Tall, Dark and Disreputable

by Deb Marlowe

  No, not gone. More. With Mateo she was a brighter, better version of herself. He looked past the tight, contained picture she showed to the rest of the world and gave her the beautiful gift of acceptance.

  His kiss grew more demanding and she abandoned thought and answered with her own fierce need. Her hands moved, measuring the breadth of his chest and shoulders, dragging into the dark abundance of his curls, and at last, digging beneath layers of linen and camlet to touch silky hot skin underneath. At last.

  He shuddered beneath her hands. ‘Dear God in heaven,’ he moaned, and then he returned the favour, burying his face in the sensitive curve of her neck while he busied himself with the fastenings of her habit.

  She gasped when he spread the fabric wide. Impatient, he tweaked her straining nipples through the fabric of her chemise. He urged her several steps back and she went willingly, until she came up against the thick tree trunk that she’d hidden behind a few minutes ago. That delicious feeling of connection swept over her again. She was part of him and he of her and somehow they both belonged in this strange place at this exact time. His fingers flew through the ties and tiny buttons of her shift and stays and at last all barriers were gone and suddenly she was bare to his touch.

  Except that he didn’t touch. He put his hands to her shoulders and pressed her back against the rough bark of the tree. An inarticulate growl of pleasure rumbled through him as he looked his fill. The cool forest air caressed her and her breasts swelled. Her nipples rose stiff with longing for him to do the same.

  ‘So beautiful,’ he whispered. And then he was bending down, hovering over her while his breath, hot and sweet, teased one tight peak. His finger drew tempting circles about the other.

  She arched her back, silently begging for more.

  ‘Tell me, cara,’ he said, his voice gone rough with desire. ‘You started this, damn you. Now tell me what you want.’

  And she did, because with Mateo she knew that she was safe, and that he would hear her.

  ‘Touch me,’ she asked in a voice that she barely recognised. ‘Do it now, Mateo.’

  His tongue darted out, flicked over her and she nearly wept with pleasure. For long moments he kissed and laved and sucked while she moaned and sighed in incoherent, ever-increasing need.

  Suddenly he stood and pushed himself between her thighs. Instinctively her legs widened to admit him. The hard, iron-hot length of him pressed against the intimate spot between her legs, and she moved against him in anticipation. Reaching down, he began to lift her heavy skirts up and out of the way.

  ‘Wrap your leg around me,’ he ordered.

  She did. A pang of unease rippled through her. It had been a long time since she’d been so open and vulnerable to another, on many levels. But then he smiled down at her and she knew. She could risk anything with him.

  His fingers traced a soft path up her leg, and the last of her anxiety vanished. At the top of her garter he lingered, teasing her soft skin and making her breath come quickly. Slowly his fingers climbed, ever higher, until they found the hot, wet core of her.

  Their simultaneous groans echoed through the trees.

  He slicked a finger deep inside of her, and then up to the swollen centre of her desire. Back and forth in her silken folds he stroked.

  Her breath began to come in gasps. Lightly he rubbed and deeply he plunged, winding the spring of her need until she was ready to explode.

  His fingers eased higher, danced faster over her. Her hands came away from him, her arms flattened behind her, against the rough tree trunk. She sobbed his name as her body strained towards him.

  He answered with a firmer stroke. With his other hand he reached up and grasped her nipple. And that was the end of her. Light flashed behind her eyes as her universe broke apart. Wave after wave of pleasure and relief racked through her. Again she cried his name, and she reached for him, clutching tight lest she be spun away by the violence of her release.

  He held her tight until she ceased trembling. Over and over he peppered her brow and temple with soft kisses. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘You are beautiful, Portia.’

  It was a gradual process, but slowly up became up again, and down, down and she returned to herself. She felt light, happy and utterly content with the world around her. Straightening, she met Mateo’s mouth with hers. He kissed her deeply, greedily. She welcomed him and reached for the fall of his trousers.

  Frustration mingled with regret in his expression as he set her hand from him.

  ‘But, Mateo—’

  He shushed her. ‘I am content. I am happy to have given you pleasure,’ he said softly against her hair.

