by Sharon Page
She felt rather trembly inside.
The woman’s hands slipped beneath frothy petticoats and moved vigorously. Her moans grew louder.
Portia’s heart palpitated.
“Oh yes!” the woman cried, with such breathless agony that Portia felt a jolt of desire and her legs almost buckled beneath her.
Sinclair’s arm went around her chest and she was hauled away yet again.
Out into the corridor. Down the corridor. Her sensible shoes were barely touching the floor, he moved her so hastily.
She had come downstairs feeling rather sore in the head from the brandy. Now she felt a different ache coursing through her. A throb down low in her belly. She’d forgotten all about that slight pounding in her head.
All she could think of was the way that handsome man with unusual hair had thrust into that receptive woman.
Her face flamed. Suddenly she realized what she had done. “I shouldn’t have looked. I invaded their privacy.”
“Don’t worry, Miss La—my dear. That’s the point of an orgy. To look.”
Sinclair dragged her farther away, down the corridor, when someone cleared their throat and the duke just about jumped a foot. She knew, because he almost pulled her with him.
The butler stood there, carrying a large, flat box on his silver salver. “Your Grace? This is the box intended for Miss Lamb.”
6
Portia was whisked back up the stairs by the duke, whose dark brown eyes gleamed. He looked tremendously annoyed and she couldn’t think why.
She tried to dig in her heels at the top, but that was impossible in the carpet runner. Sinclair pulled her down the hall, back into his bedchamber, and slammed the door shut behind them.
His face looked as stormy as the view through his windows.
Sinclair had grasped the mysterious box, which he now held just out her reach as he shut the door to the room.
Portia reached for it, and he lifted it. Without thinking, she launched up on her tiptoes, almost lost her balance, and had to put her hand against his chest.
She felt the hardness of his muscles even through his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. Her breath caught, her heart wobbled.
She remembered how their friendship, their courtship had blossomed slowly. She truly had not believed a young duke was falling in love with her, not when he was surrounded by pretty debutants in fancy gowns. He was so earnest and sweet, helping her rescue children. Then one afternoon, he’d teased her playfully, annoyed her until she had glared at him and he’d burst out laughing. Then he’d kissed her and—oh—it had been heavenly. And hot. So very hot. Suddenly she’d realized why men were rakish, why women fell in love.
The next day, he’d proposed—
Portia pushed those thoughts away. She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you going to give me the mysterious gift or not?”
He also crossed his arms over his chest. Glowered. “What in the name of sense did you think you were doing? I told you not to go down. Any one of those people could have seen you. Your reputation would have been ruined.”
“I have learned to take charge of my own life. I’ve had to fend on my own for years. I certainly do not believe in cowering and relying on a man to protect me.”
His dark brow arched.
He looked as if he was about to say something, and she could guess what it was. “I wasn’t accustomed to brandy. I’m normally far more sensible.” She was always sensible, unless she was around him. Now she knew to be extra careful. “Anyway, I am now considerably more knowledgeable about intimate relations between men and women—I thought it was simply beds and a woman lying down.”
A flush touched his high cheekbones. That startled her. Was the Duke of Sinclair actually blushing?
“Please give me my box,” she said.
“I’m going to open it,” he insisted.
“Why—do you think a snake will spring out?”
“Someone kidnapped you, Portia, and I intend to keep you safe from now on.”
If only he’d been so protective, so stubborn ten years ago. Why now did he act as if she was responsibility?
“You are not my husband. You don’t dictate to me.”
She saw him wince. “I’m not,” he agreed. “But I’m taller than you, which means I get to decide who opens the box.”
“You are infuriating.”
He tugged the large silk bow and the ribbon fell free. Then he pulled off the top of the box, still holding the wretched thing over her head.
Portia quickly concocted a plan. She moved close to the window. Gasped and peered down.
“Oh my goodness, look out the window! On the terrace, six women are doing things to that naked man—”
Sinclair came at once to the window to look at the shocking sight she had not actually seen. As he did, peering out the window to find people who weren’t there, he lowered the box.
Portia grabbed it. She hurried away from him, looking into the box. She pulled out tissue paper, sending it fluttering behind her.
“Portia, blast, give me back that box.”
She ignored him. Frowning, she picked up a sparkling item that sat within. “It’s a mask.”
In her moment of confusion, he took it right out of her hand. He studied it, then handed it back.
“Indeed, it looks like a mask,” he said. “Hold it up to your face. I’ll tie the strings behind your head.”
She stepped in front of the cheval mirror in its huge gilt frame. Sin was reflected behind her, his long-fingered hands holding the white satin ties of the beautiful white mask. It was made of papier-mâché and white and gold paint, decorated with pearls and ribbons of white satin. It suited her very red hair—most things didn’t.
Sin’s hands moved to her shoulders, but he didn’t quite touch her.
Stop it, Portia. You don’t want his touch. Or his kiss. Or his . . . his anything else.
