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“A month.”
“Marcus—”
They were interrupted. “Mercy says your bath is ready, my lady.” It was Hettie, standing behind them, her hands primly folded. They hadn’t heard her approach.
“We will continue this conversation later,” Portia said, to let him know she wasn’t about to give up and he hadn’t won.
“By all means,” he mocked. “As late as you like. Your room or mine?”
She climbed the stairs with her head high, refusing to respond.
Chapter 25
Portia felt completely relaxed. She’d bathed and Hettie had helped her dress in another of the old-fashioned gowns, this time a pale yellow with a matching long-sleeved jacket that fit tightly to her arms and shoulders and buttoned just below her breasts. With her hair curling softly around her face, she felt like another woman in another time.
It was so easy to slip into this fantasy Marcus had created for them both, where she was his willing prisoner and they would live here together, safe and happy, and no one would ever find her.
But her too-tight lavender slippers brought her back to reality. They pinched, they were uncomfortable, they were a reminder of the truth.
Mercy served them in the dining room. This was in the oldest part of the house, and was darkly paneled with a ceiling crisscrossed with heavy beams. It had an intimate feel. Despite the many candles burning in sconces, they were unable to keep the shadows at bay, and the fire crackling in the hearth cast a soft glow while Duvals peered down at them with Marcus’s eyes. Portia thought she might have stepped into one of those outrageous and yet delicious Bronte novels.
This could be her life, she told herself in amazement. And she was turning her back on it…Just for a moment she wished she was someone else, someone who was selfish enough not to care that staying would destroy Marcus’s chance for happiness.
“I don’t think Mrs. Stroud was up to joining you this evening,” Mercy said, as she kept an eye on the young girl who was doing the serving. “She was happy enough to take a tray in her room. Did you know she enjoys a game of chess, my lady?”
Portia blinked. “I did not even know she could play.”
“It seems it was a favorite of hers in her younger days. My niece is giving her a game.”
“She is forgetful sometimes,” Portia began, then wondered why she could not tell the truth. Arnold was not here to punish her now. “Actually, she’s very forgetful. All the time.”
Mercy nodded. “I’ve seen it before,” she said cheerfully. “Usually with the old ones, but sometimes it happens to the younger ones. It will get worse. One day she won’t know who you are. You should make the most of her while she still does.”
“My mother not knowing who I am?” Portia said when she and Marcus were alone again with the pudding. “It’s a lowering thought.”
“Are you close? I hardly knew my mother.”
Portia smiled wryly. “My mother was the one who ran our house and our lives. My father either couldn’t be bothered or he hadn’t the strength to stand up to her. It was my mother who arranged for me to meet Lord Ellerslie.”
“And the rest is history,” he said grimly. “She has a lot to answer for.”
“You don’t know what I was like before,” she murmured, grimacing.
“What were you like?” He was watching her over his wineglass, the candlelight in his eyes.
“Young and uncertain. Shy. The typical ugly duckling.”
“And it took Lord Ellerslie to turn you into a swan? Somehow I doubt that.”
“He helped me to become the woman I am.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
Do you remember poor little Portia Stroud from the vicarage? The girl who was so in love with you she could barely speak in your presence?
But she didn’t say it, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. And what would he think of her if she did? He was enamored of Lady Ellerslie not Miss Stroud. Best to let him keep his illusions.
“Are you finished?” he said impatiently, looking at her half-eaten meal. “I want to show you something.”
