Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Ah,” said another woman. They all turned, him, Portia, and Hob. Mrs. Magnus Temple walked toward them.

Portia’s brother had married eight months ago. Magnus, it turned out, had met his wife during one of his visits to Northword’s London home and had been waiting ever since to have a Church living that would support a wife. As it happened, the living at West Aubry had always been Viscount Northword’s to give, which he had done as soon as practical after the previous possessor passed away. Within weeks, Magnus was married. Think of that. Waiting years to marry the woman you loved. Until the time was right and not a moment past then.

Northword had stood up for Magnus at the wedding, which took place by special license at Northword House in London. He’d offered them the chapel here, not even half a mile up the slope at Northword Hill and been refused. They would be married now, please, not in the time it would take to open up the house. And so it was done. Had been done, without Portia knowing about the marriage until Magnus had written to her. The couple had honeymooned in Bath, where Northword had a house he’d offered to them for a month.

“There you are, Portia.” Mrs. Temple arrived at the site of the tree planting and pursed her lips. She pointed at the undisturbed ground between the tree and the lavender. “What are those?”

“It’s spring,” Portia said. “Crocuses grow here every spring. You cannot hope to obliterate them all.”

“I can and I shall do so.” Mrs. Temple gestured at Hob and stepped around the patch of ground where the flowers were opening to the sun. “Dig them up, please.” She curtseyed to Northword and went so far as to bow her head. Her pretty blonde head. “Lord Northword.”

He bowed. “Mrs. Temple. Good morning to you.”

The woman had the most angelic smile he’d ever seen. “Portia, my dear. Might I have a word?”





Chapter Two





IN THE FRONT PARLOR, Portia stood with her back to the fireplace and smiled at her sister-in-law. Until recently, she’d not needed the ability to feign a smile or good cheer or any other mood. She was learning that most useful skill, though at times she feared the effort would turn her into a completely different person. Alone, she was Portia. Around Eleanor, she was another woman entirely. A false Portia. A Portia without truth.

Eleanor had stopped by the desk where Portia used to sit when she did the household accounts. The household accounts were now Eleanor’s domain. Her sister-in-law perched on the edge of the chair and, one hand on her lap, tapped a finger on the blotter. She gazed at Portia with an open, guileless concern that made her heart break.

“Yes?” Portia looked at the chair nearest the desk and decided she didn’t dare sit. She wasn’t good at interpreting Eleanor’s sighs and silences, though it was safe to assume Eleanor would be heartbreakingly disappointed when Portia failed to divine what was expected of her from all the things she did not say.

Her brother’s wife was generous and kind and assiduous in managing Magnus’s household, and she loved Magnus. She lived for Magnus, and Portia adored Eleanor for loving her brother with such honesty. And yet, other than Magnus, they had nothing in common. Their minds, their interests, did not intersect at any point, and she felt guilty for her failure to genuinely like Eleanor.

The finger tapping continued. “Dear, dear Portia.”

She smiled despite her dread of the conversation to come.

“What are we to do about you?”

“Nothing.” She managed, she hoped, to keep a pleasant expression. Her stomach contracted into a painful lump. “I am content as I am, you know.”

“But, Portia, my dear.” Eleanor tapped the lump that was Portia’s gardening gloves. “You might be brilliant, you know.”

She maintained her smile for, alas, Eleanor meant socially brilliant. Brilliant in fashion.

“You’ve led a sheltered life here at Doyle’s Grange. You do not see things as I do.” She cocked her head. “If only Magnus had brought you to London. In time, you would have sparkled. I am convinced you would have had a dozen beaus. Some gentlemen prefer a quiet woman such as you are, though I think if you had ever been to London, you would have come out of your shell. I’ve seen you smile, my dearest sister, and I cannot believe there is not a young gentleman of exemplary manners and family who would not see you smile and fall instantly in love.”

“I do not wish to have a dozen beaus or to dance away the night.”