She’d overheard what that courtesan had said. Shocking things. A huge . . . cock, she’d said. Portia remembered when he’d dropped his trousers in front of her, ten years ago....
She had to stop thinking of things like that!
The duke stepped back without touching her.
It was for the best. She might touch him back. Maybe she was still a little drunk after all.
“Your dress is wrong,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “With the mask, you could pass for a courtesan, but not in that gown. I’d never let any woman of mine wear a dowdy dress like that.”
“Well, I am not your woman. And this is a practical dress for practical and important work. It’s also all I could afford.” Which was true. Of course, her brothers were married and they were always fashionably and respectably dressed, for they had to attend parties and drum up donations for the home. Portia, as an unmarried woman, didn’t make house visits or attend balls and parties, so she had no need for anything but sensible clothing. Which meant drab.
Whenever she felt a little tug of longing over a fashionable dress, she remembered that she did good work. And didn’t need bright plumage.
“I wonder if our bizarre host thought of this,” he said. “If he gave you a mask, it means your ruin is not his intention. I wish I could figure out what in hell his intention is.”
She didn’t reprimand him on his language as she rather agreed.
He left her and walked through a doorway into a second room. She had explored while he was downstairs. That was a dressing room, with several wardrobes and a cushioned bench for one to sit while being dressed by a servant—something she’d never experienced. All of the wardrobes were empty. No servant had arrived to unpack his belongings.
A shiver ran down her back. Suddenly she didn’t want to wear the mask. She wanted to rip it off.
But Sinclair was right. She couldn’t let people know her identity. She would be ruined. And that would ruin the foundling home.
A knock came at the bedroom door. Portia opened it a crack.
“Pardon me, but this was t
o be delivered to His Grace.” A pretty face was behind the door. A young housemaid. Over her arms was the most beautiful gown Portia had ever seen.
“Thank you.” Portia held out her arms and took it, turning and shutting the door as the duke came out. “A dress was delivered.”
“So Genvere did realize you would need one.” He shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“It’s a beautiful gown. It must have cost a fortune.”
“We’ll put it on you.”
“We? I am not stripping to my undergarments in front of you. I will dress myself.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will,” she said firmly. “I will do so in the dressing room.”
But as she struggled to get into the dress, she understood why he’d said she couldn’t dress herself. She couldn’t reach the fastenings. This was a gown intended for a woman who had a lady’s maid to help her dress.
And she would have to use the duke.
Oh bother.
Pinning her dress against her front with her hands, Portia went back into the bedchamber. Swallowed hard. Sinclair was stretched out on the bed, his booted feet hanging off the edge, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“You were correct,” she conceded. “I need your help to get dressed.”
“Then come over here.” His voice was low and husky.
She didn’t want to approach him on the bed. Didn’t want to think about him on a bed. Trousers covered his long legs and he wore his tailcoat, waistcoat, and shirt. He was utterly the opposite of naked. Yet he looked so informal and relaxed on the bed, it felt far too intimate.
With a grunt, he sat up. His hand settled on her hip and she jumped, clutching the dress.
She stood on the dress and almost pitched forward, but his hand slid around her middle, supporting her, and he set her back on her feet. Carefully, he drew the soft, satiny fabric up on her shoulders, drawing the lace-trimmed edges together. His knuckles skimmed the nape of her neck.
Portia bit her lip. Just that touch seemed to set her skin aflame.
But he’d broken her heart. She’d been so hurt by the duke she would never let herself feel desire for him again.
She would have to stop it. By force of will, she would make it go away.
Adeptly, he managed all the fastenings. He was very good with women’s clothing. She supposed he’d had lots of practice.
The dress was rich ivory silk decorated with pearls and black lace. The neckline scooped shockingly low. As he tended to the fastenings at the back, it pulled the fabric snug to her back and made her breasts appear plump and rounded above the neckline. The skirt fell in shimmering beauty over her hips. She’d never worn such a dress. In the warm-toned embroidered silk, with the white and gold mask, she looked both innocent and exotic. Her flame-red hair looked lovely and wild, instead of just an untamed, unruly bother.
His hands brushed her low back as he finished the fasteners. A shock rushed through her. She was so aware of his hands, her heart was pounding, her whole body tense.
“Done,” he said, and it came out strangled. He was breathing hard.
While she fought to control her breathing. He could carelessly feel desire—she would not allow herself the same.
“You look beautiful, Portia.” His voice dropped to a whisper of a growl. He bent to her ear, where his breath brushed over the back of her neck and she felt like a helpless puddle of wax approached by a flame. “So very beautiful.”
The caress of his warm breath made her ache. She felt a sharp pang right through her—right down to her intimate place.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“S-speak so close to me.” Her voice shook.
She stepped away from him, aware of the sensual rustle of silk. The stunningly soft way the fabric caressed her skin—
Then she realized something. She turned in front of the mirror, her heart pounding. “It fits me perfectly. As if it was made to my measurements. Who could do that? I mean, how could anyone know?”
Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She stared at him. Of course, even he couldn’t know her measurements. Had someone watched her and guessed? But this gown must have taken days to make. How long had someone been watching her?
