A Touch of Passion (4 page)

Rose patted her hand. “I know. Are we not a pair? In love with men who see us as nothing more than pleasurable pursuits.”

“I don’t believe that of Grayson. He may be a rake of the first order, but he’s honorable. He would not have invited me to meet him if he did not have serious intentions. All of London knows he returned from Waterloo intent on taking a wife. War tends to awaken men’s fears of mortality.”

Grayson had been more attentive since Robert’s death. They had put aside the terrible night two years ago at the Cyprians’ Ball. Everything changed with grief. He’d lost his best friend, a man more like a brother, while she
had
lost her brother. They had become reunited by grief.

Rose patted Portia’s cheek and sighed. “Let us hope so. The alternative would ruin you, and I don’t wish to see that happen.”

Portia didn’t wish to be ruined either. She did, however, want Grayson.

“When did you realize he was the one?” Rose’s question interrupted her memories. “Can you remember?”

“Yes, I can remember,” she whispered. “I was with you at the time.”

Rose’s flawless skin wrinkled with a frown. “I didn’t notice any change in you. When I fell in love with Philip I thought everyone had noticed.”

“With five brothers I’ve learned to hide my emotions. Besides, I came down with the lung fever not long afterward.”

Rose smiled. “I think I know when it happened. Was it when he rescued the little lad who fell down the cliff?”

She simply nodded.

“It was an impressive rescue. While I rode for help, you stayed talking to the lad, keeping him as still as possible on the ledge about fifty feet down the cliff. By the time I got back with help, Grayson had climbed down and brought him up on his back. Very heroic.”

“I can still remember how fast and hard my heart was beating. One slip and both of them would have died. The thought of losing him … well, something inside budded into life. My head, my heart, and my body sang in unison that he would make a fine husband, lover, and friend. It was that simple. One minute he was an annoying male, and the next he filled my dreams.”

“Well, from the tone of his missive he wants to fulfill at least one of those three options, that of lover. Why else would he meet you here?”

“Perhaps to simply get to know me more intimately, and not in the physical sense. I mean me the woman.” Although she hoped for more.

Portia suddenly realized she was playing with the strands of pearls at her throat. They’d been a present from Grayson, given to her as she was recovering from her near-death fever shortly after the cliff incident.

It was after her illness that she’d made a vow to follow her heart. Her sickbed experience also made her see through Grayson’s external façade of charm and gaiety.

As she lay recuperating, she’d thought a lot about that day on the cliffs. When Grayson and the boy had made it to safety, clambering over the edge onto firm land, Grayson had handed the boy into her care. A look briefly flashed across his handsome face, an expression of anger and regret, as if he was disappointed he’d risked his life and survived. Then he’d bowed, swung onto his steed, completely ignoring the sudden surge of men who’d arrived with Rose, and without a word ridden off.

She’d watched him ride away until he was a dot on the horizon. However, the resigned look he’d flashed her in that moment remained embedded in her head. All the way home she’d tried to understand what she’d witnessed. What she did understand, and very clearly, was that the instant he’d started climbing down the cliff her heart had fallen under his spell. Why had she not noticed how handsome he was, how brave, how dashing? She doubted any of her brothers would have risked life and limb for anyone. He rescued the boy for no reward, later refusing to talk about it or receive any thanks.

It wasn’t until years later, after she’d witnessed several of Grayson’s heroic escapades, cumulating in his medals for bravery at Waterloo, that she’d understood his expression. It was the look of a man who did not care whether he lived or died.

A shiver shimmered through her, as though a ghost had entered the carriage. Since his return from the war she’d seen the same look in him. She’d overheard Philip telling her mother that Grayson was consumed with guilt over the burns Lord Markham had received while they fought together at the battle of Waterloo. Grayson had come to Flagstaff Castle for Christmas, and though he’d been friendly, he was not attentive. He’d shown no desire to form any kind of romantic attachment.

