If she meant to go, he would not stop her, would not chase after her like some love-struck fool.

He had agreed to marry her, had made his offer. That was enough. All she could expect of him.

All he could give. He would not behave as his father—hotheaded and swept away with love to the exclusion of all sense.

He could not force her to accept his offer. He would feel no guilt, no regret.

Her gaze drilled into him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, her stance still rigid, soldierlike. Then she was gone. A blur of skirts ascending into the carriage.

He watched, the blood wringing from his heart until it ceased to beat. His gaze followed the coach as it clattered away, longing for another glimpse of her. His eyes scanned the dark curtain at her window, searching for the sight of hair the color of jet, skin like cream.

At last the carriage turned the bend. Out of sight. Out of his life. He scowled, vowing he would have her out of his mind just as easily. In no time at all, he would not even recall her name.

Chapter 23

Portia stood in the dim foyer of her home and wrinkled her nose at the unsavory stench clogging the air.

“Finch!” her voice resounded in the emptiness, bouncing off walls of faded rose wallpaper and floating to mingle among the great canopy of cobwebs clinging to the domed ceiling. She squinted through the gloom at the cobwebs, marveling at how they had increased in her absence.

The shabbiness of her surroundings struck her full force. Especially since her stay at Moreton Hall, where everything gleamed and smelled of fresh lye, where light filled every room, where servants bustled about, busy making Moreton Hall spotless. A home.

Sighing, she tugged her bonnet free and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Several days in the coach, with only the most necessary stops, and her joints felt stiff as an old woman’s. A warm bath, edible food, a familiar bed—she’d feel restored in no time. Physically restored, at any rate.

Emotionally, might take a bit longer. Likely forever.

“Finch!” she called again, projecting her voice so that it reached the servants’ wing. The old butler never lurked far from the door. He was anything if not reliable. Loyalty alone had kept him from departing when the servants’ wages had diminished to naught.

“Where is the ol’ goat?” Nettie muttered.

Shaking her head, Portia dropped her reticule on the round marble-topped table in the center of the foyer, pausing when she caught sight—and smell—of the rotting flowers situated in the center. At least a week old, the flowers were no longer identifiable. Their fetid odor tainted the air and her nostrils quivered in revolt.

“I don’t know,” she answered, gazing at the brown, shrunken blooms, slow dread filling her heart.

“Suppose I’ll have to lug these to our rooms,” Nettie grumbled with a kick to Portia’s trunk.

“See to your luggage,” Portia replied, tearing her gaze from the decaying flowers. “I’ll have someone fetch my trunks up later.”

Without another word, she hurried up to the second floor, hoping to catch her grandmother at tea.

Her pulse thrummed frantically as her feet flew up the stairs, beating out a rhythm on the steps that matched the tempo of her heart.

That she did not come across at least one servant as she hurried to the drawing room heightened her unease. Where was everyone? The house seemed preternaturally still. Not a single sound save the whisper of her footsteps on the carpet and the anxious rasp of her breath.

“Grandmother?” she called, pushing open the partially closed door and stepping into the drawing room. An empty room stared back, dark and musty. The drapes sealed out all light and made her feel as though she had stepped inside a tomb. Turning, she headed for the salon, Astrid’s room of choice.

Upon entering, Portia did not find Astrid with her usual gaggle of Society matrons, duchesses like her mostly, all as cold and reticent as herself. Instead an altogether different breed of visitor occupied the room’s confines. A stranger. A Goliath of a man wearing an ill-fitting jacket.

They sat side by side in a double chair-back settee that looked dangerously close to collapse.

Portia glanced about the room, thinking to spy a maid tucked away in a corner, serving as chaperone. No such luck. Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze on the pair. True, Astrid did not rank among her favorite people, but Portia had never marked her the sort to cuckold Bertram.

She was a stickler for propriety.

The stranger withdrew his great paw from where it fondled one of Astrid’s curls. He moved slowly, the backs of his fingers skimming Astrid’s shoulder as though loathe to relinquish his hold.

Astrid rose hastily to her feet, her muslin skirts rustling softly on the air. Her guest followed, unfolding his monstrous frame from the settee, an expression of mild annoyance on his blunt features. The walnut wood legs creaked in relief to be freed of his considerable burden. At least Astrid had the grace to look discomposed, flushing as she patted her honey blond curl, as though she needed to make certain it still hung there and he had not taken it with him.

“Portia,” she greeted, a tight smile fixed to her face. As if nothing untoward occurred. Yet her voice gave her away. Usually modulated and dulcet in tone, it shook the barest amount. “I did not expect you home so soon. How was your trip?”

“Uneventful,” she murmured, managing not to choke on the colossal lie. Uneventful. The single word said enough, would serve to answer the question burning in Astrid’s eyes. No, she had not nabbed the wealthy groom she had been sent forth to snare.

Astrid’s slight shoulders sagged a bit, but she soon recovered and straightened her spine.

“Forgive my manners, Mr. Oliver. Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Lady Portia.”

Mr. Oliver’s gaze shifted to Portia. He assessed her from head to foot, coal dark eyes shining with a feral gleam. She felt instantly wary, like a hare caught in the hound’s sight. He stepped forward and bowed over her hand.

