I do not know why, but for some reason my mind decided to combine what happened to Abigail that day with what had happened to her when she fell out of that tree and nearly died all those years ago—not a giant leap to make, I suppose, as there were somesimilarities. However, on top of that, my mind decided to throw in a million possible catastrophes too. What-ifs that literally made my hair stand on end because every single one of them seemed to end with my sister dead, and I do not think my luscious locks have fully stood down since. It’s difficult to describe the blind and irrational panic that one random incident caused or how real those imagined scenarios felt to me and, because I had no other clue how to banish it, I dragged my entire family to Bath against their will to keep them safe.
My clever wife witnessed me do that again last week after Percy’s letter arrived, when thankfully she was able to yank me out of the spiral of panic that had sucked me in, and used her irrefutable logic to put me back on an even keel.
But the irrational panic returned again last night when I read her latest column inEquitas. I saw the word Peterloo and the whirlpool sucked me straight back down again. Only this time, instead of Abigail’s limp and lifeless body, all I could picture was my wife’s. Slain by an overzealous soldier because she dared to stand up for what was right. Or murdered by some monster as she walked alone across the city to get to her beloved newspaper. Then, even though I knew I was handling it wrong, all I could think of was keeping her safe and the only way, in my blind panic, that I thought I could do that was to rant and rave and lay down the law.
Was that irrational?
Yes.
Was it fair?
Absolutely not.
As to me spying on you, my dearest, darling Portia, by reading your most personal thoughts…
While I am ashamed to admit that I am guilty as charged, you should also know that all I have read are the opening paragraphs of two of those private essays. One when I peeked inside your trunk to check that your papers were still inside it. The other because it was out in the open on your nightstand and I am only human and was a man hopelessly in love with a woman who I was convinced would never love me back. So when I saw that question which you had posed yourself, in desperation I had to know if you had decided if your friend Kitty was correct and you did feel more for me than an overwhelming attraction to my distracting dimples.
Did I use what little I read to control you? Of course I didn’t. But in the spirit of there being no more secrets between us ever again, I will admit to perhaps flashing my dimples at you a bit more.
Portia—love of my life—I know how much your writing means to you, and I have no right to attempt to make you stop. In truth, I’d much rather you didn’t because your words are brilliant and so pertinent and gloriously pithy in their accuracy that the world needs to hear them. Hell, you can even wave a placard covered in them on the floor of the House of Lords if you want to, so long as you are not in any danger.
So how about I meet you halfway? You carry on waving your placards and writing sedition with my full support and in return, you agree to the following non-negotiable caveats for the sake of my oversensitive hair follicles:
You never keep what you are doing from me again. I might not like it, I might rant and rave, and I might also have an irrational conniption like I did last night, but I will calm down. I always do. Especially when I have you to lecture me back to reason.
You never walk all the way home unaccompanied after dark again. We have a carriage, and I have legs, and both are always at your disposal.
And finally, you put your name loud and proud at the top of every seditious article that you write. In case you need reminding of it, my love, it is Portia Sloane. Aside from that fact that I am infinitely proud of my clever wife and want her to have the recognition that she deserves, the authorities can arrest Portia Kendall—but they wouldn’t dare lay a finger on the Duchess of Debden.
In conclusion, if any of the above goes some way to convincing you that I am not an utter dead loss that you are best shot of, I would be delighted to make a groveling apology to you in person after I have finished shouting into the wind this afternoon, where I will beg on bended knee that you consider taking me back. Obviously, if you remain unconvinced, I will get you that annulment because I selfishly want all of you, Portia, and do not want to settle for anything less than your heart, body, and soul. I will also, irrespective of your ultimate decision, continue on my quest to get your first conviction quashed. Not only because it is the right thing to do, and because I want Nolley to pay dearly for what he did to you, but becauseI promised you that I would do so and I have taken every single vow I have ever said to you seriously.
And did I already mention that I love you?
Leo xx
Portia slumped back onto the sofa as Kitty and Miss P read the essay, so off-kilter she didn’t know what to think or which way was up.
Being an eternal optimist, Kitty of course took all of Leo’s words at face value. “That is the most heart-wrenching and beautiful essay ever written, so obviously, you have to go back to him!”
“But what if they are just words, Kitty? Words mean nothing without deeds to back them up and Leo is clever enough to know precisely what to say to get under my skin.” And to mine straight through to her silly heart that willed her to be more like Kitty and just accept his pretty words at face value. “He also often says one thing and then entirely behaves to the contrary like he did last night. I need to be sure that he means them—really means them—before I even consider going back.”
“Then put your knight in shining armor to the test like the damsels did of old. Give him a challenge to test his mettle. A proper trial by ordeal.”
“And how exactly do I do that?” Portia stared down at the letter again, at all of Leo’s pretty words for any clue what to do, and suddenly had an epiphany. “There is one thing we could try… but I’d need your help with it.”
“Whatever it is, let’s do it now!” The hopelessly romantic Kitty was, of course, up like a shot.
“You might regret agreeing when you find out what I have in mind.” Portia smiled sheepishly as her friend began to frown. “Because I’ll give you fair warning that it is very definitely illegal.”
Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN
If there was one positive of being in the chaotic circus that was called the House of Lords, it was that it gave Leo something to do other than anxiously wearing a groove in his study floor from his constant pacing. He had paced miles since last night, probably at least a hundred of them, and no amount of pacing had calmed his anxiety any while he waited for the hands on the clock to move.
“Thank you for coming.” Lord Gray shook his hand before they took their seats. “We need all the voices of support we can get if we are ever going to get any sort of reforms through this lot.”
As the din was currently so loud in the House, Leo decided it would be a bloody miracle if any voice was heard today, but smiled politely. “I am always happy to support a worthy cause.” And seeing as this one was Portia’s, it really didn’t get more worthy. He glanced around all the braying lords and wondered what she would make of it. Because if this disorganized cacophony represented the most powerful few of the pitiful three percent of the entire population considered worthy enough to have a vote, it was a wonder they still had a country left, let alone a government. It had to change. Of that he was in no doubt.
