by Jason
She longed to call his bluff, but knew she was mastered here. “You promise? One kiss and it will be over?”
“I promise.”
“You will leave me alone? Cease stalking me?”
His eyes widened. “Stalking? Is that what I’m doing? But yes, if that is your wish I will leave you alone after a proper kiss, a lover’s kiss.”
Portia sensed that this was another wager. He was betting that after a kiss she wouldn’t want to be left alone, but would continue into his bed. She was betting that she could resist. It seemed horribly like their wager the night before, one she had lost resoundingly.
But this was different. There was no nakedness, and it was just a kiss.
She swallowed nervously. “I know little of lovers’ kisses, my lord. You must excuse me if my effort is feeble.”
“If your effort is feeble, I will tutor you until you get it right.”
Portia’s heart began to pound, and she licked suddenly dry lips. “This is not fair,” she whispered.
“Yes it is. Just apply your lips to mine, dear gamester, and follow your instincts. . . .”
She leaned forward tentatively, but he leaned away, sliding sideways until he was against the arm of the chaise and she was along him rather than in his lap. “My lord!”
“Much more comfortable. You are on top. You are in control. I am not even holding you. Just your lips to mine, Portia, but remember we are lovers. . . .”
He made it not a fantasy, but a statement of fact. Her body hummed with agreement, already remembering another time and another place.
“Oh dear.”
He smiled into her eyes. “Can you say with truth that you do not want to kiss me, fair one?”
Portia not only wanted to kiss him, she wanted to do—in a small way—what he had done to her. She remembered Nerissa’s revenge. Could she kiss Bryght and summon his desire, then send him on his way forbidden to seek her out in future?
“A kiss and you will leave me alone?” she asked again.
“If you still want to be left alone.”
So Portia leaned forward, but found she could not balance without resting her arms on his shoulders. His coat was velvet and beautifully soft against her palms.
She eased down closer and his smell reached her—a touch of perfume, and another smell, his smell. . . .
When their lips touched, his moved in greeting but they made no assault. She pressed a little closer and he parted his lips so a moist, intimate heat tickled her. She moved back then, but his hands came around to hold her there.
“You aren’t finished yet, I hope.”
“I don’t know what to do! Truly I don’t.”
“Try this.” He tilted his head slightly so their lips fit together better. His hand slid into her hair and played gently on her scalp. “Your own hair is so much more beautiful,” he whispered. “So silky, so alive . . .”
Her scalp was a place he hadn’t been able to explore the night before, and now his touch there was so sweet she gasped.
“That’s right,” he murmured against her open lips. “A lovers’ kiss is intimate, Portia, a lowering of all barriers, a tasting of the heart. We have never had a true lovers’ kiss. Relax now and kiss me. . . .”
One hand roamed her back and she could hardly help but relax, but she did not know what he meant about a tasting of the heart until she tasted him.
Last night he had tasted of that perfumed oil. It had been erotic, but not sweet. Now the flavor was all his own, and delicious. Her body recognized it and moved as it had learned to move, pressing closer despite hoops and stays, stirring a muted, sensuous rustle of silk.
She was vaguely aware of him continuing to touch her— her scalp, her nape, her spine. Drawing her close against him . . .
“You said no hands,” she protested.
He immediately stopped.
That was better. He was affected, she knew it, and she had always been told that men’s passions were stronger and wilder than women’s. Just a little longer, then, and he would be desperate for her.
As she kissed him again, Portia let her hands explore his skin by feel alone. He was cleaner shaven tonight, and almost smooth. His hair was less silky because of the powder. The muscles of his neck were firm and she felt his blood beating there, fast and strong. Her memory showed her his bare neck, his magnificent naked torso. . . .
Dear lord! Almost too late, she recognized her danger, recognized that she was affected as much as he. She drew back, but immediately he snared her and rolled so she was under him.
She struggled then, and silk ripped.
“Hell,” he muttered, ceasing his assault and moving off her a little to inspect the damage to her gown.