  She pushed back and stared up at him. ‘I know enough of men to recognise that for the lie it is. Why won’t you let me—?’

  ‘Dio, you are making this more difficult. God knows I want to, it’s practically killing me not to!’ He gathered her in again. ‘But the risks are too great.’

  ‘If you worry you might get me with child, you needn’t. I never conceived during my marriage. Yet another failure,’ she said bitterly. ‘The doctors said it might never happen.’A stab of longing shot through her womb at the idea of a baby, but she sobered when she considered what a pregnancy would mean to him—a snare at worst, an obligation at best.

  ‘That is not what I meant, although it is a valid concern. You are like the plants that you love so much, cara—at last you’ve found the perfect spot and you’ve sunk your roots deep. You will thrive at Stenbrooke.’ He gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘But I am the albatross; I need a strong wind and miles of space around me.’

  He took her hand. ‘So if I’m given the choice to hurt you now or hurt you more later…then I have to choose now.’ Frustration throbbed in his voice as he cursed again. ‘You’ve given me so many things, Portia. Your friendship, my company, and now a moment I will treasure for the rest of my life. All I can do in return is to make the choice that will cost you the least amount of pain.’

  She supposed it made sense, if you looked at the world through the warped lens of a man’s eyes. He was doing as he’d done before—appeasing her pride, taking the blame on his own shoulders. Was she supposed to feel grateful? She did not. Perhaps he was right and gratitude would come later, but right now she was fully occupied fighting off the cold, familiar shock of rejection. Again.

  Chapter Ten

  The door to the stable office stood propped open. Inside, a group of men hovered around a table. From the grubbiest stable boy to the richly dressed baron in their midst, as one they ignored the dim light and pored over scattered, dog-eared copies of the Racing Calendar and the Stud Book.

  ‘Topgallant is out of Three Sheets by Easy Breeze,’ one of the men said soberly. ‘That’s top blood—and the rumour amongst the legs is that he’s fast. We might find him hard to beat.’

  Another man stabbed his finger at the open Stud Book. ‘Too bad she wasn’t covered by Into the Wind, or it’d be no problem,’ he cackled.

  To a man, they all groaned.

  ‘Catch that?’ he grinned. ‘Three Sheets Into the Wind? A horse like that’d be lucky to find the finish!’

  Reluctant laughter swept through the room even as a sense of nostalgia rippled through Mateo. There was something to be said for this—the camaraderie and bonding of men from different walks of life by a common purpose. He’d spent many a similar happy moment in the company of his crew.

  He stepped out of the doorway and forwards into the room. ‘I’m of the mind, my lord, that a horse with a grand name like Topgallant is bound to come out the victor in any race.’ He smiled at the man seated at the centre of the group.

  They all looked around in surprise. Lord Dowland stood, then grinned in pleased recognition. ‘Cardea! You sea dog! I haven’t clapped eyes on you since Dayle’s wedding! What in hell’s blazes brings you to Whitcourt?’

  ‘Well, there is a matter of an outstanding bet between us. If I recall correctly, you still owe me money.’

  ‘I
most certainly do not!’ The baron smiled through his mock outrage. ‘That poor devil only fitted twenty-four sausages in his mouth, not twenty-five! I believe it is you, sir, who owes me!’

  ‘You were too lost in your cups to count correctly, my lord,’ Mateo said with a quirk of his lips. ‘And for that matter, so was I.’ He sobered a little and stepped forwards to clasp Dowland’s hand. ‘But I haven’t come to call in a wager; instead I’m here on a bit of business.’

  ‘Come in, then, man! Come in! Let me introduce you to my men—the best bunch of trainers, jockeys and grooms in the south of England!’

  ‘Thank you, I’d like that, but perhaps I should first introduce you to my…associate.’ Mateo reached behind him into the shadows at the doorway and pulled Portia forwards. ‘My lord, may I present Lady Portia Tofton?’ He met the slight lift of Portia’s raised brow with a wink and gave her a little push.

  There was a scramble as men and boys straightened or hastened to stand. Portia dipped a curtsy and graced them all with a lovely smile.

