relieved Marcus slumped, covering his face with his hands. He felt bruised and battered, both in body and in pride. If he had ever doubted Portia’s popularity, he was convinced of it now. She was held very high. Which made it even further for her to fall.
Perhaps he should take her at her word and vanish from her life forever. But despite what had just happened, he had no intention of giving up.
Portia was shaking. Someone had helped her back onto her chair and one of Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting was vigorously fanning her. She’d very nearly fainted. It was the laudanum. This morning she had still been feeling woozy and wooly-headed, but had no option but to do her best to rise and make her appearance at the palace.
By the time several domestic crises had been gotten through involving the royal children, and Prince Albert was dragged away from his plans for next year’s Great Exhibition, Portia wanted to go home again. But she couldn’t, so she mentally gritted her teeth and settled into the royal carriage as they set off for Green Park.
Lara and Arnold were already there, the former’s eyes misty and her lip trembling. This was a big occasion for her, and Portia was glad she had not spoiled it. Arnold was more pragmatic.