by Sharon Page
“I should think I deserve an answer,” Portia said tartly.
The duke raked his hand through his hair, making the coffee-brown tresses catch the light of the fire, before they fell back across his aristocratic forehead. He let out a sigh. “You really think I would be responsible for this, love?”
Love. That word—it fluttered inside her, touching her heart like a magic wand and making it swell and ache. Reminding her of how very much she’d once loved him.
“Don’t call me that,” she cried angrily. “Not ever. Not after what you did.”
He gave a stiff, abbreviated bow. “My apologies. I will not use the term of endearment again.”
He looked hurt? How dare he?
Something inside her snapped. She was always calm and in charge, but right now, fury was washing through her like an unstoppable wave.
“Why shouldn’t I think you responsible?” she demanded. “I was told I was being kidnapped for you by the two men who took me. And why did I believe them? Because you told me that you are debauched!”
Ten years ago she had been too shocked when he broke off the engagement to really say what she had felt. Now, all the pain bubbled over.
“Don’t you remember?” she demanded. “You said you liked to be tied up, and to tie up women, and have orgies. You said you wanted things that no gently bred girl should ever know about. So when I was told I was being brought to your bed, I assumed that kidnapping for ravishment was one of those things.”
He leaned against the bed column, slouching in the way only a man now accustomed to being a duke could do. He looked carelessly elegant with his long legs crossed at the ankles. His brow furrowed and pain turned down the corners of his lips.
“I’m sorry, Portia. I’m sorry about the past. I’m sorry I let you go. But I believe I did the right thing. When I met you, I thought I could be tamed into matrimony. When I realized I wanted all the vices London had to offer—that I needed them—I knew I couldn’t marry you. I would only end up hurting you more.”
“More than breaking my heart?”
“Wouldn’t it have broken your heart more to have married me and to have me leave you at night to go to places where I could indulge my needs?”
“But why do you have such needs?” she asked. “Why couldn’t we—us—have been enough?”
He looked down. “It’s just the way I am.”
Now she was utterly exasperated. Her life was about education. About growth and development and change. “That is ridiculous. People can change. I find children in the stews with no hope and I help them become educated—I’ve helped them become teachers, physicians, governesses, notaries. Of course you can change!”
“I can’t.”
“Pah,” she said. Not the most clever of retorts, but she was not at her best at the moment. “Anyway, none of this matters. Why am I here?”
Then his gaze lifted, holding hers. Those gorgeous, melting, chocolate-brown eyes . . .
His voice dropped to a deep, hypnotic murmur. “I don’t know why you are here. I had nothing to do with it. But you deserve to know I’ve always loved you. I just can never have you.”
Portia’s eyes went wide.
For ten years, she had dreamed he would realize he’d made a terrible mistake. Dreamed he would come crawling back and she would tell him, with pride, that he was too late. What woman who’d been jilted didn’t dream of having the last laugh when the man in question realized he’d been a complete fool?
And now he was telling her he loved her.
Yet not apologizing for breaking her heart.
“How easy that is for you to say!” she cried.
She had never married. Never had any children of her own. She’d devoted herself to her family’s foundling home. She’d had one night of wicked pleasure with Julian, yet he’d bedded scores of women over the last ten years. Portia had never even kissed anyone else. For ten years—over three thousand nights—she’d gone to sleep in her cot, yearning to know love and knowing she never would.
“You’ve had everything you’ve wanted for ten years, Your Grace. I’ve had—” She was about to say “nothing at all.” But that wasn’t quite true. “I’ve watched other people be happy, fall in love, marry. I’ve had my work. I’ve saved children. But I’m a spinster who had the misfortune of learning what it might have been like if I wasn’t one.”
“You’re not married?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said bitterly. “Of course I’m not married.”
“Why not?”
He was so exasperating! “I couldn’t!” The moment the words left her lips she wished she could pull them back. What was she thinking to admit that to him?
“Why not? You weren’t ruined, Portia. I wanted you to be free to find a good man who would give you the love you deserved.”
“You really don’t understand.” Portia realized with shock that he had an entirely different view of the last ten years.
He didn’t understand that he could have broken her heart, yet she could still love him. And when she finally didn’t love him anymore, she knew what love had felt like. No other man made her feel like that.
So she’d waited.
Waited until she knew she was on the shelf. Until her only means of happiness was to watch others find love and marriage, to find those things that she knew were so very precious.
“Then I was an utter fool, I suppose,” she said. “After you, I never gave my heart to anyone else. While you threw scandalous parties and did all your wicked, naughty things. Saying yes to you was a mistake. You weren’t worthy of me—you were absolutely right.”
She launched up from the bed, ignoring how her legs still felt a little weak from being tied up. “If you had nothing to do with this, Sinclair, why did those men tell me I was being brought here for you?”
“Portia, I don’t know. Given they kidnapped you, I wouldn’t say they were the most morally upstanding of men. They lied to you. As for why they did, I have no bloody idea.”
She wanted to take him at his word. Her heart wanted to believe him. And that made her panic.
