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“My lady, I wish to tell you something.” Hettie sounded unlike her usual self, and when Portia glanced into the mirror, she saw that her maid was chewing on her lip.
Hettie was helping her to dress for dinner in the lavender ball gown. Mercy had managed to produce a meal truly fit for a queen, and Portia wanted to dress to do it justice. The ball gown would seem a little strange, but it could not be any stranger than some of the outfits she had been wearing recently. Besides, she wanted Marcus to see her at her best. To remind him that whatever she’d been in the past, she was Lady Ellerslie now.
Perhaps they could mend whatever it was her failure to tell him had broken, and all would be well again. The queen appeared to be on her side, and it would be a shame if they were no longer of a mind to marry.
Who am I fooling? My heart will be broken.
Portia sighed, and turned her attention back to Hettie. “What do you wish to tell me?”
“I think you will not forgive me, my lady.”
“It cannot be so bad.” And who am I to play at being perfect when it comes to secrets? Portia watched closely as Hettie put the finishing touches to her hair. “Hettie?”
“Do you remember when Arnold and Lara Gillingham came to the house in Grosvenor Square? And they seemed to know that you were at Aphrodite’s Club with Mr. Worthorne?”
“How could I forget? It was the worst night of my life.”
Hettie hesitated and then shook her head. Her face looked old. “My lady, it was I who told them.”
Portia sat, frozen, struck down by Hettie’s perfidy. “You told them?” she whispered. “Oh Hettie, you told them?”
“I’m so sorry, my lady. I thought I was doing it for the best, for you. I didn’t realize.” Her expression was bitter. “If I knew then what I do now, I would never have done such a thing.” Her mouth wobbled. “Forgive me, lieben.”
Portia could not take it in. “Oh Hettie…”
“I’m so sorry,” her maid wept. “I can’t live with myself any longer. Forgive me or I’ll go now. I should go anyway. Far far away. I cannot bear it that you hate me. I have loved you since I came to you when you married Lord Ellerslie. I have always tried to do what was best for you. But I do not ask you to remember that. I am willing to take whatever punishment you feel I deserve.”
Portia swallowed down her disappointment. It was true. Hettie had always loved her and been her trusted companion. Should she be cast off now, because she had acted in good faith? Trusting Arnold had been a mistake, yes, but Hettie had clearly suffered. Portia decided she would do for her faithful maid what she wanted Marcus to do for her.
“No, you must not go away,” she said softly. “Who would look after me as well as you, if you were to go? I forgive you, Hettie.”
Hettie’s sobs grew louder. Portia clasped her maid’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “Hush, you will make yourself ill. Go to bed, Hettie. There is no need for you to stay up.”
Hettie wiped her face on her sleeve. “My lady, thank you.”
“You may not thank me when you have lived here through a winter,” Portia teased. “I believe the weather can be very bleak.”
“I am willing to suffer the elements for your sake, lieben.”
When she had taken herself off, Portia rose and examined her reflection in the mirror. It was like looking at a portrait. This beautiful, sophisticated woman was not her, not any longer. She had changed. But tonight she must pretend to be Lady Ellerslie again, for the sake of Victoria, for the sake of Marcus’s future.
As Portia made her way to the dining room the bell began to toll a warning from the tower. Like an ill omen, the fog was coming in from the sea.
Chapter 29
Candles glowed throughout the room, valiantly battling the shadows but not quite winning the war. Mercy had shifted heaven and earth to present a meal fit for royalty, and the table was groaning with dishes. Victoria had pride of place at the head, and behind her stood one of her tall guards. Arnold and Lara were together on one side, while Portia sat on the other, with Sebastian. Marcus was facing the queen from the end of the table closest to the door.
He was being the perfect host, scrupulous and brittle in his politeness, despite the fact that Victoria saw him as the man who had betrayed Lord Ellerslie and taken his wife. He knew she’d never like him, and it was a matter of indifference to him.
Portia was something else altogether.
He needed to speak with her alone. She had barely acknowledged him since the queen arrived; it was as if she was afraid of upsetting her patron. And now here she was, dressed up in her lavender gown, her mask firmly in place. He had a hollow feeling that she would be persuaded by Victoria to return to London and he would never see her again.
He could not hope to kidnap her a second time.
It was so damnably frustrating. Ever since he had set his sights on Portia he’d spent his days either wild with happiness or dark with despair—there didn’t seem to be any middle ground. But still he wouldn’t have it any other way. He loved her now and forever.
Arnold Gillingham was giving him that look that made Marcus long to knock his teeth out, but he didn’t suppose it would go down well in the circumstances. And as for the wife, Lara, she was smiling to herself as if she’d won the lottery, except when she remembered to look like the concerned stepdaughter. It was quite comical, really.
