Page 22 of Her Rogue to Ruin
Portia pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from choking on the mouthful of tea she’d just swallowed. She wasn’t certain what her face gave away, but after studying her features for a moment, Fiona returned a soft smile.
“So it’s that way, is it?”
“What way do you think it is?” Portia asked, truly curious what her friend perceived. If it was terribly obvious, then she would do a horrible job of maintaining the subterfuge of their secret painting sessions.
“The man is clearly attracted to you.”
Portia laughed, the sound bursting from her throat. Such a ludicrous notion.
“That’s not the case,” she said when she’d finally caught her breath. “I assure you. He’s my…patron, for all practical purposes, though any business matters are generally handled by the viscountess. I see him on occasion while I’m at Pemberton House, and—”
“And the man strode straight toward you last evening the moment he entered my front door.”
Portia swallowed hard at the memory of that moment. The way his eyes had locked on hers. The confidence in his stride and width of his broad shoulders straining the seams of his evening suit as he’d approached.
She reached up to stroke a finger against her ear. It tickled at the memory of him whispering to her.
When Portia looked up again, Fiona sat watching her with her arms crossed.
“Perhaps he simply wanted to speak to someone he recognized,” Portia said weakly and took another sip of tea.
“Yes, one of the most appealing nobleman in the city, who is no doubt invited to every soiree and ball throughout the Season. I’m sure there was no one else at our ball that he recognized,” Fiona said in a soft, teasing tone.
“We’d had a conversation earlier.”
“An unfinished one?”
“He wanted to say more.” It was close enough to the truth without revealing too much.
“And then you danced.”
“We did.” Portia didn’t try to hide her smile at the memory. “I hadn’t danced in a while, and it went better than expected.”
“Are you attracted to him too?”
Portia scoffed, but there was no escaping her friend’s clear blue gaze. “It’s difficult not to be.”
Fiona laughed at that and it echoed in the high-ceilinged space. “Why resist? He is as yet unattached, as are you. He seems a perfect candidate for a lover.”
Portia’s mouth went dry, so she drained her teacup, but she still felt parched. “He is not unattached. According to his sister, a marriage was arranged for him when he was a child by their father.”
Fiona seemed to consider that news. “It’s not uncommon, though it is an abominable practice. Of course, if I have a child, I’ll wish to steer them toward a good match, but it will be of their choosing.”
“I agree.”
“And yet the viscount remains unmarried.” Fiona’s brow furrowed as if she was trying to unravel a confusing mystery. “He must be nearly thirty. I wonder why he’s delayed the inevitable.”
Portia wondered too. Louisa hadn’t seemed pleased with the notion of marrying as her father had dictated she should. Perhaps Lord Pemberton felt the same.
“Have you considered an arrangement with him?” Fiona pressed. “I only ask because you had expressed an interest in taking a lover. I know that your marriage wasn’t…” Her friend, who rarely struggled for words, hesitated.
“It was not fulfilling in that regard,” Portia put in honestly.
Over the course of many meetings of the widows’ club, each woman had confided, during one discussion or another, the details of their marriages. Some had been happy. Others had been miserable. And several had been much like Portia’s—cold, perfunctory, and all but joyless.
With Winston, he’d set out his expectations for a wife, and she’d done her best to be a good one. But he’d treated lovemaking as one of those duties, sometimes reminding her of her obligation in those very terms.
“Yes, my dear friend, I do recall you saying so.” Fiona’s voice had dropped to a near whisper and she sat quietly as if pondering. “I admit I do not know Pemberton well, but I suspect he is experienced, and he seems a jovial man.”