“Well, I am going to go out there and find out the truth. Now that I am no longer tied up, I will find out who brought me here. And why.”
She stalked toward the door.
Sinclair lurched away from the bed column, but Portia hoisted her skirts and she rushed to the door. She grasped the handle and yanked it open.
The door across the hallway stood open. And she could see into the bedroom.
A blond woman was astride a young gentleman, her pink muslin skirts in a frothy tumble. The blonde rode the man the way ladies rode horses. Her bodice was pushed down and her breasts—plump as two musk melons—bounced as she moved up and down. The black-haired man, utterly naked, wore a delighted grin, watching the wobbling dance of her breasts. Portia couldn’t tear her gaze away from his muscled arms, the glimpse of his long legs, the devilishly pleased expression on his handsome face. Then the man sat up, buried his face in between the bosom, and waggled his head back and forth so her breasts slapped his cheeks.
Portia stood in the doorway, shocked and transfixed.
Sinclair’s arm went around her waist and he pulled her back so fast that her shoulders bumped his chest and her bottom hit his groin. He smelled of lush, exotic sandalwood—that had to be his soap. She could breathe in the astringent witch hazel he must have slapped on his freshly shaven jaw that morning.
She remembered those scents. Remembered how delicious they were on the night he proposed, kissed her senseless, then made her climax for her very first time—
“You can’t go out there.” His voice was a low rumble near her ear. His breath stirred the wisps of hair on the nape of her neck. “Your reputation will be ruined.”
He pulled her back a little farther into the room, so they were clear of the door; then he slammed it shut.
Portia couldn’t help it. She couldn’t forget the sight of the eager young man slapping him
self with breasts.
She should be shocked.
Instead she started to laugh. She just dissolved into giggles and pushed away from the duke, falling with her side against the wall.
He must have thought she was hysterical, her once fiancé, for he lifted her into his arms, carried her across the room, and deposited her on the settee in front of the fire in his rather spacious room.
Being carried in his arms silenced her wild giggles. She couldn’t giggle with her heart racing so fast.
He left her and went to a small table, on which sat a silver tray and a glass decanter that reflected the light of the lamps and the fire. It was summer, but there was a fire in the grate. No doubt because of the damp of the ocean.
She couldn’t help watching Sinclair’s lean, powerful body as he moved.
Next thing she knew, the duke was pressing an enormous snifter of brandy into her hands. “You’re still in shock, Portia. Drink this.”
She never took spirits. Having spent ten years collecting unwanted children from the stews, she’d seen the evils of alcohol. “I don’t want this.”
“I promise you I didn’t drug it,” he said dryly.
She had been staring suspiciously at the glass with her nose wrinkled, she realized. Portia smoothed out her features. “I did not suspect you had, Your Grace.” She was simply suspicious of brandy as a concept.
He settled in the wing chair opposite. His broad shoulders filled the backrest. His long-fingered hands curved over the ends of the arms. Sitting there, Sinclair exuded the power of a king. Under his scrutiny, she sniffed the drink. And blinked away tears as her eyes watered.
His voice was a soft ripple in the room. “You used to call me by my Christian name.”
“I can’t. Not anymore. And we would never have seen each other again, if I hadn’t been kidnapped and deposited on your bed. For whatever reason—”
And then an idea struck her as she watched him, remembering he was a gentleman. Gentlemen made ridiculous wagers. They would bet thousands of pounds on dice and cards. On bedding a woman. On which cockroach could race across the floor fastest. “What if this was a wager? Perhaps one of your foolish, drunken friends bet the others that he could kidnap me and tie me to your bed?”
“Perhaps.” Frowning, his rubbed his hand across his jaw. “That is possible. But I heard nothing about it.”
“Someone here at this party must be involved. That’s why I went out there—I have to find who.”
“And what will you do when you do find out?”
“I could have that person arrested for kidnapping. Couldn’t I?”
“All the men here will be peers of the realm. You were not hurt. That person would argue it was just a joke.”
“And my word would be powerless against the word of a peer. Who would listen to me or care about what anguish I went through.” She said it bitterly. Frustrated, she took a sip of the brandy. Maybe she did need alcohol—
“It’s like drinking lye!” She stuck out her tongue and almost put her hand up to paw her tongue clean.
He quirked a brow. “You’ve never had brandy before?”
“No, apparently I have not missed a thing.”
“Sip slowly.”
“There is no danger I would do anything else.”
A smile tugged at his lips.
“How can you smile right now?” she demanded.
“You are adorable. I’d almost forgotten that,” he said softly. “But you are right. This is no time for smiling. And I assure you—if one of my friends is responsible for this, he will pay.”
His eyes narrowed and they were so dark suddenly they were points of black. A hard, ruthless look crossed his face. He’d never looked like that, ten years ago, when he was only nineteen and he’d been so young and sweet. That expression made a shudder run down her spine.
“But to find out who did this, I need to know everything that happened to you, Portia. I need to know if you were . . . hurt in any way.”
“Hurt?”
She tried another sip of the brandy. Now that she expected to drink something that she was certain had the same taste as paint, she was prepared. And she just dipped in her tongue. She tried a bigger sip but still shuddered as it went down.
