Lady Brindle had looked mutinous, but at that moment Lady Ryecroft had arrived, summed up the situation with a glance, and swept Portia and Sophie up to her bedroom before either of them could say another word. It took both Portia’s maid and Lady Ryecroft’s Mary to put her back together enough to reappear in the ballroom just as the supper dance was ending.
Rye didn’t come near her for the remainder of the evening, but that was no surprise. He would hardly want to conduct the first conversation of their betrothal in a public place, especially after she’d so efficiently snared him…
Portia watched him across the room, however, dancing with one of the minor heiresses. That reminded her of Juliana Farling, and her heart sank.
The moment the ball was finished, Portia pleaded a headache. She was silent as her maid brushed her hair and braided it and helped her into a nightgown. Then she sent the maid away and sank down by the fire to wait. Once the house was quiet, she tightened the belt of her wrapper as if it were armor and tiptoed down the hall to knock timidly at Rye’s bedroom door.
Rye had taken off his coat and his neckcloth, and he was holding a brandy glass when he opened the door. “Do come in, my dear. I was wondering when you’d be along.”
“Are you foxed?” Portia asked.
“Not yet.”
She winced. “I came to tell you that, of course, this can’t be allowed to stand.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“I don’t know. But you obviously can’t marry me. What about Juliana Farling? If you offered for her tonight…” Maybe that was why he’d pleaded so eloquently for silence—to give him time to make some kind of excuse to the woman he’d actually asked to marry him.
“I didn’t. Then this little wrinkle got in the way.” He didn’t meet her gaze.
So Lady Stone had been right after all in betting on that particular match. The reminder of the wager only made Portia feel worse.
“What the hell were you thinking of, putting yourself in danger like that?”
Portia reminded, “You said once that you wouldn’t swear at me.”
“Well, that was when I still believed you’d never do anything so flea-brained as to go in a room alone with that cad!”
Portia looked down at her clasped hands. “I’ve really dumped us in the sauce, haven’t I? I’m sorry, Rye. Truly. But can we just figure out how to get ourselves out of this? You don’t want to marry me; I don’t want to marry you…”
He grunted and went to refill his goblet, then held it out to her. “Have a sip—or several. I’ve found it helps.”
She took a gulp. He was right; the liquid burned all the way down, but it distracted her for a moment. “Lady Stone could stop this disaster; I’m sure of it. I shall ask her, in the morning.”
“Ask her to do what? Make Swindon marry you? If you still want him after all that, then why on earth didn’t you just tell me to go away a couple of hours ago?”
“Are you fool enough to think I’d want to marry him?”
The anger in his face died. “Portia, you were found in a room alone with a man, with no hope of an innocent explanation. You have to marry someone.”
“And so you’re caught in a trap, simply because you rescued me.”
His mouth quirked into a reluctant grin. “Well… you rescued me first, from Miss Mickelthorpe. So we’re even.”
“Hardly. That was a different thing.”
“And tonight you rescued me from Miss Farling, and a lucky escape that was too.” In the fireplace, a coal cracked and settled. “I know this isn’t what you want, Portia. It’s a bad situation. But we’ll have to make the best of it—as people have always done.”
Make the best of it. It was hardly what she wanted from a marriage… and now that it was too late to change what she’d done, she realized how much she had longed for the very thing that had happened tonight. But she hadn’t wanted it to come about like this. She wanted Rye, yes, but she had wanted a husband, a lover… not a man who had been backed into a corner.
Yesterday, when he’d kissed her, she’d dared for just a moment to hope that the young Lord Ryecroft might look beyond money to seek a woman he could grow to love, and see Portia. But tonight she’d ruined any possibility that he might ever look at her with anything other than disdain. Every time he saw her, he would remember exactly why she was his wife—and recall it was her foolishness that had destroyed his plans.
A soft tap sounded on the bedroom door. Portia looked wildly around for an escape. It would be just too ironic to be caught in Rye’s bedroom barely two hours after the debacle downstairs.
“Draw the bed curtains,” Rye whispered. He opened the door an inch, blocking the view with his body, while Portia scrambled onto his four-poster and pulled the blue velvet hangings at the foot.
“Rye?” Sophie said. “Oh good, you’re still dressed. Well, almost dressed. Do you have Portia in here?”
“Why would you ask such a thing?” Rye sounded nearly as pompous as Lord Randall. Under other circumstances, Portia would have wanted to laugh.
“Because she doesn’t seem to be anywhere else. I just checked her room, and she’s not there, but her ball dress is. And she’s not downstairs either, or with Mama. Speaking of Mama, you should know that I’m nearly certain I smelled a man’s cologne in her room tonight.”
Portia had no trouble visualizing the way Rye rolled his eyes. “Nearly certain? There are scents aplenty at a ball. You probably got cologne on your gloves while you were dancing, and that’s what you smelled. Go to bed, Sophie—and take your imagination with you.”
“You don’t think she’s run away, do you? Not Mama, of course; I mean Portia. To avoid the disgrace of having to marry you.”
“I’m certain she has not.”
