Simply Unforgettable

Balderstons with his mother and sisters—arrangements were made for the two families to sit together in the Earl of Edgecombe’s box at the theater one evening within the week.

On each occasion—during both dinners, during the courtesy call, and at the theater—Lucius found himself seated beside Portia Hunt. They could not have seemed more like an established couple if they had already been betrothed.

She was indeed in good looks—very good looks. She had the sort of beauty that only improved with age. Her blond curls and blue eyes and perfect features and English rose complexion had made her merely exceedingly lovely as a girl. Now she was nothing short of beautiful—and added to that beauty were a poise and dignity that proclaimed her to be a lady of perfect breeding.

Everything about her was perfect, in fact. There was not a pimple or a mole or a squint or a fatal flaw in sight. And she was the sort of woman to whom duty was so instinctive that she would doubtless present her husband with an heir and a spare within two years of the nuptials before she even thought of the possibility of bearing daughters.

She would be the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect mother, the perfect viscountess, the perfect countess.

The word perfect definitely needed to be stricken from the English language.

Lucius bore it all with determinedly gritted teeth and stiff upper lip. He had made the fatal—and quite unexpected—mistake of falling in love, and the woman had snubbed and rejected him. On the whole it was a good thing. Although his grandfather had admired Frances Allard as a singer, he might have taken a dimmer view of accepting her as a candidate for the role of future Countess of Edgecombe—even though she was a lady with impeccable connections on her father’s side, at least.

From the moment he had left Bath—and a rather ghastly moment it had been too—Lucius had set the whole experience of falling in love and blurting out an impulsive marriage proposal behind him with a grim firmness of purpose.

He had made a promise at Christmas time, and by God he would keep it. And since he could not have the woman he had wanted, he would have Portia instead. He could not do better, after all—a thought he entertained with a slight grimace.

His mother was a fond parent and liked to see all of her children enjoy their particular moment in the sun. For the first two weeks after Lucius’s return to town that moment belonged to Emily as she prepared for her presentation to the queen and then her come-out ball. And for the next two weeks the moment was Caroline’s as Sir Henry Cobham finally came to the point and talked marriage settlements with Lucius and then made his offer to Caroline herself. And of course the occasion necessitated another ball at Marshall House in celebration of their betrothal.

Had Lucius offered for Portia Hunt within that month, he would have unfairly taken the focus of attention away from one of his sisters and his mother would have been upset.

At least, that was what he told himself—he was trying hard to give more of his time and attention and affection to his family than he had been in the habit of doing through the heedless years of his young manhood.

But to procrastinate indefinitely was not an option for him this spring. He had made his promise to his grandfather, and nothing remained but to make his formal offer and be done with it.

He would do it, he decided, the morning after Caroline’s ball. There was no further excuse for delay. Already his mother was making pointed remarks, and his grandfather was regarding him with twinkling eyes every time Portia’s name was mentioned—and it was mentioned with ominous frequency.

He dressed with care under Jeffreys’s expert ministrations and took himself off on foot to

Berkeley Square

—only to find after steeling himself to the ordeal that Lord Balderston was not at home. The ladies were, however, the butler informed him. Did Lord Sinclair wish to wait upon them?

Lord Sinclair did, he supposed, though he thought longingly of his male friends now fencing or sparring or looking over horseflesh at all the usual haunts—and not a one of them with a care in the world.

When he was shown into the morning room, however, he found that Portia was in there alone.

“Mama is still in her own apartments after the late night at Caroline’s ball,” she explained after he had made his bow to her.

It was understandable. It was somewhat surprising, in fact, that Portia herself was up and so neatly dressed and coifed that she was able to receive guests on a moment’s notice. There had not been a mother or sister in sight when he had left Marshall House.

Did she add early rising to her other virtues?

“Do you wish to send for her?” he asked, looking about the empty room. “Or for your maid?”

“Do not be foolish, Lucius,” she said with cool poise, indicating a chair while she seated herself gracefully and picked up her embroidery frame. “I am no green girl to be needing a chaperone in my own home while entertaining a longtime friend.”

They were on a first-name basis, having known each other for many years. Were they also friends?

“Lady Sinclair must be very gratified,” she said, “with one daughter married and another betrothed and Emily taking so well with the ton. And Amy will surely do as well next year if she can learn to curb her natural exuberance.”

Her needle flashed in and out of the cloth, producing a perfect peach-colored rose.

“I hope,” he said, “she will never learn that lesson, Portia. I like her well enough as she is.”

She looked up at him fleetingly.

“It was unfortunate,” she said, “that you took her walking in the park so late the afternoon before last. She ought not to have been seen by the fashionable crowd. And she ought not to have laughed with such unconsidered delight at something you said to her and so made herself conspicuous. Lord Rumford ogled her through his quizzing glass, and we all know his reputation.”