Portia was shocked that he could control his passion so swiftly. For a moment there he had been wild for her, she knew he had. She pulled his head down and kissed him again.
After a startled moment, he laughed and kissed her back. Soon he was kissing her as she wanted to be kissed, as he had kissed her last night, with all his body. She started to laugh too, laughing into his mouth even as they kissed.
Then they rolled again and fell off the narrow sofa, landing in a tangle of silk and velvet with him on top. Wild laughter won, and their mouths roamed, tasting, nipping. . . .
This was madness, and Portia knew it, but it was the sweetest madness the world had ever known. His hand was under her skirt now and she didn’t care!
At least, she did care, but only that it complete its anticipated journey. Last night he hadn’t touched her bare thigh. Tonight he was going to touch higher—
“Cousin Portia!” It was the horrified voice of Lord Trelyn.
Bryght’s hand froze.
Portia looked up to see his eyes turn suddenly cool and watchful. Then he smiled at her in reassurance. With remarkable efficiency, he got them to their feet in good order to face Lord Trelyn.
Then, only then, did Portia come to her senses and realize what she had done. She didn’t understand how it had happened, but she had finally proved her mother correct. She had tempted fortune, she had thought herself cleverer than others, and now she had lost all.
For it was not only Lord Trelyn who had seen them. Stately Lady Willoughby was with him, and from behind peered a footman and a wide-eyed maid. The story would be all over Town in hours.
Dear God, now she understood Oliver, who had always thought he would win the next time.
Portia turned to hide her face against the nearest convenient object—Bryght’s chest—then pushed away with revulsion.
“Come come, Cousin Portia,” said Lord Trelyn. “After such a disgusting exhibition, you cannot persuade us Lord Bryght was forcing himself upon you.”
Portia realized one side of her bodice was ripped, and there was real danger that her breast could be exposed. She clutched it closed. “I am not trying to persuade you of anything,” she said shortly. She tried to work her pearl brooch free one-handed so she could use it to mend the gown.
Bryght came to help her but she turned angrily away. It was his fault. He had started all this.
“We will talk later,” said Lord Trelyn coldly. “Where is my wife?”
Portia turned at that, the whole sorry situation flooding back. What should she do now? Perhaps it no longer mattered, for she was surely ruined anyway.
But the adjoining door opened and Nerissa came out, perfectly in order and mildly curious. “What is all this commotion? What is going on?”
Lord Trelyn went to his wife, but managed a quick glance into the small anteroom as well. “What have you been doing, my dear?” His tone was moderate but suspicious.
Nerissa leaned into his arms. “I felt a little unwell, Trelyn. The smell of the food turned my stomach, so Portia kindly escorted me here.” She turned to her hostess. “I am sorry for invading your private rooms, Lady Willoughby, but I needed a few moments of peace. My condition, you know . . .” Then she turned to Portia in wide-eyed innocence. “Why, whatever has been going o
n?”
“I came seeking you,” said Lord Trelyn, “and found your cousin and Lord Bryght in a most improper situation.”
Nerissa’s eyes widened. “Cousin Portia!” she exclaimed. “I am astonished. There is nothing for it, though, but marriage.”
Portia abandoned her attempt to loosen the brooch. “Certainly not!”
“But it is essential,” said Nerissa earnestly, “or you will have no scrap of reputation left, not even if you fight . . . like an Amazon.”
Portia gasped and looked to Bryght. Surely he could find a way out of this tangle, for he could want it no more than she.
But he took a slow, elegant pinch of snuff. “I am, of course, completely happy to marry Miss St. Claire. Our passion proves to be both overwhelming and delightful, so once it is sanctified, we can all be a great deal more comfortable.”
Lady Willoughby muttered, “Well, really!”
“I am glad all will be so properly managed,” said Lord Trelyn with unexpected enthusiasm. “We will arrange it, and within the week.”
Portia felt as if she were being tangled in a web. “I will not marry him!”