  ‘Tofton?’ a dirty young man said, mouth agape. ‘But ain’t that the gent who done got himself killed racin’ carriages? The one who—’

  His words were abruptly cut off as someone clapped a hand over his mouth and pulled him roughly to the back of the group. Mateo stared at Portia’s whitening face.

  Lord Dowland stepped smoothly into the breach. ‘Lady Portia.’ He bowed low. ‘How pleased I am to meet you. You are welcome at Whitcourt, as well.’ He gazed at her, his face carefully composed, considering.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered his unasked question wryly, and ran her gaze over the room full of curious faces. ‘That was indeed the gent I was married to.’

  An excited murmur broke out. The baron waved it down. ‘Forgive us our ill manners, my lady.’ He slapped a hand to Mateo’s shoulder. ‘Well, then, if the two of you will spare me just a moment, I’ll give these louts their instructions and they can get back to training my horses. Then we can retire to the house and discuss your business.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mateo said quietly. He pulled Portia closer. ‘We’ll just await you outside.’

  They retreated to the expansive courtyard. Curiosity ate at him. Something had definitely passed between Portia and Dowland, something they all knew about J.T.’s death. Something that he did not.

  Yet he did not think he could ask. He had no right to expect one level of intimacy when he’d so thoroughly rejected another. She strayed from his side, left the cobbled court and walked over to watch the yearlings in a nearby paddock. She was quiet now, as she’d been all afternoon, since they’d left the wooded site of their tryst behind.

  And he? He’d been quietly frantic, more impatient to find this elusive stranger and finish this business than even before. The image of her in that enchanted glade, gorgeous in her half-dressed state, glorious as she came undone, had been branded for ever into his mind. Portia might be content with their slow progress and time for reflection, but he feared he might not ever be content again. Nor was he so eager to shine a light on his past mistakes. He’d rather make up for them and move on.

  He stared at her, slim and straight at the fence, a candle lit by her amber-in-the-sun hair. The distances between them were insignificant on one level, and insurmountable the next. It would be unconscionable of him to take advantage of her without committing fully on all of them. But, damn, it would be the best ride of his life.

  Sighing, he moved over to stand beside her at the rail.

  ‘Look at them.’ She gestured towards the frolicking colts. ‘Constant, joyous motion. It reminds me of you.’

  He laughed. ‘Standing still was never my forte.’ Not in a physical, mental or emotional sense. He liked motion. He craved progress in pursuit of his goals. And perhaps even more valuable, he’d found a moving target was much harder to hit with veiled criticisms and barbed judgements.

  They stood in silence for a few moments more. ‘While we are here, it would be best, I think, were you to stick close to me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Dowland’s company, but even years ago he had a certain…reputation.’ He grimaced. ‘Not that I mean to disparage our host, but he is one who is also constantly in motion—from one woman and on to the next as quickly as possible.’

  Her face stayed carefully bland. ‘I don’t believe there is cause to worry. I can’t even tempt the men I throw myself after.’

  Incredulous, his gaze snapped to hers. ‘Is that what you think? That I am not tempted?’ He snorted and a bay colt nearby answered him. He and Portia both grinned, lightening the tension of the moment.

  Ridiculous, truly, that she could entertain such an idea. Where was that steely core of confidence that had got her so far on this bizarre venture? He leaned in close. ‘You may put that idea straight from your mind, Portia Tofton. Have you not looked in a mirror and seen yourself in that habit? Do you tell me that you did not choose that golden frogging because it brings out the gold flecks in your dark eyes and the sunny streaks in your hair?’

  She flushed and he continued. ‘You’ve tempted me nearly every moment since I’ve set foot back in England. You’d tempt the dourest vicar, let alone an acknowledged rake like Dowland. Now stick close.’ He tucked her hand under his arm and cursed himself for a damned fool for letting her know the truth of how she affected him. But at this moment, her shaken assurance seemed more important than his pride.

  He lowered his voice. ‘If our circumstances were the least bit different, I would have had you up against that tree quicker than a flash. I would have buried myself in you and likely have knocked the damned tree down with the force of my desire.’

