have cinnamon in it?” Colin asked.
The publican beamed. “And nutmeg.”
“Gracious.”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
Good wasn’t the word Colin would use to describe it. Atrocious would be a more apt description, though the publican might not appreciate the preciseness of that particular word.
“Is this for Christmas?”
“Best season in the world.”
“I think I need another drink,” Colin said faintly. “Though—er—perhaps you can hold the spices.”
The publican frowned. “I have mulled wine if you prefer. Or egg nog.”
“That’s not necessary,” Colin said.
The publican shrugged, and soon Colin drank his fresh brandy.
Then he drank another brandy.
And finally, he drank another brandy.
It was far better to drink brandy than to think about Portia.
Finally, the world dulled and became blurry. The Christmas music softened, and the candles danced with such fortitude he could almost ignore the red ribbons tied to each candlestick.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PORTIA ROSE RELUCTANTLY when Jonesie woke her. Her night had been full of the uneven sleep of one who fears she might be making a mistake.
“Time to go to the ship,” Jonesie said. “Are you certain you won’t accept the duke’s kind offer?”
“Of course. I could never permit him to act on such impulsivity.”
“I think he’s genuine.”
“Perhaps now, but I don’t want him to resent me later. I couldn’t stand that.”
An odd look flickered over Jonesie’s face.
“What is it?” Portia asked.
“Nothing.” Jonesie helped Portia pull her dress over her shift. “You just strike me as caring for him.”
“Perhaps.” Portia sighed. “Heavens, I’ll have to look for governess positions when I return.”
“Just don’t mention your adventure to Guernsey.”
“I’ve been so foolish,” Portia said miserably.
“Come now,” Jonesie said. “Let’s get you to the ship. It’s a nice day—it even snowed last night.”
“Snow!” Portia smiled. “Just in time for Christmas!” Her face saddened. “Though this won’t be an enjoyable Christmas.”
Jonesie squeezed her hand, and the women exited the room. Colin and his manservant were waiting for them in the public house with food.
Colin gave her a grim smile. “I suppose you haven’t changed your mind?”
She shook her head.
“Then let’s return to London,” he said.
“Very well.” Portia nodded.
They left the inn and proceeded toward the ship. It sailed toward them, but the masts and sails weren’t what Portia focused on. Snow dotted the landscape. It covered the pastel houses and every road.
“It’s beautiful,” Portia breathed.
Colin smiled at her. “Indeed.”
They strode toward the harbor. Portia’s nostrils contracted at the brisk, frigid air.
“It’s a pity we couldn’t be here longer,” Jonesie remarked.
Portia’s face stiffened, but she forced herself to smile.
“It’s good there’s another ship,” Colin said. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance to marry Mr. Andrews after all.”
“I doubt there will be time for that,” Portia said.
“You mustn’t give up hope,” Colin said with his customary confidence.
“Well, that would be preferable to her marrying her guardian,” Jonesie declared cheerfully.
Colin scrunched his forehead together. “He’s surely not a contender?”
“He offered to marry me so I could retain my fortune,” Portia said.
“And he didn’t tell her about the clause in the will that would have her lose everything until it was almost too late,” Jonesie continued with the peculiar glee unique to sharing good gossip.
Colin widened his eyes.
“The duke doesn’t need to know everything,” Portia said.
Jonesie’s cheeks pinkened. “Of course, Miss.”
Portia didn’t want Colin to feel sorry for her. Not after he’d offered to marry her. That had been a good and honorable thing, and the man should only feel pleasant emotions.
They neared the ship, which was now anchored. A shore boat was being lowered with passengers. No doubt, they would take the shore boat to the ship once it arrived.
Brisk air rustled the long strands of yellow and green grass, and they rolled pleasantly, as if seeking to rival the waves. Trees bent forward, and their few leaves rustled, as if delighting in the sudden athleticism. Foamy waves moved quickly up the gold pebbled beach.
“There’s bad weather,” the man said. “That ship ain’t going anywhere until the weather clears. It’s certainly not going to London.”
Portia glanced at Colin.
“It doesn’t seem that dreadful.” Colin tilted his head, as if half-expecting to find a fleet of steel clouds. “Just a few snowflakes.”
“That’s not how the captain will feel,” the fisherman said. “You mark my words.”
“Well, we’ll just speak with him ourselves,” Colin said.
Nervousness moved through Portia, and she stared at the sky. Snowflakes landed on her nose and cheeks, and she swept them away, staring at the pretty shapes.
Perhaps the snow wasn’t simply pretty. Perhaps it was every bit as ominous as the fisherman claimed.
Portia didn’t have that much money. She couldn’t just take a