The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,26
swung around. “But he was going to kiss me.”
Jonesie should be expressing outrage. That was the sort of agreeableness she expected from her maid. But instead, Jonesie smiled. “He thought you were becoming engaged.”
“Well, we’re not.”
“Perhaps you still can be. He did seem certain.”
Portia waved her hands dismissively. “The man has good manners and wouldn’t withdraw his proposal immediately. A grasp of etiquette is hardly unusual for peers.”
Jonesie swerved her head away with rapidity, but not before Portia noticed a smirk forming on her maid’s face.
“I hope you don’t find this amusing.”
“But isn’t it amusing?”
“Absolutely not.” Portia crossed her arms. “And the worst thing is—”
“Yes?” Jonesie stared at her, but Portia averted her eyes.
“Well, the worst thing is, now we can’t be on the deck. It would be far too embarrassing.”
“You wouldn’t be intrigued to see the duke again?” Jonesie’s eyes shimmered.
“Of course not.”
“He is very handsome,” Jonesie mused.
“And he knows it. A dreadful combination.”
Jonesie shrugged. “He would have to be terribly unintelligent not to know. Those cheekbones—set so perfectly high, and that nose—so straight. Quite distinguished.”
“You needn’t catalog his strengths,” Portia said. “We’re never going to see him again.”
“If you say so.” Jonesie used the sort of condescending voice a mother might use when a child explained that the sky was bound to turn green tomorrow.
A knock sounded on the door, and the porter appeared. “Would you care to join Captain Mortimer for dinner with Mr. Andrews?”
Portia rolled her eyes. “Ha. Absolutely not.”
“She does not care for the company of Mr. Andrews,” Jonesie rushed to say.
“Indeed.” Portia tried to forget that their conversation had been quite pleasant...before the proposals and dishonesty, of course.
The porter scrunched his forehead together.
“Please just bring our food to the cabin,” Jonesie said. “We’ll be remaining here.”
The porter nodded and left.
Portia plopped onto her bed. “I’m sorry, Jonesie. I’m being difficult.”
“The situation is difficult.”
Portia tilted her head. “You probably want to see the duke’s valet again. You seemed to be getting on well together.”
Jonesie smiled. “Romance doesn’t blossom that quickly, even if he was quite good at pointing out seagulls.”
“See!” Portia said triumphantly. “It doesn’t blossom that quickly. The duke never should have accepted my proposal.”
“Of course,” Jonesie said thoughtfully, “it was the first time I met Niles. It seems this was the second occasion you met the duke.”
“I’m sure it takes more than two meetings to decide to marry someone,” Portia grumbled.
“This is an unconventional situation.” Jonesie’s eyes sparkled in that infuriating manner again.
When the porter arrived with their food, Portia quickly ate her meal. The sooner she did that, the sooner she could go to bed, and the sooner this day would be over.
“Are you certain the reason you’re upset is not just that you were looking forward to marrying him when you thought he was a footman?” Jonesie asked.
“Nonsense.” Portia frowned and focused on her vegetables. The cabbage demanded attention.
Jonesie was thankfully silent the rest of the evening, at least on the uncomfortable topics of life and love, but when Portia snuggled into her berth, her mind remained on Colin, still on his ridiculous acceptance of her proposal, still on the manner in which strong arms had held her, and still how his lips had almost touched hers.
She despised him.
She had to.
NEITHER PORTIA NOR her maid made an appearance the next day, and they were similarly absent the day after.
But when Guernsey appeared on the coast, and the ship slowed as it made its way into the harbor, the women finally appeared.
Colin beamed when he saw them. Portia was every bit as lovely as she had been before, even if she seemed careful to not make eye contact. Her long dark lashes fluttered down in a becoming manner, and Colin valiantly resisted the urge to dash toward her and declare his delight at seeing her again after her unnecessary enforced absence.
Colin had always scoffed when his friends had termed him impetuous before, but now it occurred to him they might have had a point.
He hadn’t intended to marry so soon, and he’d always imagined a lengthy courtship with time for the appropriate number of curricle rides through Hyde Park and strolls through rose gardens.
Still.
Portia met all the qualifications to be a bride. There was no reason to leave her penniless because he’d had the gall to steal someone else’s berth.
He focused on Guernsey and pretended the pastel-colored houses in the idyllic harbor were as interesting as Portia. Night was falling, and the sunset cast a pink and golden glow.
“It’s pretty,” Niles said.
“Yes,”