The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,5

guests. Though Colin found both carriages and well-adorned guests generally enhancement to life, tonight they were worrisome. Guests had a propensity to recognize him, and Colin did not want to be recognized.

Not when he needed to sneak into Sir Seymour’s house to find documentation that would prove Sir Seymour’s estate had unlawfully taken over a portion of its neighboring estate.

He surveyed the building. A tree reclined toward a balcony. With any luck, the door leading to the balcony would be open, and he could slip in undetected. Colin might not have mastered every art—a fact his science tutors at Harrow had found it necessary to perpetually remind him—but tree climbing was one of his still lengthy list of accomplishments. He’d done a bit of tree climbing with the Duke of Vernon before the duke had gallivanted off to Guernsey with his new bride. Colin climbed trees elegantly, effortlessly—and in this case, he was certain to draw an audience.

A few people turned in his direction, and he stepped quickly into a shadow and pretended to observe the facade of another townhouse, with fewer guests streaming into it. He retained the corner of his gaze on Sir Seymour’s townhouse. Stairs led clearly down to the lower entrance...the servants’ entrance. Colin smiled, grateful he had foregone an evening tailcoat and pantaloons and, instead, gone with half-dress.

He strolled down the steps and knocked on the door to the servants’ entrance. A housemaid answered and stared at him with obvious suspicion. Well, he would be suspicious too. He flashed his largest smile, and she smiled slowly back.

Perfect.

Colin stepped inside. The housemaid’s smile vanished—evidently she required additional charm.

“Who are you?” the housemaid asked, and some other servants joined them in the tiny corridor.

“I’m the new footman.” Colin screwed his face into a confused expression. “Aren’t you expecting me?”

The housemaid surveyed him, and a dubious expression remained pasted on her face.

Colin strode in over the cobbled floor. Confidence was everything, and Colin had always possessed much of it.

“You can’t just come in,” the housemaid protested. “Our butler will be furious.”

“He’ll be furious if you don’t allow me inside,” Colin said smoothly.

“But he didn’t say anything about a new footman,” the housemaid said miserably.

“I’m just a temporary one,” Colin said. “For the ball tonight.”

“You’re dressed in terribly nice clothes.”

Colin gave a nonchalant shrug. “My employer is prone to give me his cast-offs.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Between you and me, he gives them to me too early. He’s a Bond Street enthusiast.”

“I see.” The housemaid craned her neck toward a busy kitchen. Cooks and undercooks dashed about the room, and footmen lined up to carry platters away. “The butler is upstairs...”

“And you wouldn’t want to disturb him.” Colin grabbed a platter, balanced it in his hand, and moved up the steps.

Guilt moved through him, but he ignored it. Sir Seymour was guilty of something much worse, and with any luck, no one besides the housemaid would even notice the townhouse had suddenly obtained an extra footman.

“Stop,” the maid said, and Colin froze.

CHAPTER THREE

PORTIA HAD NEVER GIVEN much consideration to her heart before, but now it thumped mightily. She was vaguely aware of her lower lip moving downward, and though she attempted to stop its descent, attempted to appear unshocked, unappalled, in this moment, she seemed powerless.

But then, she’d felt powerless this entire time.

“E-excuse me?” she stammered.

“I can marry you before Christmas,” Sir Vincent said with the self-congratulatory air of a man preparing for praise. “And then you will have fulfilled your father’s demand. You’ll be able to keep your money. You’ll be able to actually inherit.”

“I see,” she said softly. “So you would be my husband.”

He beamed. “Indeed.”

Something changed in his gaze. It was only for a moment. In truth, there was nothing terribly appalling about it. He didn’t seem angry, he didn’t seem mean. It seemed...triumphant. She associated the expression more with cricket players after they’d won a game. Portia wondered if he’d truly been showing her father’s last testament to multiple solicitors, or if there was another reason he’d delayed telling her.

The season was long over.

This was December, a time when people fled London. Even the most focused matchmaking mamas seemed to believe no romance could happen at this time of year, when there were no flowers to wonder at, no warm weather suited for long strolls, and if one did attempt to have a ball, all the women would appear with mud-stained hems.

Portia couldn’t find a husband now.

She hadn’t even been able to find