Pleasuring the Lady (The Pleasure Wars) Page 3

  Portia stared at him. “Are you in jest? After everything that has occurred tonight?”

  Of course she meant more than this horrid encounter with her brother. She had been places, done things, her brother knew nothing about. She couldn’t picture going to a ball as if life was normal.

  He glared at her. “If you do not make an appearance, people will talk even more about Mama than they already do. You will be there, sister. Is that clear?”

  Portia’s mouth felt dry as a desert and she swallowed hard before she croaked out. “Perfectly clear, Hammond.”

  “Then there is nothing else for us to discuss. Good night,” he said softly, turning on his heel and leaving her alone in the parlor.

  She waited until she had heard the click of the front door and the rumbling of the two departing carriages pulling away before she exited the room. At the front door, she turned the lock. Not that it would keep her brother away. If he wanted to get in, to take her mother, he had a key and too many other means.

  Up the stairs, she trudged, all warm and wondrous reminiscences from her night at the masquerade a distant and dull memory as she walked down the hall to her mother’s room. It felt like it took an age, but somehow she reached the chamber and stepped inside.

  Her brother’s lackey, Raysome, was long gone, and Potts sat with her mother. The housekeeper had defiantly untied the ropes that had bound the dowager marchioness to her bed, and her mother was pliant as a lamb now that whatever drugs she had been given had fully entered her system.

  “Did they hurt her?” Portia whispered as she took a perch on the edge of her mother’s bed.

  Potts shook her head. “A little rope burn around her wrists, but nothing more than that. Fools.”

  “She got out?”

  Potts blushed before she nodded. “While I was doing the tidying up after supper. I thought she was asleep, Lady Portia, or I would have kept a closer eye.”

  Portia smiled as she slowly shook her head. “It isn’t your fault, Potts. I should have been here.”

  Potts stared at her a long moment. The kindly woman had been hired by her brother years ago after his wedding, when he unceremoniously dispatched his spinster sister and troubled mother from his perfect home. Over that time, their lone house servant had been nothing but a caring friend.

  “What your mother really needs is a companion to be with her all the time,” Potts said softly. “Someone who understands the nature of her problems and could gently help her.”

  Portia squeezed her eyes shut. “That would be a wonderful thing, I could not wish for more.” She sighed. “But Hammond would never pay for such a person, even if he had the funds to do so.”

  Potts blinked a few times. “My lady, I would not say this unless I felt you should know.”

  Portia shook her head in confusion and concern. “Say what?”

  “Tonight, when he first arrived, your brother spoke of how it would be better to have your mother housed at Townshend House.”

  For a moment, the world swam before Portia’s eyes and she was glad to be seated on the bed, for it was certain she would have collapsed otherwise.

  “Townshend House…the madhouse?” she whispered.

  Potts nodded slowly. “He and that Raysome fellow were talking about it quite a bit. I think Raysome may have some connection to the place. He was explaining how much the weekly rate was to house her there and saying how your brother could simply tell everyone she died. That a lot of the rich did that with their mad relatives.”

  Portia heard a sob echo in the room and realized it had come from her own throat.

  “I have heard stories of that place,” she said, barely able to form words when she couldn’t breathe. “Their treatment of the people, the—”

  She stopped, for she couldn’t go on. The images her words created were too much. She pushed to her feet and paced the room a moment, trying to regain her composure.

  “I-I couldn’t stop him,” she murmured, looking at her mother, who was jerking in her restless sleep. She moved closer to brush a few pale curls from her mother’s forehead. “Oh God, I couldn’t save you.”

  She glanced up to see Potts staring at her with deep and abiding pity in her stare. The servant was kind enough to look away so she would see it no longer.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said, smoothing her gown and stepping away from the bed. She nodded swiftly to Potts. “And for the information about my brother’s thoughts on the matter. I certainly have much to think about. I’ll stay in the room with my mother tonight, but we won’t need anything else.”

  Potts rose slowly and nodded. “Of course, my lady. Good night.”

  She left the room, but once she was gone Portia couldn’t keep up the façade. She sank into a chair beside the fire and let the tears flow. There was nothing she could do to stop her brother from doing something terrible. Nothing she could do at all.

  Chapter Three

  Miles stepped into the stifling hall at Lord Steedmond’s lavish London estate. Looking around him at the crowd of mamas, debutantes and widows, he barely resisted the urge to turn on his heel and immediately walk out again.

  Winter gatherings in London were usually smaller due to the exodus of some of the elite to their country estates for the colder months, but the fires and the damp made them close-in, steamy affairs. Those hoping to get a jump on the Season’s rush were often far more aggressive here, and he already saw three or four chaperones eyeing him from the middle of the room.

  After he said hello to his host and hostess, Miles scanned the hall for an escape. Instead, his gaze found Lady Portia standing by the wall. The sister of a former friend, the Marquis Cosslow, Miles had always liked her well enough. She certainly had more sense than any current crop of debutantes put together.

