“Oh, we’ll just live here, then. In the stable.”
“It’s my stable. We can do what we like here.” She didn’t know, he thought. She didn’t know what this meant to him, how shocking it was to feel he was home after ten years at sea with nights spent dreaming of stripping her naked and burying himself inside her.
She gave him a push, but she was already retreating from him, and he didn’t know how to bring her back. “Obstinate as ever, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t changed.”
She looked away. “That’s not so.”
He dipped his head to her ear, nipped her there and said, “Except, I think my prick is bigger, don’t you?”
That made her laugh, and then him, and that was just like them, to be bawdy and find it amusing, as if they were the only lovers ever to speak crudely to each other. She turned her head to his chest, shoulders still shaking. Well. It was a fine joke, wasn’t it? He kissed her again and realized it wouldn’t take much for him to be ready again.
She pushed at his shoulders. “We should go. It’s late.”
With a sigh, he pushed away and fumbled to get himself decently back into his breeches. When he’d done that, he helped her arrange her clothes, too, or would have except that she lay on the blanket with her hair beginning to dry and glint with indisputable red, and her pale legs exposed and her lower belly, too. He thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful than her sex. A bit of the old guilt nipped at him, and he embraced that, too. Fucking his friend’s sister was wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at this moment. Not then and not now.
He set his palm on her thigh, and then on the inside of her thigh. He’d scraped her there during their frantic coupling. When he thought to look at her face, he found her watching him with eyes that killed him. He slid his fingers upward, covered her sex, and, still watching her face, slid a finger inside her, one then two. “I’m no green boy, now,” he said. She was getting slicker, and his two fingers moved in her easily. “If we didn’t need to get home, I’d prove that beyond your ability to speak.”
She pressed her head back because he’d pushed his thumb between her folds and along the flesh there. Her breath caught but she managed to say, “You could try.”
“Anything for you, my love. Anything.”
“What’s this?” She put a hand on his breeches. “Are you rising to the occasion, sir?”
“I think I am.”
And she gave him a wicked smile that melted him inside, and made him forget about Magnus and the fact that she was going to be married, and he didn’t stop her from unbuttoning the fall of his breeches nor say a word when she took him in hand and drew back his foreskin. “You once liked me very well on my knees.”
“Yes.” He sat up, then stood and stared into her eyes and understood that this was to be their very last time. “Please.”
He buried his fingers in her hair when she took him in her mouth, and he let her bring him that way and all the while he told himself that if she could walk away from this, then by God, so could he.
Afterward, they tidied up as best they could, at last feeling the cold and damp, and they headed for the Grange. The sky hadn’t cleared, though it wasn’t raining, and the ground was thoroughly soaked. Dozens of tiny puddles lurked in the thick grass and made the footing uncertain. At the stone fence, he lifted her over again and did not put her down as quickly as he should have. He leaned in and kissed her, hard and fast before he released her.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do this.”
Since she knew the way, he followed her through the fields. The path was muddier than when he’d tromped through here heading the other way, and the clouds were getting that heavy look while the air turned colder and thicker. They gave up trying to keep themselves out of the muck and just trudged through the field.
He kept a hand around her waist because that was what a gentleman did when he was escorting a lady across treacherous terrain. Before he was quite prepared to return to reality, they were at the Grange. Fat drops of water hit them as they dashed for the front of the house, running now and laughing for no reason other than it seemed right. The very moment they reached the path to the door, the rain became another torrent.
At the door, Portia turned, face to the sky and thrust a fist into the air. “Curse you, god of rain, curse you!”
He fumbled with the door, and when he got the thing open he grabbed Portia’s other hand and pulled her inside, they were still laughing.
Until he turned around and saw Mrs. Temple standing in the foyer, a look of utter betrayal on her face.
Chapter Six
WITH FINGERS CLUMSY FROM the cold, Portia worked at the buttons of Crispin’s greatcoat, so heavy on her shoulders. She didn’t dare meet Eleanor’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to see that wide-eyed hurt again. She wasn’t Eleanor’s equal, not fit to be in the same room as her.
