Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

She giggled. Good heavens, Eleanor giggled. “Men like pink on a woman.”


Portia hated pink. She hated pink beyond anything. She especially hated that shade of pink in that thick satin. The gown was awful on her.

“I cannot wait for London!”





Chapter Three





AT A QUARTER TO TWELVE, Portia walked into the parlor a silent horror in a pink gown festooned with lace and bows. The very latest in London fashion, she had been assured. In order to accommodate her height, Eleanor had sewn frothy tulle over a five-inch layer of satin stitched to the bottom of the original hem. Though Portia did not entirely object to lace or bows, she objected to their combination almost as much as she objected to the unrelenting pink of…everything.

She was early to luncheon on purpose. God forbid she should make an entrance dressed like this. She sat and scooted her chair closer to the table while she exchanged a commiserating glance with Hob. One of Eleanor’s early changes at Doyle’s Grange was to put Hob into what amounted to livery when he served their meals. With Crispin here, the costume had been embellished beyond the bronze frock coat, breeches and heeled shoes with silver buckles. Now his costume included a powdered wig and a tricorn hat that refused to sit straight on his head. She found scant consolation in the knowledge that Hob looked as ridiculous as she did.

Two minutes before noon, Crispin strolled in with Eleanor on his arm and Magnus on his other side. “Portia.” He lifted his free hand in greeting, and his gaze swept her up and down. His eyebrows shot up. She wanted to shoot him dead for that taken aback look. “Heavens, don’t get up. Please.”

He was dressed for the country, but you’d never mistake him for anything but a man of fashion. A man who was not from Exmoor. His toffee-colored hair was too perfectly cut. A grown man now. Not the young man she’d so desperately loved. With all that had happened between them, the awful strain of those last days, he’d moved on in his life. It was she who had been unable to move forward.

Crispin led Eleanor to the table and touched his fingers to the top of her chair while she sat. Magnus brought a chair closer to Eleanor but before he took his seat, he waved his arms in the air as if he were summoning food and refreshments by magical means.

This brought Hob away from guarding the door. He pushed a wheeled cart to Eleanor and then brought over, one plate or dish at a time, a selection of meat, cheeses, cakes, biscuits and various other comestibles. There was even a pot of coffee. Without a moment’s hesitation, Crispin poured himself a cup, adding sugar and milk. So deftly done that one had to imagine he frequently sat down to coffee. It was a luxury here. And a rarity. This, too, was a habit of his of which she had no knowledge. She had herself never acquired a taste for coffee.

Conversation moved from politics to horses, to racing phaetons and the state of the poor who lived between Aubry Sock and West Aubry. Portia had little to contribute to the conversation. Every time she looked down or caught a glimpse of the frock Eleanor had so lovingly helped her make, she shuddered.

Hob brought over a plate of sliced duck and for a time there was no noise but that of silverware against the best china and teacups or coffee cups clicking against a porcelain saucer. She stared out the window. Clouds that promised rain all but blocked out the sky. She poked at her duck and set herself to mashing the remains of some cheddar. The thought of eating did not appeal. If this kept up, she’d waste away and become delicate through lack of appetite. She’d never look well in pink, though. Not with her hair. She didn’t even want to look at Crispin for fear she’d see in his eyes a reflection of how unsuited she was to gowns with lace and frills. He unnerved her, to be honest.

Magnus gave a great harumph and took a large helping of duck. “Are we ready, do you think, Eleanor, for our journey to the seashore?”

Weeks before Crispin’s arrival, Magnus and Eleanor had engaged to spend a fortnight in Brighton. They had rooms reserved at a favorite hotel, and Portia had been looking forward to several blessed days alone. She’d planned to stay up all hours, sleep away the mornings, and spend her afternoons transplanting crocuses to the rear lawns. That, alas, was not to be.

Once they had realized Crispin’s visit would overlap with the Brighton trip, Magnus had suggested Portia ask Mr. Stewart to bring his mother to the Grange for a visit so as to avoid any hint of impropriety. This was done and the invitation accepted. As it turned out, however, Crispin had an appointment in West Aubry during the days that Magnus and Eleanor were to be away, discovered too late to even think of putting off the Stewarts’ visit.