Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Eleanor,” she said out of pure desperation for a change in subject. “Were you not telling me you have a list of improvements you’d like to make to the Grange? Is there anything I may do to assist with that while you and Magnus are in Brighton?”


Crispin gave every appearance of being fascinated by Eleanor as he was not by her. Watching him, Portia wondered if his late wife had been anything like Eleanor. She’d never been able to pry much information from Magnus on the subject of Lady Northword, other than to have him say she was the daughter of a duke and quite beautiful. Once, after one of his visits to London, he’d let slip that her health was delicate. Portia had understood that to mean she was in a way of giving Crispin his heir. But there was never any announcement and never any letter of congratulation to write.

“The Grange is perfect just as it is.” Magnus helped himself to more cheddar.

“Darling man.” Eleanor patted his arm. “That’s because you have never known Doyle’s Grange to be other than what it is. Of course you love your home. It would be unnatural if you did not.”

“Quite right, my dear.”

“Change is upsetting, I will never deny that.” She smiled as she cut a slice of duck. From over Eleanor’s shoulder, Portia watched raindrops hit the windows, pinpricks of water on the glass. “There are improvements to be made here. Am I not fortunate to have Portia to assist me?” She swept a hand in an arc. “I have such plans for this room.”

Underneath the table, Crispin stuck out his leg and stepped on Portia’s toes. “What do you think?”

“About what?” That earned her another puppy-eyed gaze from Eleanor. She stabbed her duck with her fork and wished she’d thought to feign illness and stay upstairs in her room. “What do I think about what, my lord?”

“The plans for redecorating, of course.”

“Nothing.” He was only trying to make conversation, and here she was turning into the sort of dismal drear no one liked at all.

He looked around the table. A diamond winked amid the lace of his neckcloth. The young man she’d known would never have worn a diamond or the fobs hanging from his watch chain. Nor the signet ring gleaming from the index finger of his right hand. “All I know is I’ve no taste in such things.”

“I’m sure that’s not so, Lord Northword.” Eleanor returned him a brilliant smile. “Why, Northword House is all that is tasteful and elegant.”

“My wife managed all that. I was happy to have her do so.”

Magnus took Eleanor’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “Everything I have is yours, as you well know. Do what you will with the place, though I don’t see how it could be improved.”

“But Magnus!” She went wide-eyed again. “The room is green, and green, my dearest Mr. Temple, is not a color I appreciate.”

“No?” He kissed her knuckles again. “Away with it then.”

Crispin looked to Portia. His expression was bland, but she was convinced he was taunting her. “What color would you do the room in?”

“Green, I fear.” She had been a fortnight with the painters choosing that shade of green and another week before she was satisfied all the colors were exactly perfect for the room. It was six weeks before the room had been painted to her satisfaction. “If I had known Magnus was going to marry, I’d not have had the work done.”

Eleanor gave one of her delightful laughs. “One acquires a certain sensibility when one has lived in society. I have seen, as you have not, Portia darling, some of the great houses of London. Northword House, for example. So inspiring, my lord. I am most anxious to see it again, and I do hope one day that Portia, too, will see the house so that she will understand precisely what I mean to do here at the Grange. After all, Lady Northword was a woman of exceptional taste, and one will never go wrong studying what she wrought at Northword House.” She took a tiny bite of duck. “I will never forget how kind she was to give me a personal tour when I first called.”

This fascinated her. “You met Lady Northword?”

“I like to think we became friends.” Eleanor touched the strand of pearls around her throat. “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Lord Northword, to speak of your wife. I know you mourn her still.”

He nodded. “Not at all, Mrs. Temple.”

“Your wife and I had a great many interests in common.”

“Did you?”

Portia accepted the sting to her heart. She had nothing in common with Lady Northword. What had brought her and Crispin together was not what made a man settle on the woman he would marry. She shredded her duck until she had reduced it to a paste. Half an hour, she told herself. In half an hour, she could plead a headache and retire to her room. Which happened to be green.