However, the day before he left, they had ridden over the estate together, and found themselves at the cliffs. She reminded him of that day many years ago. He smiled and said, “We are no longer the same people. Look at you, you’re beautiful, and all grown up. Why have you never married?”

His question had surprised her. She’d taken a deep breath, deciding to be honest. “The right man has never asked.”

He’d given her one of his smiles, a smile that made respectable women leave their morals in their closets, along with most of their clothes. “Perhaps it’s time the right man took notice.” With those cryptic words he’d kicked his stallion and raced off, as if he knew she’d need time alone to process his words. Did he mean himself, or was it simply a general statement?

Tonight, when his note had been delivered to her at Rose’s townhouse, hope had surged. He had requested that she meet him at the gate to Vauxhall Gardens. He had something urgent to ask her. Was he embarking on a courtship? If so, why had he suddenly summoned her? And why meet her here, in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, of all places? She had to admit that excitement flared in her at the idea of being in the pleasure gardens with Grayson.

She stared uncertainly at the crowded street. She risked her reputation and that of her family if she entered the dimly lit gardens. But surely Grayson’s intentions were honorable; he was the finest gentleman she knew. However, the niggle in her brain that she wanted to ignore was telling her that this was an odd place to meet, considering he’d never approved of her risqué behavior. She was too modern for him, and like most men, he did not approve of her cider mill.

Rose cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but what are you going to do? You have every right to be nervous. Perhaps he is testing you. If you come to him, you’re proving you’re unsuitable as wife material. Or perhaps he changed at Waterloo and he’s not the gentleman you thought him to be.”

Just then she spied him through the darkness. She was sure it was he standing under the lantern. He was wearing his favorite greatcoat—the dark blue one, with his family’s coat of arms on the large brass buttons. She could see them glinting under the lamplight. He stopped and looked directly at the carriage as if challenging her to come to him. She couldn’t make out his features, but she’d recognize his height and build anywhere. There were few men who were as tall or as broad.

Breathe.
This was the moment she had waited many years for, the chance to be with him. Her hand sought the latch to the carriage door.

“Is that him?” Rose asked.

She nodded, unable to form a coherent word.

“How can you tell? It’s so dark. It could be anyone.”

“It’s him. He’s staring at the coach as if he knows who is inside. Who else would know I’m traveling with you tonight? Besides, I recognize the coat.”

Rose’s eyes sought hers in the dim carriage, concern highlighting the fine lines around her eyes. “Are you sure?” At Portia’s nod, she added, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I wish I weren’t leaving town tonight. You must write me and tell me everything.”

Portia’s throat closed, and she hugged her friend. Rose whispered in her ear, “I wish you luck. There is nothing like giving yourself to the man you love.” She took Portia’s hands in hers and kissed her gloves. “No regrets.”

“No regrets.” It was their motto. Portia pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, hiding her person from prying eyes. She stepped down from the carriage, and before she closed the door she said, “Thank you, Rose. I won’t forget your kindness and counsel.”

“Be happy.”

Her happiness lay with Grayson. It was time to face her destiny. She squared her shoulders and signaled for her footman to follow. In no time at all Portia made her way across the verge toward the river, calling for Lord Blackwood.

Where the hell was his greatcoat? Grayson ran his hand through his hair and tried to remember. He was certain he’d had it two nights ago at White’s. Had he left it there? Timmins, his valet, swore he’d not seen it since then.

That night he
had
been slightly worse for drink. Not unusual of late. He drank to forget the screams coming from his friend Christian Trent as he lay burning on the ground, the flames consuming half his body. Grayson heard them every night in his dreams. The pain his friend must have been in …

“I’ll just have to wear the black one. However, Timmins, I do want it found. Do I make myself clear? It’s my favorite coat,” he added, pulling on his gloves.

He was off to the House of Lords. He was fulfilling his promise to Robert Flagstaff, his best friend, whom he had held dying in his arms on the battlefield. Robert wanted to ensure that his men, those who survived the war damaged but alive, would be financially secure when the war ended. So far it was a disgrace how the government was treating pensioned-out soldiers—men missing limbs or suffering from other injuries that made it impossible to work. There were so few of his peers who had seen war service that he had a lot of convincing to do if he was to see adequate pensions legislated.

