by Jason
He threaded his hand into her hair and turned her to face him. “Too much for you?” His expression reminded her of the first time—when he had tackled her to the floor in Maidenhead and seemed so concerned. She realized that all along, even at their worst times, that concern had formed a reassurance in her mind.
She shook her head. “But I didn’t expect . . .”
He smiled ruefully, “I’d have been a little more restrained if you’d not tried to drain the River Thames.”
She felt herself flame. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do and I don’t mind,” he said, stroking her gently. “I liked it. But it broke my control. If you play with fire you will be burned. Or at least, get singed. As long as you understand that.”
Portia snuggled against him, needing him in so many ways that it bewildered her. And now they would have to marry. All escape was gone. At least she could soothe her conscience with the knowledge that it was his doing, and she had tried to save him from himself.
She couldn’t help it. She smiled with delight.
Those who dice with the devil must indeed burn. They were not supposed to find the flames so pleasant, though. Portia snuggled closer to his sweat-damp body and played with fire. He captured her hand. “You do like living dangerously, don’t you?”
“Alas,” she murmured into his chest, “I fear I do.”
He chuckled. “I look forward to the future with great anticipation but for now, love, I’m going to protect you from yourself.” He disentangled them and helped her to her feet. “Assess your hurts and be cautious.”
Portia did so and winced. “Rather more in some muscles than from the attack on Maidenhead.” She glanced at him mischievously. “Well, my lord, was it worth six hundred guineas?”
He immediately swung her up, sat in the chair, and laid her across his knees for spanking. Shocked, Portia writhed madly. “Don’t you dare!”
His hand rested on her buttocks. “Then stop calling me my lord.”
She twisted to glare at him. He raised his brows and hand. The wretch would do it, too. “Well, Bryght,” she bit out, “was it worth six hundred guineas?”
“Every penny,” he said and turned her to sit on his lap.
Portia glared at him. “If you ever spank me, I’ll tie you down and flog you!”
“That sounds like fun,” he said with a grin.
She gasped and pulled away from him.
“I said we would be wicked,” he reminded her.
“I will not be beaten!” she protested.
He shook his head. “Hush, love, I’m teasing. If we ever do that sort of thing it will be for fun, and you will be able to stop whenever you want.”
“For fun!”
He waggled his brows. “Confess. Before today, would you ever have thought to have such fun playing with the River Thames?”
And Portia hid her flaming face against his chest.
He laughed but separated them again. “It’s quite possible that Rothgar will be back soon, perhaps even with Fort in tow. I don’t insist on it, but I think perhaps we should have some clothes on.”
Portia leaped from his arms and began to scramble into her garments, half an eye on the door. He watched her, grinning, but at her entreaties began to dress himself.
Portia was struggling with the fastenings at the back of her dress when she detected footsteps. “Someone’s coming!” she hissed.
He laughed again and came to close the last two hooks.
“Your shirt!” Portia grabbed for him and was fastening the buttons at his neck as the lock turned. He detached her fingers so they were facing the door when it opened.
Rothgar came in and closed the door behind him. He glanced around. Portia saw her stockings and garters strewn across the floor and could have died. She looked despairingly at Bryght and he put his arm around her and held her close.
The marquess merely said, “I suspected it would be better to leave Walgrave downstairs. He merely wishes to know that the wedding will go forward as planned. I assume that is the case.”
Bryght said, “Of course, though it doesn’t please me to marry under the Trelyns’ auspices.”
“It will silence gossip, however.”
“But people will still believe those horrible lies!” said Portia. “It isn’t fair.”
“Life is rarely fair,” said Rothgar, “but sometimes it can be adjusted. After tonight, most voices will be silenced.”
Portia wondered how their passionate love-making could silence gossip.
The marquess must be able to read her like a book. “I was thinking more of your public adventures, Miss St. Claire. We are going to dine in twenty minutes, then we are going to the Willoughbys‘, where the lady is having yet another of her delightful entertainments. . . .”
“But—”
He ignored her. “Bryght will be by your side. Walgrave and the Trelyns will also accompany us. Lady Willoughby will gush over you. The whole world will see it has been the victim of at least an error.”
It sounded like an evening of torture. Portia grasped at an excuse. “I have nothing suitable to wear.”
“Lady Trelyn has sent one of your gowns. I believe my sister’s rooms should provide anything else you need and it would be quite in order for you to wear some of the lesser family jewels.”
Portia looked between Bryght and his brother. It seemed indecent to go from such passion to a public appearance, and she hated the thought of being the focus of speculation.
Bryght kissed her. “When Rothgar takes the reins there is nothing for it but to go where he directs. Nothing and no one will harm you. I’ll take you to Elf’s suite.”
He led her through the house to another corridor. The cool of the house brought cool to Portia’s head. She realized with dismay that she really had burned her bridges. She was going to have to marry Bryght and though he was wonderful in many ways, he was still a gamester.
Bryght took her into a bedroom hung with pale green silk. Portia saw her second-best dress, a cream silk with a quilted petticoat, lying on the bed.
