by Jason
“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 prudes—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 is not 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 in 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?”
“Yes, 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 is 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 am 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. “Well, I do think 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!”
“No, there probably isn’t. Or not in the near future. So,” he said calmly, “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 of 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 have 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 alre
ady 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, was beautiful. “I am 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 eased her up and unfastened the back of her dress. She knew she should stop him, but she did not, though the last tatters of her modesty had her clutching her dress to her breasts at the front.
His hand spread hot against her back where it was exposed above her stays. As he put his lips there and kissed her she stared helpless at the wall, but then the flickering heat of it had her arching back toward him. His arm came around to support her, to press against her already sensitive breasts.
“I touch you and you sing like a harp,” he said against her nape. “Let us make music. . . .”
She clutched his arm against her. “Bryght, truly we should not. This is wrong. This is foolish. . . .”
“We are as good as married.” He lifted her, casually dislodging her grip on her bodice so her dress fell away. When he set her on her feet, she was standing in her shift and stays and tried to conceal herself.
He pulled her hands down. “Let me see you, love.”
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 cotton-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 am 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.
“Men are lustful creatures,” she said weakly. “Easily stirred.”
“Some of us are more discriminating than others. My friend there doesn’t dance for just anyone, you know.”
Yes, my beautiful one. Dance for me, show me that you want the gift of Venus. . . .
She felt him move beneath her hand and colored. But sinful woman that she was, she loved it. He moved her hand up and down the hardness. “See what you do to me. Since this will soon be your friend, too, perhaps you should christen it.”
Portia jerked her hand away. “Christen it?”
“How else are we to talk of it in public?”
Portia stepped back. “Why ever would we want to talk of such a thing in public?”
“To prepare for what we intend to do as soon as we get home?” he suggested with a grin. “Or perhaps for what we are going to do in some quiet corner of our host’s house.” He captured her and pulled her hard against him. “I am inviting you to live a very wicked life, my Amazon. Do you accept?”
“You will be disappointed!” she protested. “I’m not wicked. Oh, Bryght, stop and think!”
“You are wicked enough, and rash enough for me, too.” He released her, but only to undo his buttons so his flap fell. He captured her hand again and pressed it to him, but to hot flesh now. “Name it,” he whispered, and she felt the shudder that rippled through him.
It conquered her. This was not artifice. Perhaps he lied, perhaps he danced for anyone, but at this moment he danced for her.
“The Thames,” she whispered.
He looked at her with bemusement. “I hope you don’t think its flow can equal England’s greatest river.”
“No.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. “I think it goes through Maidenhead.”
He laughed and picked her up to swing her around and around until she was dizzy, then collapsed them both on the carpet to pleasure her.
It was like at Mirabelle’s and yet unlike, for this time Portia was willing. More than willing, she was eager.
She made no protest when he pulled off her shift, her last barrier to him. He ran his hand over her in gentle exploration. “Delicate bones, skin like finest silk that shows the veins beneath ... I am afraid of hurting you.”
And indeed, his hand trembled. “You are so small,” he said. “I know you are not fragile, but you are small. Did I bruise you last time?”
“No, of course not.” But he insisted on inspecting every inch of her with laughter and kisses.
Portia discovered that to be naked with Bryght seemed natural, the most natural thing in the world. And she wanted him naked too. With more teasing games they stripped him and she admired his splendor.
“Strong bones,” she said, sliding an exploratory hand up his thigh, over his hip. “Skin like velvet over steel. You could model for David.”
He shook his head. “Heaven forbid! But if I please you, I’m pleased. And I love your touch, Portia. Touch me where I please you. . . .”
Blushing, Portia continued her exploration, running her hand over his chest, his shoulders, down over his muscular abdomen. She halted there, however, embarrassed to go further even though she wanted to, wanted to feel the heat and hardness of him again. . . .
His hands wandered her at the same time—almost without conscious thought, it seemed, but summoning desire. “Your touch has such power over me, I am afraid. I want to be gentle, Portia, but I’m not sure I can be. Tell me if I hurt you.”
She kissed his chest. “I expect it to hurt.”
He tilted her chin and kissed her lips. “Perhaps we can exceed your expectations. . . .”
Portia hesitated then, however. Talk of the breaching of her virginity forced her to face the fact that if she surrendered there would be no going back. . . .
He seized her hair and kissed her, kissed her as if he sensed her doubts and wished to drive them out. Under the heat of his hands, his mouth, his body she could not think. She could only desire. Portia nipped and stroked, kissed and nibbled at every piece of his mobile body that became available, always wanting more and more.
When his sinuous movements brought the ultimate temptation in her way, she took it and put her lips over the head of the River Thames. He went rigid and twisted his head to look at her.
Portia came to her senses a little then. What in heaven’s name had come over her? Something in his expression, however, filled her with a sense of gleeful power. Watching him carefully, she rubbed her tongue against him.
He shuddered and muttered, “Hades,” like a dying man.
Portia stroked him with her tongue and saw him flush. She sucked a little and he gasped. He collapsed down on the carpet. “Go on, then, oh precocious one. Have your wicked way with me.”
There was a sheen of sweat on his face and Portia didn’t think it was from the fire. She felt extremely hot herself. Her rash impulsiveness had landed her in another situation completely beyon
d her competence, but she sensed that this one held only delight.
She settled to licking and sucking the novel item, enjoying the new sensation and a sweet musky taste she found there. To be so hard, the River Thames would have to be solid ice, but this one was hot and almost fluid in the way it danced to her touch.
She slid one hand over his rigid torso, and curled the other around him, then flared it downward to explore the smooth pouches beneath. How strange, how wonderful, how very interesting a man was. . . .
From this angle she couldn’t see his face, but she could see his hand on his thigh, his left hand with the large emerald signet. Suddenly it formed a fist, and she covered it with her own paler one, soothing it even as she tormented him. He grasped her hand almost to bruising point and she could hear each breath he took.
What now?
She was trapped in a spiral of heat and power. It was entrancing, but she felt as if something were about to explode. . . .
Suddenly he moved. He freed the river from captivity, hauling her up to face him. “If you dice with the devil, Hippolyta, you must burn.”
He was not gentle. He drove her like a chariot into passion and entered her suddenly, violently, then froze, holding her there, knees looped high over his arms.
Portia stared into his dark eyes, drowning in intense sensation, shocked by their position, but immensely satisfied to be filled by him at last. He saw it and released her legs, swooping down to kiss her. Portia met the kiss fiercely, locking her legs around him as he drove her onward to destruction.
Portia tried to keep her eyes open, to see him in his passion, but the power became too strong. It denied all sensations except the one, the new one, the one she could hardly believe was part of the body she had inhabited for twenty-five years.
Twenty
contents - previous | next
Portia came back to reality lying in his arms, sweaty and sticky, nerves still humming and twitching from his onslaught. She ached in places, burned a little between her legs, and suddenly her whole body shuddered with an after-tremor of that passion.