“That’s a relief. Night, Rye.” She gave him a noisy, childlike smack of a kiss on the cheek and called, “Night, Portia!”
“Good…” Portia clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late.
Sophie gave a gleeful little laugh. “Next time, Rye, make sure the bed curtains aren’t still swinging,” she advised, and the door closed behind her with a click.
Portia buried her face in her hands. The blue velvet hangings whooshed open, the rings rattling above her head. She didn’t look up.
“You do have a gift for this sort of thing.” Rye sounded almost grim. “What do you think now? A little too late to ask Lady Stone to fix it?”
***
There was no justice in the world, Miranda thought as Mary brushed her hair. She’d spent the better part of the last two weeks carrying on a torrid affair, but the one time that she wasn’t doing anything disreputable—well, aside from the obvious misstep of having a gentleman present in her bedroom—she had been caught.
She’d have to talk to Sophie in the morning and explain. Of course, it would have been better to say something immediately—something casual or funny. Tomorrow, when she brought the subject up again, it would assume even more importance in Sophie’s mind, but that was the best she could do.
She must have heaved a heavy sigh, for Mary clucked sympathetically and said, “You’ll feel better soon, ma’am. It never lasts more than a few weeks.”
“What never lasts?”
“The tiredness. Remember? You never had morning sickness with the others either, but practically the minute you were enceinte, you’d start nodding off at dinner or in the middle of a conversation. It’ll only last a few weeks, and then you’ll have your usual energy back.”
Miranda gulped. The floor seemed to shake under her.
“Ma’am?” Mary turned pale. “I’m sorry. You didn’t realize…?”
The possibility had not occurred to Miranda. If she’d given it a thought at all, she would have assumed she was too old to fall pregnant. But now that Mary had pointed out the obvious, she could no longer deny the facts.
It appeared she was going to have a baby. Marcus Winston’s baby. An illegitimate half brother or half s
ister for Rye and Sophie…
And she’d thought explaining the scent of a man’s cologne in her bedroom would be difficult!
***
Portia looked absolutely disconsolate. Not the look a man wanted to see from his promised bride, Rye thought.
“Where would you like to be married?” he asked in the hope that planning a ceremony would distract her.
She shook her head. She was still kneeling on his bed. She must not have realized that the belt of her wrapper had come loose, allowing the shadows cast by the candlelight to caress the hollow at the base of her throat and the cleavage below. Her nightgown was made of fine lawn, and the finicky little vertical tucks and stitches on the bodice only encouraged his gaze to drop a few inches more, to where her breasts swelled enticingly under the sheer fabric, reminding him of the nipple he’d glimpsed downstairs. Resolutely he looked away, but that didn’t help either, for his gaze only slid down to the outline of her legs and the interesting little crevice between them…
Rye thought it would be a good idea for him to sit down before she noticed evidence of the direction his thoughts were taking. She was already flighty enough without his reminding her that this marriage would have a physical side.
He could have used a nice solid chair right now—big enough to hold Portia on his lap and cuddle her. Or a chaise longue wide enough for two to recline and explore each other’s bodies…
And there he went, posting off into dangerous territory again. He really couldn’t continue to stand at attention, so to speak; if she saw how aroused he was, she’d probably scream and flee. And since the only chair in the room was a spindly little thing he didn’t trust to hold him, the bed would have to do.
He sat down next to her. “Come now; let’s not start that again. I’ve made up my mind to it, Portia, so why can’t you?”
“That’s the problem. You’ve made up your mind, so you think that’s all there is to be said about it.”
“Isn’t it? Would you have preferred me to just stand there and let you explain what really happened?”
She looked for a moment as if she was about to say yes.
“It’s not as bad as that, surely. I won’t beat you.” He half expected the comment to win a smile, but when it didn’t, he said gloomily, “It won’t be any different, really, than the sort of marriage I was contemplating before.”
“Except for the money.” Her voice was low and taut.
“Oh. The money. Well, yes.” For a while he’d almost managed to forget that little problem. He expected, now that he’d been reminded, that it would come crashing down on him once more. But it didn’t; at the moment none of it seemed to matter. Perhaps he’d been sensible enough all along not to let himself count on ending up with a fortune. Or perhaps he was still too stunned by the turn of events to really take in what had happened tonight.
This unexpected betrothal was hard to forget, however, when Portia was right in front of him, for all practical purposes, occupying his bed. Even if she was, in Rye’s opinion, definitely on the wrong side of the blanket at the moment.
“My lord—”
“You’ve been calling me Rye for some time now. And if you’re going to marry me…” He shouldn’t have said if.
“I understand, of course, that you have a duty to produce an heir.” She spoke softly.
It took Rye a moment to hear what she’d said—because from his new position he could look almost directly down the neckline of her nightgown, which only served to remind him once more of the glimpse of rosy, eager-looking nipple he’d had downstairs…
An heir? Oh yes. A wonderful duty, that one. Looking forward to it.
