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The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of activity for Portia, until she found herself alone on the terrace with the dashing earl. “Do tell me a story, my lord,” she said.
“Of what would you like to hear, my lady?”
“Something scandalous,” she said, her voice low. “Tell me of a young maiden being courted by two suitors, one dark, one blond. Tell me what they both wish to do to her in private.”
The Perils of Portia will continue…
1
Lady Patricia Price-Adams, known to most of her acquaintances simply as Tricia, perched on the edge of her grand four-poster bed, a stolen underground magazine between her fingers. The forbidden inked words seemed to dance before her eyes, each salacious detail more shocking than the last. An unwed lady of the peerage with such boundless sensual experience? Who would continue her secret trysts once she was married? Tricia couldn’t wait to read more.
Lady Sarah Keating, Tricia’s dearest friend and confidant, had discovered this hidden gem within the clandestine folds of her maid’s linens. And now, here it was, igniting a spark of wild curiosity in Tricia’s soul.
Tricia and Sarah were both on the cusp of their societal debuts, and Sarah had insisted that a glimpse into the unspoken escapades of ladies and gentlemen in the bedchamber would be enlightening. But the stories within The Ruby blurred the lines of propriety so thoroughly that Tricia doubted the honorifics of gentleman or lady could be reasonably applied to their characters.
The bedchamber around her whispered tales of luxury she’d only known for the past three years. She was still enthralled by all of it. Gilded frames embraced paintings of pastoral scenes and ancestors with stern gazes who would surely have disapproved of her reading material. The walls were adorned with richly patterned wallpaper the color of deep burgundy with swirls of gold that caught the light from the flickering candles in sconces. It created an atmosphere both warm and suffocating, much like the society outside her door.
Nearby, a plush chaise longue invited repose, its velvet upholstery a shade of emerald-green that complemented the room’s opulence. Delicate lace draperies billowed gently at the windows, parting just enough to permit slivers of the waning afternoon sun. It bathed the chamber in a soft glow that highlighted the vanity opposite the bed.
Tricia scanned the pages eagerly, drinking in every lurid detail as she partook in the erotic fiction.
I’d love to taste your sweet nectar, Lady Portia.
Tell me of a young maiden being courted by two suitors, one dark, one blond. Tell me what they both wish to do to her in private.
What might it be like to feel such unrestrained passion, to step outside the confines of her gilded cage? Her fingertips absently drifted to the pearls that adorned her throat, a gift from her grandfather, the Marquess of Denbigh.
Oh!
The marquess would be shocked at what she was reading, even though he was only her grandfather because of an illicit dalliance he had once shared with a housemaid.
The clock chimed three times in the distance, its dulcet tones echoing through the silence. She wanted to continue her reading, but when someone knocked at her door, she startled, hastily folding the paper and stowing it beneath a few plush pillows.
She rose from her bed, hoping she looked nonchalant, though her cheeks were burning. As she opened the heavy oak door, it creaked, revealing her maid, Trudy, whose presence was as comforting as the warm hearth on a winter’s day.
“Pardon me, my lady,” Trudy said, a tremor of urgency in her voice. “Your presence is requested in the parlor.”
“For what purpose?”
“I cannot say, my lady. The countess… She’s in distress.” Trudy’s eyes mirrored her concern.
Tricia gasped, and she clasped her hand to her lips to muffle the sound. The countess was Tricia’s sister-in-law, Rose, who was married to her brother, Cameron, heir to the Marquess of Denbigh. Rose was a gentle and contented soul, so her tears were no trivial matter.
Urgency lent speed to Tricia’s steps as she hastened to the parlor, nearly colliding with her younger sister, Lady Katrina Price-Adams, a sprite of ten with light-brown hair and eyes.
“Tricia,” Katrina said, “what is going on?”
Tricia mustered a smile, though it felt as brittle as thin ice. “We shall find out together, Kitty Kat.” She placed her hand gently on her sister’s shoulder.
They descended the winding staircase, passing servants whose whispers darted about like startled sparrows, their routines disrupted as they prematurely prepared tea.
“It’s too early for tea,” Katrina murmured, her young brow creased.
“Yes, love,” Tricia replied, her own nerves taut as violin strings.
Hand in hand, the sisters stepped into the parlor, a room now heavy with a sorrow that clung to the opulent draperies and the plush midnight-blue brocade of the davenport. There, they found their mother, Lady Clementine Price-Adams, a pillar of strength even as her eyes betrayed her concern.
But it was Rose who drew Tricia’s gaze. Still blond and beautiful but weeping softly, she was cradled in Cameron’s protective embrace.