He let Timmins help him on with the garment and was about to descend the stairs when there was a commotion below in the entrance hall. He strode to the landing and looked down.

Philip Flagstaff, Earl of Cumberland, had walked in without waiting to be admitted. His face had aged beyond his years. Philip blamed himself for Robert’s death, and part of Grayson agreed. He mentally shook the thought away. That was unfair—they were both to blame. Robert had died in
his
arms. He hadn’t gotten to him in time, just as he hadn’t been able to save Christian from his fate either. Why was it those he loved died or suffered grievous injury while he remained unscathed?

“I was just heading out to an appointment, Philip.” Grayson still couldn’t bring himself to call him Cumberland. Robert should have been the earl.

He had a meeting with the Bow Street Runners, who had information pertaining to Christian’s case. He’d hired them to find out information about who had framed his friend. The Duke of Barforte had shanghaied Christian Trent, Earl of Markham, to Canada, accusing Grayson’s friend and fellow Libertine Scholar of raping his daughter. It wasn’t true, of course, and Grayson was doing everything to gather evidence to acquit his friend before Christian sailed home. He owed him.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. May I speak with you, in private?” Philip’s countenance screamed that he had a problem.

With a sigh Grayson motioned Philip toward his study as he pulled off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat, the ever-present Timmins there to catch it.

“I can see you need a brandy,” Grayson said. He went to the sideboard and poured them both a drink while Philip paced in front of the window. “Stop wearing my carpet to a rag and sit. All that pacing is making my eyes cross.” He sank into the chair behind his desk.

“Have you seen Portia of late?”

“Portia? Not since my last visit to Flagstaff Castle. I didn’t even know she was in town.”

“If it were anyone but you … if I did not know of your promise to Robert to be Portia’s guardian … I’d shoot you where you sit. There is a rumor that last night you had a secret liaison with her in Vauxhall Gardens—”

“I most certainly did not.”

“—and that, once finished, you left her there.” Philip’s gaze could have sliced the strongest steel.

Anger rose swiftly until it thrummed in Grayson’s ears, and he almost missed Philip’s final words.

“Apparently you placed a large wager at White’s that you could get Lady Portia into a compromising position.”

Grayson thumped the table, but Philip ignored it. “That’s when I knew it wasn’t you. You’d never have placed a bet on compromising a lady. Especially not Portia, Robert’s sister.”

“I would never dishonor your sister.”

“True, but she would happily dishonor you. Everyone knows it.”

Grayson could not hide the heat flaming his cheeks. An image of Portia pushed up against the wall, her plump breast in his mouth, entered his mind, and his body tightened, as it always did when he thought of her.

“She is like a sister to me,” Grayson ground out.

Philip’s slight smirk showed he wasn’t fooled.

“What exactly do you wish me to do about this?” Grayson asked. “I gather her reputation has been damaged further.”

Philip looked at his hands. “I know her feelings for you, but what are your feelings for her? Guarding her reputation was never one of her interests, and this has sealed her fate.”

“Surely I can prove it was a hoax. She must have witnesses, those who can vouch as to where she was last night.”

“That’s the problem, and that’s why I need your help. Part of me had hoped it was true and that she would be here with you.”

“With me? You obviously need my help or else you would not be here. You have not wanted my company since we returned from the war.”

Philip’s cheeks burned red. “Portia is missing.”

Grayson’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered the crystal glass to his desk, struggling to breathe. Another nightmare was playing out. He’d known this sort of thing would happen one day. Portia was reckless, beautiful, and moneyed, a prime target for any madman or peer in need of a purse. She thumbed her nose at convention and rode unescorted, went to places she had no business visiting, and thought she was clever enough to talk her way out of any situation.

Of course, knowing Portia, he thought she might simply have run off to experience an adventure.

The silence lengthened as Philip sank into a chair, dropping his head in his hands.