  Tonight her face was pale and her gaze faraway, as it often was at these kinds of gatherings. For some reason he felt compelled to approach her, though he had no idea why. He had seen her at dozens of events and done no more than nod in her direction.

  The mother of twin daughters just out for their first Season began to move across the room toward him and Miles darted toward Portia without arguing with himself another moment. Talking to her would serve a purpose, at least for a little while.

  He reached her side and put a broad smile on his face.

  “Portia,” he drawled.

  She jumped and lifted her gaze to him, and his body clenched. Her eyes were so familiar.

  “Lord Weatherfield,” she said softly, fidgeting her hands before her. “I did not see you come in.”

  He shook his head as he stared at her. To compare her to a woman at the Donville Masquerade was ridiculous. Portia was a spinster who probably didn’t even know such places existed. It was only her pale locks and brown eyes that put him to mind of his mysterious lady, nothing more.

  “I only just arrived,” he said, forcing himself to speak. “When I saw you across the room, I could not resist coming to greet you.”

  She jolted. “Why?” she snapped, her tone far sharper than he had expected.

  He tilted his head. “Why?” he repeated.

  She swallowed. “Wh-why would you not be able to resist me?”

  He wrinkled his brow at her tone and expression. “Am I not welcome, Portia?”

  Her lips parted ever so slightly and she stared up at him, eyes filled with warring emotions. There were also faint circles beneath those eyes. What kept her up at night?

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, dropping her chin. “You and I have always been…friends of a sort, haven’t we?”

  He nodded, still troubled by her expression and odd demeanor. “I would like to think we have been. We have certainly known each other a long while.”

  She nodded, silent and again, he was ripped back to thoughts of another lady who had merely nodded or shook her head in answer to his questions.

  “Portia,” he murmured.

  She glanced up at him and he saw her try to put on a façade
for him. “I assume you must be looking for my brother at any rate,” she said, her tone suddenly falsely bright. “Hammond is here somewhere, though I have not seen him since we arrived an hour ago.”

  He saw her lip twitch ever so slightly.

  “No, I—well you know Cosslow and I are not particularly close any longer,” Miles said. “Portia, are you well?”

  Her lips pursed briefly and then she shrugged. “Of course.”

  But he could see that even though she pretended, there was something troubling her. And for some reason, that knowledge bothered him.

  “May I make a suggestion?” he said, moving a little closer.

  He had never noticed before how interesting her appearance was. With her wide-set, deep brown eyes and angular face, her looks were not the rage. Certainly there was nothing flashy about her to draw attention to her especially. But there was no denying she could be described as lovely, especially in certain lights and angles.

  She shifted away slightly. “A suggestion?”

  He nodded. “I think you should do something entirely irresponsible. Something that is pure fun and only for you. No one will ever expect it, Portia.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. He expected her to smile or laugh or even tell him to stop teasing her. But instead, she turned away.

  “It must be very nice to have such an easy life, Miles,” she said, her tone low and hard. “I envy you. Good night.”

  He stared, frozen in place by her unexpected accusation, as she walked away into the crowd. He moved to follow her, but there was a touch at his elbow and he turned to find one of those wretched mamas staring up at him.

  “Lord Weatherfield, what a pleasure it is to see you! Surely you remember my daughter, Rebecca.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, still stuck in the reaction he unexpectedly had to Portia. Then he shook it off and forced himself to focus on the rather horse-faced heiress who had been presented to him.

  “Ah yes, Lady Rebecca,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound like a groan. “What a…pleasure to see you and your lovely mother again.”

  Portia toed her slippers off and stretched her aching feet. Lord, how she hated a ball, especially one she’d been forced to attend under the watchful eye of her brother. It had been an entirely unpleasant evening.

  Except for a few moments when Miles approached her.

  Initially she had felt nothing more than abject terror at the idea he had realized she was the woman he had kissed at the masquerade, but quickly it had become clear his attention had nothing to do with that night. Why that fact caused her a twinge of disappointment, she could not rightly say.

  “Foolish girl,” she admonished herself as she slipped from her room and stood before her mother’s door.

  Potts had informed her that her mother had been quiet all night, still dull from the effects of whatever drugs she had been given by Hammond and his lackey.

  She opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother was propped up on her pillows, reading a book. When the door opened, she glanced up and offered a weak smile for her daughter.

  “Hello, darling,” her mother said, setting the book aside. “How was your evening?”

  Portia swallowed hard as she moved to sit in a chair beside her mother’s bed. “It was much the same as any other,” she lied. “I am more worried about how you feel.”

  Her mother’s face paled slightly. Although she never remembered all the worst moments of her episodes, she often said she had flashes from those horrible times when she became wild.

  “I-I am as well as I can be,” her mother said, her voice soft and filled with regret and sorrow. “Potts tells me I ran away?”

  Portia shook her head. “Potts shouldn’t trouble you with such things. There was no harm done.”

  She looked at her mother’s scratched wrists and tried not to think of Potts’ words about the madhouse.

  “Was your brother here?” her mother asked, voice filled with faint hope.

