The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,11
customary for footmen to go through their employers’ bureaus?”
Colin resisted the urge to freeze or blink at her guiltily. Instead, he shrugged. “I’m cleaning his desk.”
“Late at night?”
He nodded solemnly. “Sir Seymour can’t abide an unpolished desk.” He took out his handkerchief and scrubbed the desk carefully. “He’s going to see it first thing.”
“I would have thought you would be serving drinks at the ball.”
“It takes many servants to take care of this townhouse,” Colin said solemnly.
“I can tell.” The woman’s eyes remained wider than previously, and Colin knew he should feel guilty. Instead, his lips curled. This was turning into the most amusing ball he’d attended in some time, and he wasn’t even jumping to the joyful beats of a reel.
He smiled and rose from Sir Seymour’s desk.
“My father wanted to make sure I married. Didn’t become one of those independently wealthy bluestockings causing chaos in society.”
Colin sputtered.
She shrugged, moving her shoulders in that intriguing manner again. “Well, that’s what he would say. I think. He’s dead.”
Colin nodded. “The talk of a will was the clue.”
“I suppose so. But the problem is—I need to find a husband at once.”
“Perhaps you would be more likely to find one in the ball,” Colin suggested.
She shook her head. “I tried that. Didn’t work. I’m not pretty enough.”
He blinked. The woman was mad. “I assure you, you’re plenty pretty.”
THE ROOM FILLED WITH an odd heat. Perhaps the exertion of rising rapidly had been more strenuous than she’d imagined. She stepped away from the footman and smoothed her dress. Suddenly, it was important that the fabric was not beset by wrinkles and creases.
There was something familiar about the man, and for a moment, Portia stared at him.
But of course the man was familiar. He’d probably been handing her drinks at Sir Seymour’s townhouse for the past year. A man like that was noticeable, even if he was a footman and probably hadn’t said anything more to her than “Ratafia, miss?”
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’ve kept you from your work.”
“I can polish a desk with you in the room,” he said. “Just a pleasant distraction.”
She nodded, deciding not to tell him he had only polished a small portion of the surface and had even forgotten to move the few books and papers on the desk to the side so as to achieve a better polish.
“There must be something you can do to find a husband,” the man said. “I’m sure plenty of men would want to marry you.”
“None have proposed.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Then perhaps you could ask someone for help. In my experience mothers are a most aggressive force. There is a reason they’re called matchmaking mamas.”
“I hadn’t realized that terminology had entered servants’ vocabulary.”
His smile wobbled momentarily, then it grew wider than before. “Oh, everyone knows about matchmaking mamas.”
Portia scrunched her lips. “I don’t have a mother, but...” An idea occurred to her, and she beamed. “Thank you. That was good advice.”
Puzzlement spread over his face. The fact didn’t render him less handsome. Footmen were often chosen for their looks, and his must have made his employer offer him the job at once.
Perhaps Portia didn’t have a mother or a string of female relatives. She did though have friends. One friend, in particular, Daisy, might be helpful.
“Farewell!” Portia raised her hand to the footman, then nearly sprinted from the room.
Daisy.
Daisy was her best friend. Perhaps she knew of someone who might be willing to elope with her. Someone poor who might find Portia’s heiress status attractive, someone of not too intolerable a personality. Sir Vincent wouldn’t do, but there must be other options.
The footman was correct: she couldn’t give up. If she couldn’t find a husband on her own, she shouldn’t assume it was impossible to do so with help.
She marched through the ballroom door. Sir Vincent regarded her with a concerned expression, but this time, it did not take much effort to keep her chin raised.
“Do you want to stay longer?” he asked.
Portia surveyed the dance floor. She’d already stood around waiting for someone to ask her to dance. She turned to her guardian. “We can leave.”
Relief spread across his face. “Very well, my dear.”
Earlier Portia might have been disconcerted, but now she simply considered the words of the kind footman. There was hope. Perhaps not at this very ball, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find a solution.
She had to.
CHAPTER SIX
“I TRUST YOU HAD A SATISFACTORY time at Sir Seymour’s?” Niles asked when Colin returned.
“Yes,” Colin said, and his mind