The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,32
half-expected Sir Vincent to be marching behind her.
Instead, there was the English Channel, beautiful as ever. The poor weather had made the waves taller, stronger, more ferocious, and Portia was tempted to simply stare at the greenish water with its foamy crests.
But her eyes didn’t linger on the waves. Colin’s manservant and Jonesie were striding hand in hand together. Portia turned to Colin quickly. “Heavens.”
“I spy a little romance,” Colin whispered.
“Er—yes.” Portia’s cheeks warmed.
“You can hold my hand.” Colin’s dark eyes gleamed, and she noted the straightness of his nose, the chiseled manner of his cheeks, and his lips.
“The banister will do.” Portia’s voice rose another octave with an ease her singing instructor at her finishing school would have marveled at.
“But my hand is sturdier.”
“You don’t know that.”
He smirked.
“Well, very well. The path is icy, and a broken leg might cause you even more inconvenience. You’d probably try to climb up these slippery stairs with me. And where would that leave you?”
“Clasping a beautiful woman in my arms?”
Portia rolled her eyes. “With two broken legs.”
He smiled and took her hand. “How thoughtful.”
Portia ignored the odd jolt of energy that moved through her body at his touch. She refused to think of him in a mawkish manner. Marriage was far better founded on pragmatism than sentimentality.
Colin needed to find his own wife. A wife who was everything he decided after careful, meticulous elimination of other options. Not some woman whom he happened upon in a library and felt sorry for. Portia knew that. In fact, she was even more convinced: Colin was everything a woman would want, and it wasn’t simply because of his title.
No, she had to forget about his hasty proposal.
He turned to her. “I’ll promise I’ll get you back to London as soon as possible, but for now, you are my wife, my duchess.”
She nodded, silently, conscious all the moisture had drained from her throat, and hoping he wouldn’t require her to say anything. Simply gazing at him seemed sufficiently trying.
Colin kept his gaze on her, then leaned closer. Portia’s heart hammered furiously.
He was going to kiss her.
He was going to actually kiss her.
Instead, he grabbed hold of the door knocker, then tapped it against the door.
Portia’s shoulders eased, but for some reason, relief did not appear.
For three seconds, nothing happened, and it occurred to Portia that perhaps no one was home.
But then, the door swung open. A portly man with a shiny bald head that equaled the glossiness of the black door, the black-and-white marble floor, and the crystal chandelier that hung in the entry beamed.
“Your Grace!” the man said.
“Bowman, how nice to see you again,” Colin said. “I’m afraid we’re surprise guests. Are the duke and duchess here?”
“Indeed. You can join them in the drawing room.”
“Splendid.” Colin flashed his smile, and the butler assisted them with their coats.
“My manservant and my—er—wife’s maid are behind us.”
“I’ll see they get a hot meal in the kitchen,” Bowman said.
“Thank you,” Colin said.
Bowman leaned closer. “Congratulations on your wedding. I wasn’t aware.”
“We eloped,” Colin said.
“And now you can’t get a ship back to London.” The butler’s eye sparkled.
“How did you know?” Colin asked.
“The weather always surprises non-islanders,” the butler explained.
“Well then, you are becoming quite the local.”
“I am.” Bowman had a pleased expression on his face.
Cranston’s expression was always pained, as if he were going through Dante’s tribulations with each task, even though letter carrying and wine selecting in a nice house in the nicest neighborhood in the best city in the world shouldn’t have been an impossible burden.
Bowman didn’t resemble Cranston in the slightest, even though some butlers might have considered that being sent to an isolated part of the country, a part that wasn’t even well connected to the rest of England, might be unideal.
She followed Bowman to the library. Though the Duke and Duchess of Vernon did not live here the whole year, the place looked as if it had belonged to the family for generations. Every inch was perfect, as if someone had made certain no matter where a person was standing in the house, that everything needed to look ideal, the perfect place for some artist to set up his easel.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” Colin asked immediately. “Perhaps you would like a wrap?”
“I’m fine. Everything is splendid.”
She didn’t want to explain that the only thing that was making her shiver was nervousness. She’d thought Sir Vincent was very grand, since he was a baronet. Her father had not been titled, and now she wondered whether