At a pointed look from Nerissa, however, she fell silent. She was not truly accepting defeat, just postponing discussion. There could be no reason for Nerissa to be forcing this match, and once they had a moment’s conversation it could be sorted out.
“We will leave privately,” said Lord Trelyn. “Lady Willoughby, if you could arrange for our cloaks.” He turned to Bryght. “Since Miss St. Claire is cousin to my wife, I have some responsibility. I will see you tomorrow to discuss settlements?”
Bryght bowed. “I am at your service, Trelyn.” He turned to Portia and undid the brooch. When she tried to resist, he murmured, “Show some wisdom, mignon.” His face was completely unreadable, but he did not look angry or alarmed. He must already see the way out of this.
So Portia relaxed as he pinned her gown together, but she tried not to show how the light touches of his fingers sent shivers along her over-sensitized nerves.
When he’d finished, he touched his lips to hers. “We will talk later,” he said softly. “Good night, sweet wanton.”
With an ironic bow to the Trelyns he left the room.
Portia inhaled deeply, relieved to have Bryght gone. She couldn’t think straight with him in the room. Now her brain was clearing and she saw she had nothing to fear. In the calm of the morning, the unfortunate events could be explained away.
“A Malloren,” snapped Lord Trelyn. “I am most disappointed in you, Cousin Portia. For a lady under my protection to behave in such a way . . .”
He went on at length, and Portia decided it was wisest just to hang her head and accept the lecture. She deserved it for allowing wanton lust to overcome restraint and good sense. And for wagering. As Bryght said, it must be in her blood. She was fortunate that the consequences would not be a great deal worse.
The lecture continued in the coach all the way back to Trelyn House, but as Portia’s shock began to fade she realized some disquieting things. She suspected that Lord Trelyn was acting as he thought he should rather than speaking out of deep feeling. There was no real anger in him, and a glance caught an expression in his eyes that could have been glee.
And though Nerissa contributed a few exclamations of shock and horror, the same glance showed that she looked as content as a cream-filled cat. That could just be satisfaction with her lover, but Portia didn’t think so. The way Nerissa was looking at her was most disquieting.
But why would Portia’s disgrace so please these two? She had done nothing to hurt them. On the other hand, Nerissa had certainly felt spiteful toward Bryght Malloren.
Once back at Trelyn House, Portia was sent to her bed rather like a naughty child, but she was pleased enough to escape.
As she prepared for bed, she berated herself for foolishness. She had thought she could control her wanton nature, but she knew that only Lord Trelyn’s arrival had saved her from true ruin. She would never be so foolish again.
She had to accept that her normally sensible body turned mad in the arms of Bryght Malloren. Even now, a small part of her was hoping the dreadful marriage would come to pass so she could taste the full cup of passion.
She suddenly imagined Bryght Malloren, naked, here in her bed, awaiting her. . . .
Oh, this was ridiculous!
She settled into the warm empty bed, assuring herself that she wanted nothing whatever to do with Bryght Malloren, notorious rake and gamester.
Then you should have stopped kissing him when you’d paid your debt, shouldn‘t you?
Portia turned and beat her pillow into shape, wishing she could beat her conscience into the form that suited her.
And you never would have fallen into this predicament if you hadn‘t allowed yourself to be lured into a wager.
And that was true. Bryght had trapped her like the hawk he was, leading her to believe that she was sure to win, and thus tempting her to wager far more than she should.
“I will never wager again,” she said out loud. “Never.”
With that settled she had to face the consequences of her folly. For this brief moment, she was betrothed to Bryght Malloren! She squashed a spurt of excitement and reminded herself that the one thing she required in a husband was that he be trustworthy, and certainly not a gamester.
Not even a handsome gamester who could drive her mad with a touch.
No one could force her into marriage. There was no pressure that would make her go willingly, and Lord Hardwick’s Act of ten years past had outlawed force. These days, marriages had to be properly solemnized in a sanctioned place, and all parties had to be clearly willing.
