Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Indeed we are.” Eleanor put her hand over Magnus’s and there was just no denying that when she looked at her husband, she glowed. “After Brighton, London. I hope, Lord Northword, that you will be in town then, for I know Portia is looking forward to seeing Northword House.”


His expression smoothed out. “I don’t know my schedule. I dare say it’s possible.” Crispin glanced at her, but Portia averted her eyes just in time. Having him here was much, much more difficult than she’d imagined. And that hint of distance in his voice? He did not want her in London any more than she wanted to go. The fact that Crispin and Jeremy must inevitably meet only deepened her tension and anxiety. “If I am not in town or at home, do please call. The housekeeper will give you a tour.”

“You’ll be in London for the sessions, I imagine,” Eleanor said. “I know Mr. Temple would like to attend them while I show Portia the delights of Bond Street and my favorite shops.”

Portia did her best imitation of one of Eleanor’s helpless smiles. She hated herself for it, but she did it. “I have been thinking,” she said for Eleanor’s benefit, “that if your London excursion comes off, I’m sure Mr. Stewart and his mother would love to accompany us. Would that not be agreeable?”

Crispin returned a shallow grin. “I should be delighted to show all of you Northword House.” He cut a slice of duck. “If I am in town.”

“Portia dearest, are you certain Mrs. Stewart can withstand such a journey? It’s such a long way for a frail woman.”

Oh, how neatly her trap was sprung. “What a disappointment if she cannot. But let’s not despair. I’ll settle everything when they are here and write to you at Brighton.”

“Have you been to Brighton, Portia?” Crispin pushed his cup forward so that Hob could refill it from the coffee pot. “Thank you.”

“No. I’ve not been.”

“You’d like it immensely. Seeing the ocean. Everyone ought to see the ocean at least once.” He moved her untouched teacup out of his line of sight. Candlelight reflected off his hair and turned the darker streaks in his hair to bronze. He was astonishingly confident of himself and at ease with the sort of conversation that took no toll on anyone. “Tell me, ladies, have you bathing costumes?”

Eleanor fluttered her lashes. “I have, my lord. It’s new, and I’ve been keeping it secret from Magnus.”

Portia wished she were married already. She wished she were nowhere near Crispin or Doyle’s Grange. The light in the room shifted with the gathering clouds and she seized on that as an excuse to stare out the window. She’d rather count cracks in the plaster than torture herself by watching Crispin bring Eleanor under his spell.

“And you, Portia? Have you a bathing costume?”

“I haven’t.” She looked away because she couldn’t bear that there was so little left of the woman Crispin had once loved. Eleanor made a face at her, and, perhaps a shade too late, Portia understood why. She coughed and patted her upper chest. “Forgive me. My lord. I have no bathing costume, secret or otherwise. But I cannot go to Brighton in any event, sir. And while I should like to see London, sir, I expect that won’t be possible. Not until after I am married.”

Crispin leaned sideways against his chair. He’d dressed elegantly this afternoon, hadn’t he? A far cry from the country clothes he’d worn when he’d lived at Wordless. His coat was the finest wool, his shirt a delicate lawn, and his waistcoat, well, that was heavy silk embroidered with tiny points of gold thread. “What’s got into you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Nonsense to be so formal, and you know it.” He rested his wrist on the edge of the table and his frown deepened. “I wish you would stop it.”

Eleanor gave a gentle sigh. “But, Lord Northword. Good manners are never nonsense. She ought to show you the respect due from a woman of her position. Indeed, to all men of your standing.” In tandem, Magnus and Crispin stared at Eleanor. She gazed back with that helpless gaze she’d so perfected. No one said anything for too long.

Crispin took a sip of his coffee. “Portia and I are old friends.”

“What will people say when we are in London and she speaks of you with so little respect?” Her mouth trembled. “She will make entirely the wrong impression.”

Crispin turned his head to her, and their eyes met. For a moment, it was as if they were lovers still, with none of their mistakes and missteps between them. Her heart stopped beating and did not start again until he looked away. Thank God. Thank God he had not acknowledged that moment.