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Authors: Teresa Medeiros
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Portia home.
“Perhaps we should see if Cousin Cecil is still in the market for a bride,” Caroline offered, referring to the toadlike lech who had onceoffered to beat the spirit out of Portia with his fists.
Both Adrian and Portia turned to gape at her in horror. When she blinked innocently at them and added, “Or Aunt Marietta might be in need of a companion,” they realized she was only jesting. She sat on the brocaded sofa with Eloisa perched on her knee. The honey-haired toddler appeared to be in imminent danger of swallowing the wildly expensive pearls Adrian had given Caroline for their third anniversary.
Watery afternoon sunlight sifted through the tall arched windows of the spacious room. Portia had managed to postpone this discussion for several hours, first by feigning a swoon in the carriage on the way home, then by pleading tearful exhaustion when Adrian had delivered her to Caroline’s waiting arms. Unfortunately, her strategy had backfired. The delay had only given Adrian time to summon the rest of the family to witness her disgrace.
Portia’s other sister, Vivienne, sat in the leather wing-chair near the hearth, keeping one watchful eye on the four-year-old towheaded twins playing at wooden soldiers before the cozy fire. Not even giving birth to two budding hellions atonce had seemed to ruffle her legendary composure. According to family legend, when the midwife had handed her the second baby, she had simply murmured, “Oh, my! Would you look at that?” while her stoic husband had crumpled to the carpet in a dead faint.
Alastair Larkin, whom they all tended to address as simply “Larkin” in a nod to his former career as a constable, perched on the arm of his wife’s chair. Every few minutes, he would reach over to absently stroke her golden hair. Given his stern lips and hawk nose, there were some who might have wondered how such a plain man had managed to capture the heart of a beauty like Vivienne Cabot. Until they saw the way his shrewd brown eyes lit up every time he looked at her.
Portia had dressed for her dressing down in a somber green morning gown that she hoped would make her look suitably penitent. A matching velvet choker adorned her throat. She sat on her favorite ottoman with her hands folded demurely in her lap, watching Adrian resume his pacing.
“Julian is my brother,” he reminded her. “Youshould have trusted me to take care of the situation, not gone off on some misbegotten mission of your own.”
“I did trust you to take care of the situation. That’s precisely what I was worried about.”
He swung around to face her. “Did you really believe I was going to stake my baby brother through the heart without so much as a polite by-your-leave?”
“Adrian…the children,” Caroline reminded him, touching a finger to her lips.
Shooting her a frustrated glance, Adrian strode over to the tasseled bellpull in the corner and gave it a hard yank. After what seemed like an eternity, their elderly butler Wilbury came shuffling into the drawing room. With his sunken cheeks, hunched back, and startling shock of white hair, he appeared to be at least 275 years old.
“Wilbury, my dear,” Caroline said, “would you mind taking the children and keeping them occupied for a bit?”
“’Twould be the high point of my golden years, my lady,” he replied with frigid politeness. “The culmination of a lifelong dream I hadnearly abandoned in favor of waiting peacefully for the Grim Reaper to come and relieve me of my earthly duties.”
Immune to his sarcasm, Caroline beamed fondly at him. “Thank you, Wilbury. I thought that’s what you would say.”
Shuffling toward the hearth, the butler muttered beneath his breath, “I just love children, you know. I simply dote upon the overindulged little darlings with their grasping little hands and their sticky little fingers that foul up every freshly polished surface in the house.” As he leaned toward the hearth, the twins
“Perhaps we should see if Cousin Cecil is still in the market for a bride,” Caroline offered, referring to the toadlike lech who had onceoffered to beat the spirit out of Portia with his fists.
Both Adrian and Portia turned to gape at her in horror. When she blinked innocently at them and added, “Or Aunt Marietta might be in need of a companion,” they realized she was only jesting. She sat on the brocaded sofa with Eloisa perched on her knee. The honey-haired toddler appeared to be in imminent danger of swallowing the wildly expensive pearls Adrian had given Caroline for their third anniversary.
Watery afternoon sunlight sifted through the tall arched windows of the spacious room. Portia had managed to postpone this discussion for several hours, first by feigning a swoon in the carriage on the way home, then by pleading tearful exhaustion when Adrian had delivered her to Caroline’s waiting arms. Unfortunately, her strategy had backfired. The delay had only given Adrian time to summon the rest of the family to witness her disgrace.
Portia’s other sister, Vivienne, sat in the leather wing-chair near the hearth, keeping one watchful eye on the four-year-old towheaded twins playing at wooden soldiers before the cozy fire. Not even giving birth to two budding hellions atonce had seemed to ruffle her legendary composure. According to family legend, when the midwife had handed her the second baby, she had simply murmured, “Oh, my! Would you look at that?” while her stoic husband had crumpled to the carpet in a dead faint.
Alastair Larkin, whom they all tended to address as simply “Larkin” in a nod to his former career as a constable, perched on the arm of his wife’s chair. Every few minutes, he would reach over to absently stroke her golden hair. Given his stern lips and hawk nose, there were some who might have wondered how such a plain man had managed to capture the heart of a beauty like Vivienne Cabot. Until they saw the way his shrewd brown eyes lit up every time he looked at her.
Portia had dressed for her dressing down in a somber green morning gown that she hoped would make her look suitably penitent. A matching velvet choker adorned her throat. She sat on her favorite ottoman with her hands folded demurely in her lap, watching Adrian resume his pacing.
“Julian is my brother,” he reminded her. “Youshould have trusted me to take care of the situation, not gone off on some misbegotten mission of your own.”
“I did trust you to take care of the situation. That’s precisely what I was worried about.”
He swung around to face her. “Did you really believe I was going to stake my baby brother through the heart without so much as a polite by-your-leave?”
“Adrian…the children,” Caroline reminded him, touching a finger to her lips.
Shooting her a frustrated glance, Adrian strode over to the tasseled bellpull in the corner and gave it a hard yank. After what seemed like an eternity, their elderly butler Wilbury came shuffling into the drawing room. With his sunken cheeks, hunched back, and startling shock of white hair, he appeared to be at least 275 years old.
“Wilbury, my dear,” Caroline said, “would you mind taking the children and keeping them occupied for a bit?”
“’Twould be the high point of my golden years, my lady,” he replied with frigid politeness. “The culmination of a lifelong dream I hadnearly abandoned in favor of waiting peacefully for the Grim Reaper to come and relieve me of my earthly duties.”
Immune to his sarcasm, Caroline beamed fondly at him. “Thank you, Wilbury. I thought that’s what you would say.”
Shuffling toward the hearth, the butler muttered beneath his breath, “I just love children, you know. I simply dote upon the overindulged little darlings with their grasping little hands and their sticky little fingers that foul up every freshly polished surface in the house.” As he leaned toward the hearth, the twins
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