Page 108 of The Music of Love

Portia’s gaze flickered across the faces of the observers until she found Robert. He did look rather . . . intent. Just what was going on?

“He’s an idiot,” the earl said, slicing through her thoughts with his harsh indictment. His tone was no longer amused and he wasn’t staring at his son, but at the viscountess, who was chatting with a handsome older man, the same cool, supercilious smile on her face. “His wife is the perfect woman. The very pinnacle of breeding—everything our class has striven to produce.”

“You sound as though you’re describing a horse, my lord.”

The footman who’d been stationed behind him snorted, and then coughed to cover it.

The old man twisted in his chair. “You may go,” he snapped.

The unfortunate footman fled the ballroom as if the hangman of death was on his heels and the earl shot Portia a poisonous look. “You can be the one to push me about now, missy.”

“Ah, but you might not like where I push you, my lord.”

He laughed, his hawkish eyes narrow and hard. “Oh you’ve got fire, I’ll give you that. No doubt a gift from your mongrel father.”

Portia refused to take the bait and shrugged. “A fair trade for the musical ability I inherited.”

His skull-like face shifted into something that might have been a genuine smile. The expression was awkward, as though he hadn’t used it in at least fifty years. “You are correct in that; I wish you were playing tonight instead of this claptrap. My head is pounding already.”

“I did not see you in the receiving line, my lord.”

He gave another of his barking laughs. “I’m master here, not court jester.”

One of the houseguests, Baron Langston, strolled over to engage Broughton in conversation—or at least tried to. Portia listened with one ear, watching the dancers as she tried to think of a way to leave the ball without drawing attention. Stacy led Lady Elizabeth into the next set. He saw her watching and flashed her a quick smile. Portia returned his smile before she recalled he was in love with another woman, and then wrenched her eyes away only to encounter her father-in-law’s sharp stare. He was ignoring Langston, who was droning on about a hunter that was short in the back or some such drivel.

The earl’s smile was distilled spite; the man saw too much.

One of the young men who’d sat beside her at dinner came to request her hand for the next set but Portia declined. “I’m afraid I lack the energy this evening. But I do thank you for your kind offer.” Portia wasn’t lying; she was exhausted. She wasn’t even sure she could walk all the way back to her room—if she could find it.

Langston asked her a few unanswerable questions about horses and hunting and then began to pontificate on both topics and required no responses from either Portia or the earl. She looked over the couples on the dance floor but could not see Stacy. The group of men who’d been standing with him had dispersed and now three older ladies occupied the spot. Portia wondered if he’d gone to the room Rowena had set up for those who preferred cards to dancing. Without thinking she scanned the room for a distinctive redhead. But Katherine Charring was nowhere to be seen. Portia swallowed and kept her eyes on the dance floor, unwilling to let her father-in-law see her pain.

Two more sets passed and Portia declined yet another offer to dance. Stacy and Mrs. Charring had not returned and Langston, amazingly, was still talking about hunters and withers.

The Earl of Broughton yanked on her hand. “I’ve had quite enough of this foolishness.” He made no effort to keep his voice down and glared at the rotund peer beside him, whose plump, pleasant face was gaping down at him in shock.

“Take me out to the hall and send somebody to fetch my man,” Broughton said, using the same tone he would on the lowest scullery maid. Portia stared at him, considering her choice of responses. She finally decided she would carry him to his chambers herself if it meant being shed of his company.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Portia said to the stunned Langston. She pushed the earl through the clusters of people forming up for the next set.

“Goddamned windbag,” Broughton muttered loud enough that several people cast startled looks in their direction.

“At least he has good manners.”

“Ha! Manners, hey miss? What would the likes of you know about manners?”

“I know I have enough of them not to launch you and this chair off the balcony into the rose garden, my lord.”

Her threat tickled him so much she thought he might choke to death. Unfortunately, he recovered by the time they reached the grand staircase. While he caught his breath, Portia locked the brake on his chair and sent one of the footmen to fetch the earl’s valet.

“I’ve laughed more in your company than I have in years.” The old man wheezed, looking at her as though she should be proud of such a miraculous feat.

“I haven’t.”

He went into another fit of laughter mixed with coughing. Portia was staring at the handsome marble floor and listening to the last of the earl’s paroxysm when an enormous man hastened toward them.

“It’s about damn time,” the earl snarled. “What the devil have you been doing up there? Drinking my port, I’ll wager.” He gave his servant the same evil stare he bestowed on every living thing.

“Good night, my lord.” And good riddance! Portia turned to go but he reached out and caught her hand with one skeletal claw and yanked her back toward his chair. He was surprisingly strong for such a frail-looking old man.