Would the passion in bed compensate for the constant worry and inevitable crises? Portia began to try to build bridges for retreat. “Surely if everyone is willing to retract their stories, I don’t have to be there.”
“Of course you do. They’ll need proof that you are in one piece. More or less,” he added with a wink that had her flaming.
He was investigating the various drawers and cupboards, which all seemed to be fuller than one would expect when the owner was not in residence. “Elf should stop buying every item that catches her fancy,” he commented pulling out a black stomacher trimmed with red and gold. He shook his head and replaced it.
“Oh, we should not be going through her things!” Portia protested.
“Elf won’t mind.” He tossed a lace fichu on the bed. “She’s your age, by the way. She’ll welcome you into the family.”
Portia picked up the neckerchief and found that it was of gossamer silk trimmed with the most beautiful silk lace she had ever seen. The lace contained a spider-web of fine gold threads that made it glimmer magically in the candlelight.
“This is too precious,” she protested.
“Nonsense.” He riffled through a small chest that seemed to be full of stockings. “Elfled,” he said, as if the bemused Portia had asked. “We’re all named after Anglo-Saxon rulers and heroes. Ah.”
He pulled out a pair of stockings that seemed to be made entirely of lace, and a pair of ornately frilled garters. He frowned at them. “We really must find Elf a husband.”
“Why?”
He laid the stockings and garters by her dress. “No woman buys such things unless she hopes a man will see them.”
Portia suspected he was right. “Then perhaps she would not want you to know she has them.”
He nodded. “Wise Portia.” He carefully replaced the items in the depth of the chest and took out a plain but pretty pair of stockings clocked with
roses, and plain garters to hold them up. He put them on the bed and came to kiss her. “You see, we need you. Elf will like a sister and you can matchmake for her.”
“I know no one suitable to marry the daughter of a marquess!”
“You soon will. You will be Lady Bryght, a leading light of Society. . . .”
“I can’t—”
He kissed her again. “You can do anything. You’ll be good for Elf. She’s as spirited as you inside—lord, you should have seen some of the things she and Cyn got up to as children. Practically turned us gray. But she’s too kind to take risks now she’s a woman for fear of what Rothgar might do. Like most rakes he’s not reasonable when it comes to men and his sisters.”
Portia found this rush into family life alarming. “Bryght, I’m not sure—”
He sealed her lips with his fingers. “There’s no going back now.”
It was the gleam of triumph in his eyes that chilled her. “You seduced me deliberately!”
He colored slightly. “You didn’t protest much, Hippolyta.”
“Yes I did, and you over-rode me!”
“Are you going to accuse me of rape in truth?”
Portia whirled away, hands to cheeks. “No, but you kissed me out of my senses.” She turned back to confront him. “You wanted this marriage and I didn’t, so you made sure I would have to agree.”
“I don’t think you have much to complain about.”
At his complacency, his smugness, Portia felt the fury rising in her like a pillar of flame. “Oh, don’t you? Well, I tell you this, Bryght Malloren. Your scheme has failed. I will never marry you.”
“Not even if you’re with child?”
Icy shock doused the flames. “I can’t be! Not after just one . . .”
“It’s perfectly possible.”
“Then I’ll raise it a bastard!”
“No, you damn well won’t!”
“You can’t stop me! It’s no longer possible to drag a bride to the altar bound and gagged!”
He was as dark and dangerous as at their first meeting reminding her of the many reasons she shouldn’t bind her life to his. “You will marry me, Portia. You have no choice.”
She grabbed the water jug and hurled the contents at him. He dodged most of it, capturing the jug before she could throw that too. He tossed it on the bed, so she seized the porcelain basin, intending to smash it over his head. He tackled her onto the bed and captured it from her.
“Admit it, Portia. You wanted that love-making, and you want me.”
She fought him with all her strength. “I want choice and you stole it from me!”
He confined her easily. “I fight for what I want, and I want you.”
“You just want to end this scandal!” she snapped.
Before he could respond, there was a tap at the door. He hesitated a moment, then slid off her and went to open it.
A blank-faced middle-aged maid came in and curtsied.
Bryght said to her, “My future bride needs to prepare for the evening. But she is not to leave this room without one of the family as escort.”
She was a prisoner again. Portia closed her eyes and tried to control a wash of rage and misery. How could she go so quickly from that scintillating love to this bleak despair?
Then she realized that she was lying in disorder on a bed in a highly disordered room. She scrambled to her feet, wondering what the maid could be thinking.
The woman just said, “I’ll ring for more water, ma’am.”
A footman appeared and was sent on the errand while the maid efficiently cleared away the remains of battle.
Portia stood there wondering frantically what the likelihood was of her already carrying a child. She quelled panic. Such things became clear. The main thing was to play for time, and not to marry on Wednesday.
They couldn’t force her into it. They couldn’t.
She would go through with this evening, however, for she owed Bryght that. It would not be fair to leave him with such a scar on his reputation.
The footman returned with fresh water and the maid assisted Portia out of her crumpled clothing. What adventures she’d had since she dressed this morning.
