Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“What of it?”


“Mr. Stewart is a fine man. We all adore him.” She fisted a hand on the table and looked so distressed he wasn’t certain if he should hand her his handkerchief or call for a servant to bring a vinaigrette. “Even if Portia were as madly in love with Mr. Stewart as I am with Mr. Temple, the fact is, her marriage does nothing to secure Magnus’s future.

A chill went down his spine, and his heart skipped a beat. “She’s not in love with him?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure she has tender feelings for him, my lord.” She smiled sadly. “Who would not? He is delightful. But she is not a woman of such pure emotion as I am. Surely, you have noticed this small defect in her.”

“I have not.”

“She does not feel as I do. Nor love so deeply. I have observed that few people do.” She waved a hand. “A marriage between her and Mr. Stewart is of no advantage to Magnus at all.”

He floundered, torn in too many directions to make sense of this. He’d come downstairs convinced he would be pressured to marry Portia, that it was only a matter of time before Magnus confronted him, and instead, unless he was badly mistaken, he was being asked to interfere in Portia’s engagement. “What is it you would have me do?”

No artist in the world could resist the temptation to paint her smile onto a Madonna. “Convince her to come to London before she ties herself irrevocably to a man who does not suit her. Put the full weight of your approval behind our appearance there with her. Any number of gentlemen of good family would be pleased to marry an attractive woman. You’ve not noticed that Portia is quite a lovely woman, but I assure you it’s so. With the proper gowns and only a little more attention to her appearance, why, she cannot help but make an impression.”

As it turned out, he did not need to concoct a reply to that, for she continued talking.

“A pretty woman whose family has the friendship of Lord Northword? Any of them would be men who could do Magnus more good, and suit her much better than Mr. Stewart.”

“Have you someone in mind?”

She brightened. “Several candidates, as a matter of fact.” She counted off on her fingers, but the names went by in a blur.

“So many?”

“Naturally, there are one or two at the top of my list, my lord. I understand it is a great favor to ask you to introduce suitable men to her, but consider that Magnus might one day be a bishop. Why, he might aspire to York or even to Canterbury. It’s not beyond his abilities.” She leaned in, intent. “If his sister makes a marriage of no advantage? All I ask is that you make known your approval of her when we are in London. What could be happier for us all?”





Chapter Eight





Ten past midnight

PORTIA DIDN’T MOVE FROM HER CHAIR when someone tapped on her door. With Crispin here, they were keeping later hours and, after all, she wasn’t in bed yet. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but kept her legs drawn up on the chair. She wore only her chemise and the night wrapper she’d had since she was thirteen. Her hair was still loose even though by now it was dry. One had to expect that a woman who’d taken refuge in her room might not be dressed.

Whoever it was tapped again. In the best case, her visitor was Eleanor. In the worst case, Magnus himself had come to confront her. Either way, the visit could only be about her and Crispin. “Come in.”

The curtains weren’t drawn. Portia, seated in an armchair halfway between her dresser and the fireplace, continued to stare at the glass. On this clear, cold night with the stars shining bright in the sky, she could just see the moonlit branches of the rowan tree she’d planted. Already, the slender branches looked stronger. Decades from now, her tree would provide shade for whoever lived here. The door opened and cast a slice of light on the windows. Instead of the rowan tree or the stars, she saw a reflection of the door.

With a click, the door closed. She had no need to look, she knew who it was. A moment later, the key turned in the lock. Her skin rippled with awareness during the brief silence that followed that sound. He put his lantern on the table beside the door. “The walls aren’t blue any more.”

“I decided I liked this better.” She stood, but stayed beside her chair, her back to the window now, one hand resting along the top curve of the chair. Out of habit, she thought of all the times Crispin had been here. At night. When he ought not to have been and when the walls had been a pale blue. With them breathless and giddy. She gestured. “Moss. This green is called moss. Darker than the parlor, but green nevertheless and very much underappreciated, I do assure you. Except by me. It seems I overappreciate the color.”

He laughed and looked around the room, taking it in. “I like it.”

Her fingers dug into the chair. He took up all the space. All the air. “I was expecting Magnus or Eleanor.”

“To take you to task, I presume.”