Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (41 page)

Portia was fixed against the door as if glued there. "Of course I do. That's why this whole thing is so absurd. No one marries a person they have met only a handful of times."

"But such very interesting meetings." He poured the wine and came over to offer her a glass.

After a moment, Portia took it and drank, hoping to steady her nerves. She was trapped here with Bryght, but at least it was a study not a bedroom. The only furniture was two upholstered chairs by the fire, some small tables, a desk, and many bookshelves. The shelves were not filled with elegant leather-bound philosophers, however, but with ledgers, bundles of papers, and almanacs.

It seemed businesslike and that was a safe thing to focus on rather than his casual attire, his smile, and his overwhelming presence. How could her wretched body be shivering with excitement just to be in a room with this man?

Seeking a commonplace topic of conversation, she walked over to the desk. "What were you doing here?"

"Putting my affairs in order."

Her hand flinched in the act of touching a paper. "This doesn't look like a will."

"No. It's actually details of some investigations to do with guano." At her questioning look, he said, "Bird droppings."

Portia turned away sharply. "There's no need to make fun of me, my lord. I apologize for my vulgar curiosity."

"I am not making fun." He was behind her then, taking her cloak. She turned, but it was gone and in truth it had been too hot for this room.

"Portia," he said gently, "we do need to talk. Come sit by the fire. I promise, I have no evil intentions."

She allowed herself to be placed in a chair by the fire and sipped the wine. The lightest touch of his hand on her arm had been like fire, but she must remember that he didn't want to marry her. He had withdrawn his offer, even at danger to his life.

"Perhaps I should apologize," she said. "Your brother implied that I am the cause of your troubles, my lord, and he is right." She looked up seriously. "That's why I had to do something. Neither you nor Fort are to blame for this. It would not be fair for you to fight."

He had taken the opposite chair and lounged there, far too beautiful in the firelight for her composure. "You are not blameless. But your brother takes the greater share. And if Fort and I fight, it will be little to do with you. The quarrel goes deeper than that."

"What quarrel?"

"Our families have been at odds for years. The old earl hated Rothgar. Of course, Rothgar is the sort of man the old earl despised—despite everything he was a genuine prude—but they clashed on other matters. Rothgar was one of the few willing to take on Walgrave, the Incorruptible."

Portia sipped her wine, the commonplace nature of this conversation soothing her. "But Fort isn't like his father. He's hardly a prude and I doubt he even shared his politics. Why would the feud continue?"

"Perhaps there's a tendency to offer reverence for the dead by continuing their causes...." After a moment, he added, "The trouble was exacerbated by matters to do with my youngest brother and his bride, Lady Chastity Ware. You must know Chastity."

"Yes, a little. But the earl's daughters were guarded and not permitted to mingle much with lesser mortals. Did Fort not want your brother to marry his sister?"

"Not particularly, but you must have heard of the scandal that surrounded Chastity. That she was caught with a man in her bed?"

"But it was all a mistake, I understand."

"Indeed it was, but it took a great deal of maneuvering to establish that. Particularly as her father had spread the lie to begin with."

"The earl! Why would he do that?"

"It's complex, but unraveling it caused his death. Fort blames us for that."

Portia had a sudden insight. "And unraveling it involved that letter, didn't it? That's why you were in the earl's house in Maidenhead."

He nodded. "Exactly. Fort would be happy to do any Malloren an ill turn, though I doubt he actually wants to kill me. He's more subtle than that. He wants, I believe, to have us married."

Portia looked down at her glass. "An ill turn," she echoed, trying not to show how much that hurt. "The Trelyns also wish to punish you with me."

"How very obtuse of them."

Portia looked up to see that he was watching her, watching her like a hawk. That reminded her of what he was besides wonderful, and she leaped to her feet to put the room between them. "There is no need to be polite, my lord. Having had time to think, I believe I understand the situation very well." Portia stared at a fine picture of a foreign land, a sun-washed land of spice. "It was gallantry that drove you to purchase me at Mirabelle's. I see now that no one would wish to do such a thing. I was disguised, but you were known. I'm sorry for accusing you of selfish desires."

"You are forgiven."

He sounded almost amused, but she did not dare look at him. "And I'm sure you never did intend to make improper advances to me in the square that day. It was entirely my ridiculous assumption...."

"True enough."

She bit her unsteady lips. "And I should never have suggested you were lying to me about that quotation."

"I'm amazed," he remarked. "I had no idea I was so entirely innocent. Can you whitewash my behavior at Lady Willoughby's, too?"

She turned, warily. "You jest, my lord, but it's true. It is my folly and my brother's that has caused the problems. It would be the grossest injustice for you to suffer for it."

"Undoubtedly. So, Lady Willoughby's? Come, at least attempt it."

She could not understand him. "It appears to me that you do not take this seriously enough, my lord. It is your life we speak of."

"I realize that, but I'm still curious as to the interpretation you can put on the Affair Willoughby."

She frowned at his levity. "Very well, you were a little to blame. You shouldn't have trapped me into a wager, and you shouldn't have made the forfeit such an intimate one."

That recalled another intimate wager and Portia blushed, praying he would not refer to it. Here, in a civilized room, with a gentleman fairly decently dressed, it was possible to try to forget that other occasion. Possible, but not easy once the memory was stirred.

His lids were lowered in a way that concealed his thoughts and made him deeply mysterious. "What other price could you have met, Hippolyta?"

"Don't call me that!"

