Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Yes, Eleanor.” It had been a shock when Crispin arrived at the Grange, despite her knowing he was to visit. No longer a married man. A widower. He’d walked in, and her heart had somersaulted in her chest with the same thrill as always. The years fell away to leave her with bare emotion despite knowing that aspect of their acquaintance was over. Over. Over and over. He was a man of the world now. He had been another woman’s husband.

“In London, among the Ton, others will misunderstand your familiarity and think you uncouth. Nothing could be further from the truth. For all that you have red hair and make no effort to improve yourself, we will make a success of you. I promise you. Honestly, my dear sister, if only your hair were walnut brown, I am convinced you would have a dozen more admirers.”

“I’m pleased with the one I have.”

“If you won’t do anything about your hair, you really ought to follow my advice as to your wardrobe. When I was in London, everyone wanted to know the name of my modiste. Everyone! Twice I had to intervene when other ladies tried to hire away Bridget.”

“Thank you, but I do not wish to go to London.” My God. They were back to London and the inadequacies of her dress, yet another familiar topic between them.

“Think what you may do there. My family, as you know, is easily as old as Lord Northword’s. Why, Ryans have been in Kent since the days of William the Conqueror.” Her smile made Portia wish she had the knack of looking so perfectly helpless. “While I love Magnus madly and think there can be no man finer, the fact is Temples are not so old a family as the Ryans.”

“We Temples are a youthful lot.” She nodded and nursed her faint hope that the conversation might be diverted again. “Not at all impetuous. Why, my grandfather took twenty years to decide whether he ought to move the hen house.”

Eleanor frowned and waved a hand. “I ought to have spoken to you before Lord Northword arrived.” She fluttered her eyes, and Portia suppressed the urge to comfort her. There, there, you poor dear thing. “I assure you, I did not anticipate your manner with him would be so familiar.” A cloud of discontent floated in her cerulean eyes. “If I’d known…

“I am Magnus’s wife and I should never call Lord Northword anything but that, unless it is my lord, or sir and therefore, you mayn’t either. You’ll surely meet other men of his rank, and higher, even, and with them you must be scrupulous.”

Portia nodded, and it was killing her, it really was, to speak of anything even tangentially to do with Crispin. “I do see. Thank you. You would have warned me. I understand. I’m sure you ought to have.”

Eleanor nodded as if Portia had given voice to the obvious. “Everything depends upon your appearance and your connections. Everything.” You’d think she was a surgeon discussing treatments for a dread disorder. “You have not my family’s standing, but I shall be there at your side to remind everyone. If we have Lord Northword’s support, why, you might marry very well indeed.”

“Yes, thank you. I believe I will, of course.” There were times she was convinced her sister-in-law was clever and possibly even diabolical. Such as now. “But I am not going to London.”

“Of course you are. I understand you have an arrangement with Mr. Stewart, but such arrangements come to naught all the time. No woman ought to marry until she has met at least eleven gentlemen who would be suitable husbands.”

“Eleven?” How odd. Her sister-in-law’s mind often confounded her this way. “Why not thirteen? Or a hundred?”

Her eyes went wide and, oh, Lord, they sparkled with joy. Too late Portia realized the error of expressing curiosity over the number of suitors one ought to have. Eleanor reached for Portia’s hand. “Thirteen would be unlucky, and a hundred is far too many. No, eleven is the perfect number. Never fear. I will guide and advise you.”

Portia summoned a weak smile. Eleanor’s fingers were soft and limp and milky white. Which fact brought home the shameful truth that, having removed her gardening gloves, she could see dirt under her fingernails. She drew away her hand and clasped them behind her back.

“I’m so glad we had this chat.” Eleanor rose and took a step toward her. “You understand now how vitally important it is for you to be circumspect in everything?”

“Yes, thank you.” Frustration threatened to burst from her in one long, terrible scream that dammed up in her throat. A vision of Eleanor in tears kept the impulse under control.

“I’ll apologize to Lord Northword for you.” The cloying scent of lilies floated between them when she stretched to press Portia’s upper arm. “Please, don’t feel you need say anything at all. I’ll put everything right with Lord Northword, rely on it. I am happy to help you through this difficulty.” She threw her arms around Portia and kissed her cheek. “You’ll adore London just as I did.”

When they parted, Eleanor checked the watch pinned to her bodice. “Goodness, we’ve hardly time to dress for luncheon. Do wear the pink frock we made for you. That’s your best gown. Together we shall dazzle Lord Northword with our beauty.”

“Yours perhaps.”