“Delighted,” he murmured, eyes trained on her face.

Her wariness intensified. She was no beauty to produce such an immediate reaction in men. Only one man had ever treated her as though she were anything beyond the par. The same man, she quickly reminded herself, that had so devastated her heart. Reclaiming her hand, she inclined her head in stiff greeting.

“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, swinging his avid gaze to Astrid. “It escaped my attention that your husband possessed a sister. And such a lovely one.”

Portia drew a shuddering breath. Possessed. He said the word as if she were just that—a possession.

Astrid gave a slight shake of her elegantly coiffed head at him. A slight motion, almost imperceptible, but Portia noted the gesture.

“Thank you for calling, Mr. Oliver,” Astrid said, all ice and vinegar again. The duchess Portia knew well. “I shall send word if I hear anything.”

A nasty smile twisted his lips. For a moment, she had a glimpse of a man with whom she had no wish to tangle.

“You’ll be seeing me soon, Your Grace.” He turned to Portia. “A plea sure, my lady.” With another clumsily executed bow, he murmured, “I’ll show myself out.”

Portia waited for the door to shut before rounding on her sister-in-law. With a hand propped on her hip, she asked flatly, “Who, precisely, is he?”

Astrid smiled heartlessly. “Always the blunt one. No wonder you can’t catch a husband.

Gentlemen don’t care for such straightforwardness.”

Portia expelled a heavy sigh. When Astrid had first joined the family, Portia felt the sting of her words daily. She had even retaliated in kind. Yet that was then. Unable to summon forth a scathing retort, she only felt a bone-deep weariness.

Her sister-in-law eased herself onto the chaise with a natural elegance that Portia had always envied. She watched as Astrid carefully positioned the pillows at her back. Finally she looked up, saying with the mildness of one remarking on the weather, “Your brother has left.”

“Left?” Portia felt herself frown. “Left for where? When will he be back?”

“Perhaps I am not being clear.” Smoothing both hands over her striped muslin skirts, she straightened her spine. “He has left us.” Another pause. “Abandoned us, to be accurate.”

Portia sank onto the chaise, mouth working in bewilderment before she choked, “How can that be?”

Astrid looked out the window. “He absconded with the jewelry. Mine, your grandmother’s, even the little he found in your room. He should be well out of the country by now.”

Portia shook her head. It didn’t make sense. True, they were well in the dun, but why would Bertram wish to leave all the privileges of his rank for life abroad? Here, at least, he had a roof over his head. Creditors here couldn’t lay claim to their property and would grant him much more latitude than those on foreign soil.

Even if they couldn’t afford to outfit their own pantries, there would always be parties where he could eat his fill of lobster bisque and salmon pas-ties.

“It would seem his only choice,” Astrid added coolly, as if she could read any one of the dozen questions whirling around Portia’s head.

Portia looked more carefully at Astrid’s face, searching beyond the neutral mien, the remote gaze. There, beneath the calm façade, lurked a bone-deep sorrow. The type of pain one couldn’t hide, no matter how hard they tried. Bertram’s abandonment had cut deeply. No mistake about it.

“He’s not coming back. To do so, he must face the House of Lords on felony charges. Lord Ashton paid me a visit yesterday morning and apprised me of the situation.” Astrid’s upper lip curled ever so faintly. “Your brother didn’t even have the courtesy to leave me a note. I had to hear it from someone else.”

“What did Lord Ashton say?”

Astrid gave her head a small shake. Composed again, she continued. “Apparently, Lord Ashton and several others in the House of Lords suggested to Bertram that he quietly depart.” Her lips curved humorlessly. “You can’t hang someone if he’s not in the country, after all.”

“Hanging? For what offense?”

“It seems we cannot ever accuse your brother of being unenterprising.” Astrid smiled coldly.

“Bertram got mixed up in forging bank notes. I suspected something was amiss. He was still losing at the tables.” She snorted. “Everyone knew that. Yet he always had the blunt for the hells.”

“Forgery,” Portia breathed. A hanging offense. No wonder her brother ran. His peers would feel pressured to mete out the same sentence they had so uncomprisingly been issuing of late given the recent rise of forgery.

Recalling Astrid’s guest, she queried, “Who is Mr. Oliver? How is he involved in all this?”

“He’s the lender to which most of Bertram’s debt is due.”

“We cannot be held accountable for Bertram’s debts.”

“True, but neither can we feed and attire ourselves. And it’s not as though we’ve anything to sell.

Bertram already sold off everything that isn’t entailed.”

“So what does this Oliver fellow want?” Portia asked, unable to forget the man or his measuring gaze.

“Simon Oliver is a socially ambitious man. He wishes to move in more elevated circles.”

And no circle was more elevated than that of Astrid and her friends. Simon Oliver could do no better than gaining acceptance among Astrid’s august set.

“And that is all he wants? An introduction to the ton’s drawing rooms?” Portia snorted and crossed her arms, unable to forget the sight of his large hand on Astrid, unsightly against the pale glow of her skin. “I don’t think so. Out with it, Astrid.”

Almost instantly, the ice queen vanished. Bright splotches broke out over Astrid’s fair skin, a rare display of emotion for her taciturn sister-in-law.