A shiver went down her back. It felt like a spider crawling along her neck—which had happened the time she’d decided to clean the foundling home’s attics.
“This . . . this is unsettling,” she said. “Perhaps a bit . . . disturbing.”
“Unsettling? A bit disturbing? That is your description for this? Any other woman would have had the vapors. Long ago.”
“That would be pointless. Besides, you might give me more brandy.” Ruefully, she touched her head. “I never intend to do that again.”
His gaze moved slowly over her, and it heated her in its path.
She both liked it and desperately wished he would not do that. “There. I am ready to go downstairs. Down to the orgy.”
But before she could take a step, his hand was on her wrist. “I want to know the truth, Portia. Why are you so determined to go down to an orgy?”
* * *
Sin couldn’t stop suspicion from rising. Along with another part of his anatomy.
Portia was breathing fast and her cheeks were pink. He could sense she was hiding something. He’d learned from living with his family how to tell when people were lying to him—people he had trusted and loved.
Could Portia be in on some kind of game to hurt him? She had every reason to hate him. She hadn’t forgiven him. And why in hell would she? He’d broken her heart.
Was her kidnapping fake? Was that the reason a dress was provided that fit her perfectly?
So damn perfect it made his mouth water?
She moved away from him, but she stopped in front of the mirror. Stared at herself as if she couldn’t believe it was her reflection. She was a beautiful creature. In the pale ivory with the gleaming mask, she looked like an angel who had come down to sin.
“I am willing to endure it,” she said briskly. “To find out who kidnapped me.”
“I can find that out. You can trust me to find information for you.”
His suspicious nature, honed by years of hell, wondered if she needed to be downstairs to contact a conspirator.
No, this was Portia. Innocent to the core. What was wrong with him?
His childhood had poisoned him. Made him suspect rot and evil everywhere.
Just as he was considering that, she said, “I don’t know that I can trust you. How do I really know you are not involved?”
“If I really had you kidnapped for nefarious purposes, don’t you think I’d be having my wicked way with you by now?”
“There is no need to take offense at my doubt,” she said firmly. “After all, you brought it upon yourself.”
He groaned. “Yes, I know this. Let me make amends then.”
She studied her masked face in the mirror. “No one will recognize me, will they?” she asked. “So there’s no danger.”
“There is a hell of a lot of danger.”
“Of what sort?”
“You’re trying to flush out a kidnapper. Dangerous by definition. And the danger that men will take one look at you in that gown and want you.”
Her lips parted. Her mouth alone—Christ, it was gorgeous. There were men who would sell their souls to kiss those lips. Having her eyes and cheeks masked made her lips all the more erotic.
“I can avoid such men.”
He rolled his eyes. “You can’t.”
“But if I went downstairs, would you—protect me?”
“With my life.”
Her chest rose with her sharp breath. Her neckline was cut so low, her breasts lifted, wobbled, and almost bounced up over the neckline. His sharp eyes detected the dark pink hue of her nipples, barely covered by the lace of the gown. He had to grit his teeth as the desire to taste those nipples hit him. “But since I’d like to
keep my life, I need you to stay up here. Locked in this room.”
“But I want to go!” she cried.
Sin blinked. “You want to go?”
Below her mask, he could see her cheeks turning bright pink.
“Why is that such a surprise to you?” she exclaimed. “This is what tempted you away from me. I’ve always—I’ve always wanted to know. I want to just see . . . what it’s like. I’m just . . . curious.”
She couldn’t have shocked him more if she’d suddenly hit him in the face with a shovel.
“You’re curious,” he repeated slowly.
Hell, he’d never dreamed of that. Portia had always been so good. She was as far from his dark, tormented world as he could imagine.
And she was curious about an orgy?
His cock responded. His brain said: Look, this beautiful, tempting woman wants to know all about wicked sex. At the same instant, his prick stood proud, saluted, and was ready to offer its services. Blood raced down so fast it physically hurt as his cock bolted into hardness.
Sin drank in the sight of Portia in front of her mirror. The bodice of her fashionable dress cradled her breasts, lifting them high. The fabric skimmed her rounded hips and fell in a sweep of glimmer along her legs.
He wanted to take the dress off her. Reveal every inch of her soft ivory skin. Kiss her everywhere.
He’d seen hundreds of women naked. Given the size of his orgies, possibly thousands. But he’d never seen Portia naked.
He was just seeing Portia’s bare neck and a little bit of naked shoulder.
And he was on fire.
She squared her shoulders and stared him in the eye. “I wanted to know what was so fascinating about them. What made you want them so much.”
Sin couldn’t resist. He bent and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. She tasted fresh and clean. Like lavender and a sweet English spring. “God,” he muttered. “I made a hell of a mistake. I should have married you and dedicated my life to giving you pleasure.”
She froze.
He nuzzled her neck, just behind her ear.
She whimpered.
His cock throbbed and he could barely think. One delicious fuck and she would be his forever—