She held the glass away from her. “If I drink all this, I will be as drunk as a skunk and you could easily have your wicked way with me. I’d be too poddled to stop you.”
“Poddled?”
“Drunk,” she explained. “Inebriated. Foxed. Addled. Soused. Sozzled.”
His brow lifted. Apparently he was astounded she knew so many words for drunkenness. But one did, living near the stews.
He sighed. “Portia, I can’t believe you think so little of me. I don’t get women drunk to get them into bed. I don’t need to.”
“Of course you don’t,” she muttered.
He leaned closer, hands on his knees. The concern in his eyes made her heart flutter strangely.
“Portia, damn it, just tell me what happened.”
“You needn’t swear. I’m going to. I was lured to a house in Whitechapel by a note that begged me to come to a child’s rescue. But it was a trap. I was knocked out with ether. When I came to, I was in a carriage at the quay. My hands were bound and I was loaded by masked men onto a dory and brought out to the island. Once we docked, I was knocked out again by that horrible stuff. And when I awoke, here I was.”
“Why didn’t you call for help?”
She arched a brow. “I was told this was a bacchanalia, Your Grace. Given I was tied hand and foot to a bed, and utterly defenseless at that time, I thought if I called out for help, I might toss myself into a worse pickle.”
“Yet you just went storming out to confront people.”
“I’m not tied up now.”
He made a sound—distinctly like the grinding of teeth. “Having your hands free will not offer you much protection.”
“At least this time I could run. And I assure you I am spritely.”
“Might I point out you were captured before? This is an island—eventually you’d run out of places to run. Now, in all seriousness, Portia, did those men touch you? Hurt you?”
“Other than slapping an ether-soaked rag to my face, then carrying me upstairs in their arms, my kidnappers were actually perfect gentlemen. Oh yes, and telling me that I was going to wake up in a duke’s bed. Which they found uproariously funny.”
“So you weren’t unconscious the whole time?”
“No, but I rather wished I was when they brought me on the boat.”
“Portia, this is not a joke. This is damnably serious.”
“I know that.” She put her hand to her mouth. A giggle snuck out the side.
Now she realized that half the brandy was gone. She’d drunk much more than she’d expected. Strangely, she felt much different about the kidnapping. More cavalier. Braver.
She had to admit his point about the island was quite true. No matter which direction she ran, there would be the sea. But there must be a boat. Somewhere.
“Explain what happened step by step,” he said. “Every detail.”
She tipped up her brandy for a little more before she began. Wait, where did it go? There wasn’t any left. She held out the glass. “More first.”
“You’ve had enough.”
“This is for medicinal purposes.” But it came out medishnal porpoises.
“No, Portia—”
“You won’t give me any until I tell you. Oh, all right.” She took a deep breath. “I received a note, delivered by a boy from the streets. The missive asked me to go to Maiden Lane, as there was a young girl there about to be sold to a brothel. I hired a hackney—”
“You went alone.”
“No, I took Merry—a girl who works at the foundling home. And a pistol for protection.”
“But it didn’t protect you.”
“Well, it wasn’t loaded. And the men who kidnapped me knew it wasn’t loaded.”
“Intere
sting,” he murmured.
“I thought so,” she said. “I mean, how would they know that?”
“When did these men approach you?”
“If you let me continue with my story, Your Grace, I will tell you. Before I reached the house, the two miscreants slunk out of the alley and confronted us. I attempted to bluff them with the pistol, but was unsuccessful. Anyway, at that point they let Merry go. I ran and they chased me. One managed to catch me, said I’d wake up in the Duke of Sinclair’s bed, then slapped an ether-soaked cloth on my nose and mouth. Before the bed, I woke up in a rocking dory. I was sick, really sick in the boat. I was knocked out again. I remember going upward. I would have thought I was ascending to heaven, if it weren’t so jostling and uncomfortable. Apparently, that was when they carried me up to this house. After that, I did indeed wake up in your bed. I remember the men perfectly well. One of the men was tall and thin. He had black hair, a crooked nose, and he was missing several teeth. He had a scar on his right temple. The other was short and fat. So fat, he didn’t have a proper neck at all. Just a roll of fat that connected his head to his shoulders.”
“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Oh yes. That was an incident I’ll never forget. Their faces will be etched in my memory forever.” She held out her glass again. “You owe me more given everything you’ve put me through.”
“Portia, you are astounding. You’ve had—” He broke off.
How odd. The room was tilting to the right.
Then she was looking at the ceiling. It was revolving slowly. Blech. That was the only way to describe the horrible sensation that suddenly gripped her. The room was moving and she wanted it to stop. She closed her eyes.
No, not seeing the room move didn’t stop it, didn’t make her feel one jot better—
Oh no! Her stomach was attempting to escape. She clapped her hands to her mouth—
“Hell,” Sinclair growled.
He hauled out the porcelain chamber pot and held it in front of her. She stared at him helplessly. She wasn’t going to be sick.
Oh wait, she was.