The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,13
much.
“Truly?” Portia pressed. “And he desires a prompt marriage?”
“Money issues.” Daisy shrugged nonchalantly. “Such is life.”
“How do you know him?”
“He was a neighbor back in Staffordshire. Have you met him before?”
Portia nodded. Rupert Andrews had been an amicable man who’d danced with her sporadically, presumably on those occasions when he couldn’t justify standing about the punch table with his friends. It seemed odd to think of him being her future husband.
“He’s rather nice,” Daisy said, then frowned. “At least for a man. What was your impression?”
“I thought he was courting Mathilda.”
“So did he.” Daisy leaned closer, and her eyes sparkled with that peculiar force that descended during particularly excellent gossip. “But she eloped with a Frenchman. All quite scandalous, and now he truly requires coin. And he no longer trusts his judgment.”
“Which makes him perfect for a husband?”
“Perfect to make a suggestion of marriage,” Daisy said. “Quite different.”
“I see,” Portia said, even though clarity wasn’t her current emotion.
Daisy seemed certain though, for she beamed. “Leave it to me, my dear. Now, where do you want to elope?”
“Elope?” Portia sputtered. She’d anticipated a normal wedding, in a church.
“Well, your guardian might put up protestations otherwise. He might claim Mr. Andrews is imperfect. All nonsense, of course, but the banns process is sufficiently long. I doubt a delay would be in your interest.”
“You’re right,” Portia said miserably.
“You have two options,” Daisy said in the matter-of-fact manner that had caused her to receive the best grades at their finishing school. “Gretna Green—that’s the traditional option, or the Channel Islands. The Duke and Duchess of Vernon eloped there. It’s en vogue.”
“Which is closer?”
“The Channel Islands.” Daisy’s smile grew less pronounced. “Though I imagine the voyage is choppy this time of year.”
Portia shrugged. “I have sea legs.” She leaned nearer her friend. “Does Mr. Andrews?”
“Mr. Andrews is a man. They all claim to have sea legs.” Daisy’s eyes shimmered, and her lips moved into something approximating a smirk. “Guernsey it is. I’ll write you once I learn the time of the next ship departure.”
“And I’ll just meet him then.”
“Yes.” Daisy nodded decidedly, then scrunched her forehead. “Of course, it’s not the best thing to do for your reputation.”
“Neither is being poor.”
“I suspect Mr. Andrews will feel the same way.”
Portia turned the conversation to other things, but an odd excitement moved through her. She was going to be married.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BANGING SOUNDED ON the door, and Colin rolled over in his bed. His head ached, as it normally did these days after long days of visiting a gaming hell, and he buried his head under a pillow. Somehow, gaming hells had seemed more intriguing when he’d first moved to London. The banging continued, and he frowned. Was today a delivery day? Was there a driver who was concerned about parking his carriage outside?
Voices sounded. Colin could swear one of the voices belonged to the butler. Was somebody attempting to enter the main door? Dashed odd.
Then footsteps moved upstairs. Heavy footsteps. Trampling footsteps.
Damnation.
Niles never attacked the steps with such ferocity. His footsteps glided, tiptoed, and strode.
Colin scrambled up, casting his pillow to the side.
The deafening footsteps continued to thud. Since a charging rhinoceros was unlikely to have gained entry to the townhouse, Colin suspected the intruder might desire to speak to him. He grabbed his dressing gown, pulled it over his nightshirt, and tied it.
In the next moment, the door swung open. A red-faced Sir Seymour entered the room and pointed a finger at Colin. “Thief.”
Dash it.
“Sir Seymour,” Colin said in his most consolatory voice. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Niles said. “I tried to stop him.”
Colin surveyed Sir Seymour. The man’s cravat was loose, as if he’d abandoned his manservant’s attempts to tie it midway, and his tailcoat billowed in an unbecoming fashion.
“I suspect nothing could have stopped him,” Colin said generously. “With the possible exception of three rugby players.”
“Three good rugby players,” Niles qualified.
“Quite.”
“You’re not supposed to be talking about damned rugby players.” Sir Seymour banged his fist on a conveniently placed bookcase. “I’m your guest. You’re supposed to speak about me.”
“You’re not an invited guest,” Niles said.
“This is no time for etiquette,” Sir Seymour bellowed. “Etiquette followers do not steal. They are not criminals. They are not vile beings.”
“Sir Seymour,” Niles said. “I must insist you speak with more decorum to the duke. Your behavior is most unacceptable.”
“Balderdash.” Sir Seymour waved his hand in a dismissive fashion.
“Should I fetch the kitchen servants?” Niles suggested. “Perhaps with their help, I could toss