“I know that men can”—she stopped to lick her lips, sending a surge of hot blood to Rye’s groin—“men can perform adequately, even when they’re not particularly attracted to the woman, to make a child. That was, after all, what you expected with Miss Mickelthorpe or Miss Farling. So why would it be any different with me?”
Rye was feeling seriously at sea. “What makes you think I’m not attracted to you?”
Her face flushed, and she looked away.
This discussion was getting to be seriously interesting. Rye leaned a little closer. She smelled good too. Like rose water. Maybe lavender. Something sweet, anyway.
He wanted to pull her down under him and show her exactly how attracted he was.
“Because when you kissed me yesterday, you stopped.”
He couldn’t keep from smiling. “You think I ended that kiss because I found it distasteful?”
“I know that I am not at all what you were looking for in a wife.”
“Well, that’s true enough, and I’m sure if I climbed into a marriage bed with Amalie Mickelthorpe, I’d have to think of her money in order to perform my husbandly duty. Portia, the truth is any man would find you tempting.”
She shook her head.
Rye’s heart sank. Had he missed the point entirely? “If what you’re really saying is that you don’t find me appealing, and you don’t want to give me an heir…”
She looked down at her hands, which were clasped hard together. “I do want a family, Rye. But not if… Of course you’d say that you… like me. What else could a gentleman say?”
A tiny voice in Rye’s brain whispered, This is the foundation of the rest of your life. You have to get it right. “So you’re saying if I had to force myself in order to get an heir with you…”
“Then I would much prefer not to marry you. Even if it means being ruined.”
She had been right about one thing, Rye thought. She was absolutely not what he’d been contemplating in a wife. And he was beginning to think he was the luckiest fool in England.
“Portia, kiss me again the way you kissed me yesterday.”
She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then she leaned toward him, and her lips brushed gently against his—a mere butterfly kiss. A kiss his sister might have pressed on him.
“No, that wasn’t it at all. Let me show you.” He wanted to crush her against him—and under him—but he limited himself to kissing her, licking and nipping and tasting her lips, slowly working up to exploring her mouth. When her tongue finally darted out to sample him, a jolt of pure lust rocked him, and he had to back off to keep himself from spreading her out across the coverlet and taking her right then.
“That was… pleasant.” There was a quiver in her voice.
“So is the rest of what men and women do together, Portia. I stopped kissing you yesterday because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. And that’s why I’m going to take you back to your room now—even though I want to make love to you.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Don’t stop.”
“Portia, you don’t know what you’re asking. If I go any further—”
“But that was only a kiss.”
“Only? Sweetheart—”
“I don’t know if you’re telling the truth or just being gallant, and I won’t wait to find out till it’s too late to change our minds. I mean it, Rye. Prove you really do want me, that you’re not just saying so. Prove it right now, or I won’t marry you, no matter what happens to me.”
She pulled away from him, but instead of climbing off the bed, she insinuated herself under the coverlet. Only after she was covered to her shoulders did she wriggle out of her wrapper and toss it aside.
Watching her was like setting a torch to tinder. All she’d really done was to get between his sheets, but her innocent, modest little maneuver was the most sensual dance he’d ever seen. The most practiced courtesan couldn’t have inflamed him more completely.
“As the lady wishes.” He barely recognized the rasp of his own voice.
Rye held her gaze as he undressed, and he was rewarded with a little gasp when he dropped his breeches and his erect penis sprang free.
He climbed onto the bed and stripped the coverlet back so he could look at her. Without her wrapper, the fine lawn nightgown was alm
ost transparent. The dark circles around her nipples and the shadowy triangle between her legs were even more alluring for being veiled. He didn’t bother to remove her gown; instead he leaned over to kiss her again. After a long, hot, deep exploration of her mouth, he let his lips wander slowly down her throat, touched the tip of his tongue to her cleavage, cupped her breast in his palm, and slowly took her nipple into his mouth. The fine fabric went completely transparent as he licked and nipped and sucked.
Her breathing grew taut.
He shifted to the other breast and then unlaced the fastenings and spread the gown wide, feasting his eyes for a few seconds before tasting her once more. Her skin was soft as velvet, and he took his time, toying with her nipples until they peaked and trembled, while his hands wandered on to her waist, to the curve of her hip.
The hem of the long nightgown had ridden up as she slid under the blankets, leaving a good deal of leg bare. Still, it took all his ingenuity to get her out of the nightgown, and he thought about just ripping it before he managed the feat. But finally she lay before him, completely exposed.
Her gaze dropped to his erection. Her eyes were wide and a little fearful.
“Are you still worried that I might not be interested enough in you to perform adequately?” he asked dryly. “Portia, I promise you’ll like this. I’ll make sure you do.” Even if it kills me.
Slowly, she relaxed, and he spread her knees and knelt between them. He kissed her navel, darting his tongue into the little depression, and briefly nuzzled the sweet little birthmark just over her right hip bone. Was it truly the shape of a heart? He’d have to check… some other time.
He parted her curls and bent closer to inhale her scent—spicy, clean, earthy. He held her open to expose the little pleasure nub and breathed on her. She said something incoherent.
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