  Portia pushed from the chair and paced to her mother’s window. As she shoved the curtain aside, she flinched at the bars her brother had installed months ago.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “Hammond dropped me off after the ball.”

  “I meant last night when I—I was struggling?” her mother said.

  Portia turned. Her mother’s green eyes, the ones she had not inherited but always wished were her own, were focused very intently on her daughter. In her moments of lucidity, Lady Thomasina could be quite astute.

  “Yes, he was here,” she admitted. “As much good as he did.”

  Her mother sighed. “You are too hard on your brother, my love. He has struggled greatly since taking over as Marquis and having to clean up the messes your father left behind with his gambling. He may seem harsh, but he does his best.”

  Portia lifted her hand to cover the cheek her brother had struck the night before and tried to picture him “doing his best” without cruelty.

  “That may be,” she admitted, the words bitter. There was no use telling her mother anything that might upset her. “I do my best, as well.”

  Her mother’s eyes went wide. “Of course you do, my love.” Thomasina reached for her, and Portia took her mother’s hand without hesitation. “I know you give everything for me, for your friends, for everyone but yourself. I only wish there was a reward I could offer you. I only wish I could see you having fun, experiencing some joy in your life.”

  Portia thought, all too long, about Miles. About his kiss at that dratted hall she never should have gone to. And she thought of him tonight as well.

  He had said the same thing to her just a few hours before, that she needed to do something just for herself. Even Ava had proclaimed she needed wickedness in her life.

  It seemed everyone believed they knew better for her than she did for herself. And yet if any of them knew what she had done, where she had gone, what she had felt…they would have all been horrified.

  But she still wanted to do it again. To have one more night where she was with people who didn’t give a care for consequences. Where she could be a girl who didn’t exist. Where she could pretend to have nothing to lose.

  “Portia, where did you go?” her mother asked, laughter in her voice. “You are suddenly very far away.”

  Portia moved toward her and leaned down to kiss her smooth cheek.

  “Not as far as it would seem, Mama.” She smiled. “Go to sleep, for you look very tired. Perhaps tomorrow we will be able to go for a walk in the park. A little fresh air might do us both some good. Remind us where we belong in this world.”

  Her mother nodded. “I would like that. Good night, my darling. Sleep well.”

  Portia smiled as she left the room, but she had no intention of sleeping. Not for a very long while, at least.

  She rang the bell for Potts and pulled a dress from her closet. When the housekeeper came to the door, she smiled.

  “Potts, tell Copper to ready the carriage. I’m going out.”

  Potts gave her a strange look, but then nodded and slipped from the room, leaving Portia to prepare herself while she tried not to ponder the folly of her life and her choices.

  As she swept into the Donville Masquerade an hour later, Portia felt the heat of the room sink into her skin, beneath her gown and into the very pit of her stomach. At least the images around her were not as shocking this time since she was more prepared for them. She took them all in as she stared around her.

  A woman was laying on one of the tables to her left, her dress hiked up around her stomach, her legs splayed to reveal her most private areas, and a man was fingering her slit as she stared up into his face.

  Against a wall, two women kissed passionately while a few men watched them. To her surprise, the men had released their naked members and were stroking them, something she had never seen or even imagined before. So that was what a man looked like naked. It was rather terrifying and titillating all at once to see that grea
t thing hard and ready for rutting.

  “This is a mistake,” she whispered, turning toward the door. She was about to leave when out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of someone she knew.

  “Liam,” she breathed, facing the direction she thought she saw him go. But he was gone, vanished into the crowd.

  She bolted toward the direction she thought she saw him go in, rising to her tiptoes as she scanned the crowd for a man with a scarred face and injured arm. But it was to no avail. If he had been there at all, he had vanished like smoke on the wind.

  She pursed her lips. Would she give up so easily?

  Turning, she moved to one of the tables closest to her. Six men played cards there, their faces filled with angry concentration. None of them were wearing masks and she didn’t recognize them, but she still disguised her voice with a husky tone as she said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I’m looking for someone.”

  One of the men threw down his cards in disgust before he looked up at her. “Wot?” he asked in a heavy accent.

  “I-I’m looking for someone,” she repeated, now uncertain in the face of this man’s unexpected anger.

  He looked her up and down, then shot his tablemates a brief, toothless grin.

  “Are ya now, missy?” he asked as he pushed to his feet. He was so very tall and he smelled of cheap whisky and tobacco.

  “Yes,” she managed to squeak out. “A man na—”

  “If yer lookin’ for a man, I’m that,” he snarled as he grabbed her arm in an iron fist and pulled her closer. “You may be the prettiest little lightskirt I’ve ever seen.”

  Portia’s eyes went wide as she tugged against his grip to no avail. “I—no, sir, you misunderstand, I’m not a lightskirt. I truly am here simply looking for someone.”

  “Well, you found me,” he grunted as he pulled her across the room toward what appeared to be a line of alcoves hidden by screens. Already Portia could hear grunts and cries from behind them that were similar to those of the patrons who took their pleasure out in the open.

  “No,” she cried, tugging in earnest now, but her captor only laughed and squeezed her arm until it burned in pain.