As her nerves steadied, Portia laughed a little at her folly. What did she fear? Bryght Malloren drugging her and dragging her to the altar? He must be as dismayed as she at their situation. It was just possible that he wanted a brief affair with her, but he could have no desire to be legally tied to a plain and penniless spinster.
Portia was a little concerned about the Trelyns’ gloating. She knew that neither of them wished Bryght well, but was that the sum of it, that it pleased them to see him embarrassed? Would they try to force the marriage in order to complete the embarrassment?
Well, what if they did?
Portia reminded herself again that she lived in modern times when forced marriages were no longer possible.
Sixteen
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When a maid brought her chocolate the next morning Portia was not well rested. Sleep had been hard to find and disturbed by dreams of rapture, grinning Trelyns, and rapacious hawks. Underlying it all had been the unnerving awareness of the power Bryght Malloren had over her.
Portia was too honest by nature to deny it, and anyway, she believed a peril faced was preferable to one ignored.
So in the sanity of daylight, she sipped the chocolate, reminding herself that it was her life at stake here not a few nights of pleasure. It would be madness to bind herself to such a man for mere pleasures of the flesh.
Wouldn’t it?
But, oh, what pleasures . . .
Her hand tilted and chocolate splashed onto the pristine white coverlet.
With a grimace, Portia placed the cup on a bedside stand and tried to mop the mark away with her handkerchief. It was hopeless. She feared the silk was ruined. She hoped it wasn’t a sign.
In fact, it probably was. If she weakened, her life would be ruined. All that was required was that when Bryght came to discuss marriage, she be resolute in refusing. Portia dressed plainly and awaited her summons.
After a fretful hour, she began to suspect that matters might be going ahead without her and went in search of Nerissa. To her surprise, she found her cousin not in her boudoir, but in the white drawing room in close conversation with Lord Trelyn.
“Ah, Cousin Portia,” said the earl, even producing a smile. “Come in. We are planning your wedding. You need not fear that it will be a spar
se affair—”
Portia’s nerves jumped. “There will be no wedding.”
“We will have it here—”
“There will be no wedding!”
He looked at her in mild surprise. “There must be a wedding. You have no choice.”
“Of course I have a choice! I can refuse to take the vows.”
“I would not recommend that.” Nerissa’s sly smile was intended to remind Portia of the hold she had over her.
Portia stared at her cousin, projecting an equal threat. “My reputation is not at risk,” she declared.
“My dear, do not be foolish. Your reputation is in shreds. But it can be pieced together very well by a speedy wedding. Why all the heat? Your groom is a handsome man of high estate.”
“And clearly one you find pleasing,” added Lord Trelyn.
Portia raised her hands to her burning cheeks. “I admit I allowed . . . physical attraction to guide me astray. But nothing truly bad happened. I do not want to marry the man.”
“Why ever not?” asked Nerissa, in seemingly genuine curiosity.
“He’s a gamester.”
“All the world is,” said Trelyn.
“Are you, my lord?”
“No.” He looked at her with a touch of compassion.
“Cousin Portia, if you feel that way it is a pity you allowed your passions to exceed your good sense, but what is done is done. I do not allow scandal to touch my house. You must marry.”
Portia saw that he was completely serious. She looked to her cousin, and put a threat in it. “Nerissa?”
Nerissa appeared entirely at ease. “You must marry him, Portia. If you make your bet and lose, you must pay.”
At this echo of Bryght’s words, Portia wanted to kill somebody, preferable herself. Why on earth had she let herself be tricked into wagering?
Twice!
Nerissa was a gamester, too, and was coolly calling Portia’s bluff. Portia found she could not betray her cousin. She was not sure it would improve her own case, nor was she sure she would be believed. If he chose to, Lord Trelyn could see the story as mere spite.
Portia took a new tack. “Lord Trelyn, I am very sorry to have brought embarrassment to your house. I will, of course, leave immediately.”