Portia washed, then she dressed in the underwear Bryght had picked out for her, feeling each item like his hand against her skin. I will give you exquisite garments of silk and lace, and love you in and out of them. . . .
The memory rippled over Portia’s nerves like a skillful touch, both longed-for and hated. She had given him her virginity, and in honor she should marry him. But she reminded herself fiercely that he certainly hadn’t married the first woman he’d made love with.
When she was in her gown, made elegant by the beautiful fichu, there was another knock on the door.
Portia started, thinking it must be Bryght. But it was the marquess in magnificent ruby satin. A quiet servant followed, carrying a box. Lord Rothgar studied Portia dispassionately, and she blushed and raised her chin. “I make no pretense to be more than I am, my lord.”
“It would be foolish to do so,” he replied, making her feel stupid for using such a trite phrase.
“I mean that I am no beauty, my lord, and no grand society lady. I have no desire to pretend to be.”
“You have charms enough to ensnare my brother, and you are about to become a Malloren. There are few higher.” He raised a finger and the servant stepped forward to place the box on a table. The man unlocked it and slid open some drawers. It was a jewel chest, each drawer glittering with precious stones.
Portia couldn’t help but gape.
“Come here,” the marquess said.
“No. I need no such jewels!”
“That was not a request.” Lord Rothgar’s eyes were cool and she remembered his earlier anger before he had locked her in with Bryght. “You have come close to causing disaster in this family, Portia. Tonight we will put it right and set the stage for a harmonious future. You will play your pan.”
Portia glanced frantically between the two servants, but they might as well be statues. “I am willing, but I do not need jewels.”
“You will play your part.”
And Portia found herself going forward to accept the ornaments. She told herself it was just a small concession, and did not mean she was agreeing to everything. But her heart beat fast with panic as he fixed a necklace about her throat, and drops in her ears. A headdress of some sort was settled in her curls.
When his fingers touched her bodice she jerked in alarm, but saw he was only pinning an ornate brooch at the join of the fichu. It consisted of scintillating yellow stones bordered by small, brilliant diamonds. Trailing strings of the stones fell to sway down her bodice toward her waist.
These jewels matched the engagement ring she had returned to Bryght. She supposed she would get it back, and wished she could avoid it.
Rothgar turned her to a mirror. The design of the jewels gave the impression of twining golden ribbons edged with light, and they shimmered all over her—in her bodice, her ears, and around her neck. The item in her hair was a delicate tiara that seemed to blend with the color of her hair, enhancing both.
In some way the lacy fichu and the exquisite jewels made of Portia St. Claire something entirely different, something more beautiful, more special. It would be foolish to deny it, but just as foolish to take credit for it.
“They are very beautiful,” she said flatly.
“I think so. They are not part of the estate, however, so you need not feel at all uneasy about wearing them. Are you ready?” He held out an elegant white hand.
Portia reminded herself that she was obeying only in order to clear Bryght’s name. She was agreeing to nothing more. She placed her hand in Lord Rothgar’s and allowed him to lead her into the corridor and toward the stairs.
At the head of the stairs he halted and directed her attention to a portrait between the long windows there. “My father and his second wife, Bryght’s mother. Their wedding portrait.”
&nbs
p; Portia saw a charming couple seated on a bench beneath a tree while a pair of spaniels played at their feet. The gentleman was dark, but the lady’s hair was a russet-gold almost as red as Portia’s. Both were smiling, but she gained the impression that the lady was more accustomed to smiles than the gentleman.
Nerissa had said that Rothgar’s mother had turned mad and murdered her second child. In the portrait, Portia detected the shadows of that event in the husband’s eyes. She thought that his new bride might be able to wipe away shadows, however. It was a beautiful face, but also a good one. “I wish I had known her. She looks charming.”
“She was, and very kind-hearted. She was also high-spirited and seems to have passed that trait on to most of her offspring. They give me endless trouble.”
Then Portia saw the jewels. Except for the tiara, the marchioness was wearing the jewels the marquess had put on her. Her hand went to the necklace. “They are the same....”
“They were her bridal gift from my father.” She looked at him in shock. “Then I mustn’t wear them!”
“They were always intended for Bryght’s bride.”
Portia suddenly felt trapped by the ornaments, as if they were chains not jewels. She looked at the smiling woman who had taken on a family under a dark cloud and brought love. “She would want better than this artificial marriage for her firstborn son.”
Rothgar guided her to the stairs. “She wanted the best, as any parent would. The important thing is that those jewels were Gabrielle’s favorite pieces, and well known. Your wearing them will be understood by all.”
So it had been a practical gesture, not a sentimental one. That suited Portia’s mood entirely.
Rothgar led her to a gilded room where she found the Trelyn’s present. Both of them looked coldly at Portia before applying practiced, polite smiles. “Why, how pretty you look!” declared Nerissa with a degree of astonishment that was insulting.
Portia replied with a wary curtsy.
Fort was present, too. “How are you?” he asked, and his gray eyes searched her for damage.
“I am in perfect health, Fort,” Portia said firmly, but before she could say anything else, Rothgar moved her on to meet the two strangers present. She realized these were more Mallorens.