"But I like it. Don't fear, I won't call you that in public. In bed, now..."

Alarm shivered through her. "There is no question of bed between us, my lord."

"Alas, there probably isn't. Or not in the near future. So what would you rather have paid at the Willoughbys'?"

"I don't know. Sixpence. A pair of embroidered slippers. An apple pie..."

He raised a brow. "What wondrous things you carry in the pockets beneath your evening gown."

She glared at him. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, but I have no need of money, or pies, or embroidered slippers, and I wanted you to kiss me. As much as you wanted to kiss me. As much as you want to kiss me now."

Portia stiffened. "No, I don't."

"Ladies shouldn't lie either, you know."

"Are you saying you want to kiss me now?"

"Oh yes. Absolutely."

At the tone of his voice, Portia shivered. "Why?" she demanded faintly.

"Still so innocent? In the natural desire that it will go as it did the other night, and that Rothgar will not return for an hour or so. Why else?"

She raised a hand to her heaving chest. "You are still trying to ruin me?"

His eyes snapped open, sparking anger. "It appears you are still trying to insult me." Then his tone softened. "I have every expectation of marrying you, Portia, and I have no objection to anticipating the ceremony."

"But you don't have to marry me," she protested, feeling as if she were trying to explain matters to a simpleton. "You say there will be no duel, and I realize now that what happened at Lady Willoughby's was not so terrible. Even if my reputation is tarnished, I'm headed for a life of obscurity where no one will care a fig."

He stood and came toward her. "I, however, am not. I must continue to move in Society. I have no intention of being dogged by rumors that I raped a woman and abandoned her to a life of dismal shame in the provinces."

She backed away. "I will tell the world it is not true."

"From Dorset? And half the world will not believe you, no matter what you say."

He was only feet away now. She was reminded of Maidenhead where his size and purpose had defeated her opposition.

"Are you saying I must marry you to save
your
reputation?" she asked faintly.

His eyes twinkled. "Precisely. And our subsequent delight and happiness will kill any shreds of doubt." He pulled her into his arms.

She braced her hands against his chest. "There must be another way."

"Can you see it?"

Her arms lost strength and she was against him. "No."

His fingers moved into her hair.

"What...?"

"I am completing the disintegration of your hair arrangement. I've had a driving desire to see it long and loose since our first meeting."

The pins were gone and his hands threaded gently through her hair and spread it. "It is fire in the firelight...."

"My lord," said Portia faintly, "this is madness...."

"Then let us be mad." And he kissed her.

The power of it almost buckled her knees, but she struggled for sanity and wrenched her mouth away. "My lord, this is wrong."

He captured her hair and looked into her eyes. "We will marry on Wednesday. Do not deny me now."

Something she saw there—a need, a wanting—almost melted Portia's resistance, but she tried one more time. "We need not marry. We need not. There must be a way."

"There is not You are my wife. Surrender to me."

Desire—a raw need created in her by this man—hovered, ready to strike, but still Portia resisted. "It would bind us...."

"We are already bound." He swept her into his arms and carried her toward the fire to lay her on the carpet there. She felt sudden heat along her body, but she was no hotter there than inside, where wild passion flickered.

She was a wanton. Decent, proper Portia St. Claire had fallen away like a shell to reveal the creature beneath, a creature of desires, a lover of sensation, a woman who lusted after this man and the pleasure he could bring.

He stripped off his shirt and tugged the ribbon from his hair so he looked just as he had at Mirabelle's. Portia just lay there, hair loose, skirts disordered, drinking in the sight of him.

He knelt by her and cradled her cheek. "Firelight becomes you. You are a creature of flame, Hippolyta, and very beautiful."

And Portia, in the mirror of his eyes, felt beautiful. "I'm wicked," she murmured, a lingering protest of her other self.

"I love your wickedness. May I see more of you?"

When she made no protest, he unfastened the front of her gown and spread it to reveal her stays and plain petticoat. She knew she should stop him, but she did not, though the last tatters of her modesty had her wishing to cover her stays at the front.

He drew her to sitting, easing the gown off her, his hands spreading hot against her bare upper back. As he kissed her shoulder, her neck, the swell of her breasts, she stared helpless at the wall, but then the flickering heat of it had her arching back against his strong arm. He brushed a hand across her already sensitive breasts.

"I touch you and you sing like a harp," he murmured. "Let us make music...."

"Bryght, truly we should not. This is wrong. This is foolish...."

"We are as good as married."

He standing in her shift and stays and tried to conceal herself.

He pulled her to his feet, he half-naked, she half-dressed.

In the passionate heat of his gaze the last crystals of her resistance melted. She blushed and laughed shakily. "If I'd known, I'd have worn my best underwear."

He traced the simple linen-over-bone of her stays. "I will give you exquisite garments of silk and lace and love you in and out of them, but at this moment, these are perfect."

He deftly unknotted the laces and pulled the strings loose so her stays, too, fell to the carpet. Portia's frantic conscience tried to remind her that his very dexterity proved he was not a decent man, but it was drowned out by the clamor of her senses.

She wanted him. She wanted him so badly that it was a physical ache.

His hands cherished her liberated torso over the plain cotton of her shift, making the ache worse. "Now you look a little like my Hippolyta, but much prettier."

"I'm not pretty," she protested, grasping his wrists. "Truly I'm not!"

"Am I bewitched, then? It doesn't matter, for I am happy with it." He twisted free, captured her right hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches. "See."

She tried to pull away, but he held her there.