  He took satisfaction from the deep flush across her fair skin and the surprise in her eyes. Then he turned them both to meet the baron as he emerged from the stable office. He ignored the curious look the man tossed between the two of them.

  ‘Now then,’ Dowland said with a smile, ‘shall we go on to the house?’

  This was a working stud farm, not Dowland’s no-doubt-impressive seat, but it was attractive and welcoming none the less. When he and Portia had left the high plain behind, they’d reached the downland of rich, green turf—and here it flowed right up to the stone manor house. A few outbuildings flanked the manor in a pleasing arrangement and Mateo could see that someone had begun a garden in the back. But the stable buildings were the centrepiece here. Built of the same stone as the house, they were immaculate and fully occupied. Box stalls looked out to a clean, cobbled yard. Fenced paddocks and freshly raked training rings completed the picture.

  Dowland took them on a brief tour, pride and pleasure ringing clear in his tone, but at last he directed them towards the house. As they approached, he veered off on a path leading towards the side of the house.

  ‘You won’t mind if we skip the front entrance and enter directly into my study, will you, ma’am?’ he asked Portia with a sheepish expression.‘ My son is teething and was up half the night. He’s likely asleep and my wife, as well. There will be less fuss and bother—and less chance of waking either of them—if we just sneak in the side.’

  Stunned, Mateo stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Incredible! Dowland, you’ve married?’ He ignored Portia’s pointed grin.

  The baron laughed. ‘Yes, old man, it happens to the best of us.’

  ‘My congratulations, of course. I hadn’t heard a word of it.’ He had to hurry to keep up as Dowland opened a wide a set of double doors.

  ‘Sorry, Cardea, but you’ll have to carry the bachelor’s torch on your own now.’ He waved them into his light and comfortably furnished study. He held out a padded leather chair for Portia. ‘Cardea and I cut a wide swathe through the ladies of Dorset when first we met, Lady Portia, but I confess I’m quite content to tend the home fire now.’

  He waved Mateo towards a matching chair and seated himself behind a handsome cherry desk. ‘I also confess I’m quite curious to discover what has brought the two of you here.’

  Portia spoke up.
‘Your friend Mr Riggs advised us to speak to you, my lord.’

  ‘Ah, Riggs.’ Dowland leaned back in his chair. ‘Brilliant man, if a bit barmy, eh?’

  ‘We found him very helpful…’ she paused ‘…if a little eccentric.’

  Mateo would have used a stronger word himself, but Dowland seemed content.

  ‘Well, I shall endeavour to be as helpful and less eccentric, shall I?’ The baron looked to Mateo. ‘What is it, Cardea? Are you ready at last to trade your clipper in for a thoroughbred?’

  ‘Not in this lifetime, lubber.’ Mateo laughed, but then settled into a more serious tone. ‘Actually, we’re here to discover what you can tell us of a man named Averardo.’

  The baron frowned and Mateo sat forwards. Something moved behind the man’s eyes. ‘Averardo? It’s not a name I recognise right way. Is there a particular reason that I should do so?’

  Portia’s heart fell. Not again.

  She’d come to the realisation this afternoon—after the worst few minutes of her life fell so closely on the heels of the best—that Mateo was entirely correct. It would be best if they found this stranger quickly, made their bargains and completed their transactions in as little time as possible—before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

  That meant that now was not the time for another stumbling block, and yet another person who’d never heard of the man who threatened Stenbrooke.

  Mateo’s expression mirrored the exasperation she felt in her gut. ‘Incredible,’ he muttered again.

  She sighed deeply.

  ‘Lord Dowland,’ Mateo said with exaggerated patience, ‘you appeared to be somewhat familiar with Lady Portia’s husband. Perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that he apparently gambled her estate away—to a man named Averardo. A man whose existence we begin to doubt.’

  ‘I knew nothing of it,’ Portia said. ‘That is, until a solicitor showed up with a deed of conveyance with Averardo’s name on it. A solicitor sent by Mr Riggs, who in turn says he did so at your request.’

  Understanding blossomed on the baron’s face. And something else—remorse, perhaps? Just a twinge of anxiety. He kept his silence, but stood and quietly crossed the room to close the door.