This time, she’d betrayed more than Crispin and her brother’s trust. She’d hurt Eleanor, who did not deserve that, and she’d betrayed Jeremy, the man she was supposed to marry. Again. She wanted to weep with the horror of how badly she’d failed.
Hob appeared at the top of the servant’s staircase. He came to a full stop, eyes wide when he saw the condition the two of them were in. Both of them soaked to the skin, her in Crispin’s hat and greatcoat, muddy shoes, and water dripping everywhere.
“Hob,” Eleanor said in a light voice. God, what a brilliant performance. You’d never guess now, that her sister-in-law thought there was anything the least untoward about this. “Do help Lord Northword with his wet coat.”
Hob bowed and said, as he went to Crispin, “I was about to walk out to find thee, Miss.”
“As well you didn’t. You’d have got drenched, too.” She meant to match Eleanor’s aplomb and failed miserably at that, too. A shiver cut short her attempt to wipe water out of her face. She’d hardly minded her wet clothes and hair before, but now she was miserable inside and out. She managed to get the greatcoat unbuttoned and off her shoulders. Hob took it from her without a word.
“What on earth possessed you to go outside in weather such as this?” Eleanor’s smile was sweet, so sweet.
It was on the tip of her tongue to confess everything. Every horrible impulse, every awful, unworthy thought, and beg for forgiveness. She ought to confess all the ways in which she’d traded a few moments of bliss for her very soul, but Crispin plucked his hat off her head and dropped it on the table by the door and her words went unspoken. “Before you take my coat, Hob, see to sending a maid to help Miss Temple out of her wet things, won’t you?”
“Yes, milord.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Eleanor gave a clear, silvery laugh, but Portia knew she’d forever tainted relations with her sister-in-law, and very likely Magnus, too. Eleanor smoothly transferred her attention from Hob to Crispin. “Do take his coat. Lord Northword will catch an ague if he leaves it on.”
Crispin lifted a hand. “Well, now, Hob, I can hardly remove my coat in front of ladies, can I? I’ll not be so indelicate.” On the table, a damp ring formed around the brim of the hat, slowly spreading outward. “I’ll need my valet directly, if you’ll see to that as well.”
“Aye, milord.”
Portia could not summon Crispin’s cheer nor Eleanor’s sweetness. Every glance, every word flayed her to the bone. Eleanor might as well have been there at the stable block, watching Portia fall into sin.
“You were gone so long Magnus was worried.” Eleanor picked up Crispin’s hat and handed it to Hob. He accepted it with a bow and headed for the stairs.
“We were caught in the rain,” Crispin said easily.
“Quite a downpour. We were worried.”
“Did you not hear or see how it came down, Mrs. Temple?” He turned part way to her so that half his back faced Portia. He spoke so gently. “Forgive me that, ma’am. I know how intensely you feel everything.”
She set her fingertips over her heart. “I d
o, my lord.”
“I know I would have worried had I been in your place and my sister-in-law had gone out in such weather.”
“Yes, my lord. Precisely.”
“There was nothing we could do but take refuge where we could.”
“Which was?”
He spread his hands. Water dripped from his sleeves onto the floor. “As you can well imagine, no place very dry. There was a tree. Not a very big one, I’m afraid. Not so far from the creek at the back of your property.”
“A tree.”
“Yes. A tree.”
It didn’t matter what Crispin said, or what excuses he made, or how convincing he was for any of it, Portia knew every word was a lie. Eleanor’s expression remained calm and pleasant, but dread curled in the pit of her stomach. That smile lay so heavy on them, around them, between them, that she could not react in any way.
“Thank you, Lord Northword, for going after her.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Temple.”
“My dear Lord Northword. You ought to change into some dry clothes.” Portia felt horrible. Eleanor was a woman incapable of malice and accustomed to thinking the best of everyone, and here they were, deceiving her. “You’ll take a chill if you don’t.”
Crispin set a hand on the back of Portia’s shoulder, no longer the man who’d kissed her senseless. Not the man who’d made love to her in a way that obliterated the life she’d built without him. He’d retreated behind a pleasant facade, and she was unbearably aroused by him. “You as well, Portia.”
She nodded, but Eleanor detained her with a hand to Portia’s arm. Crispin bowed to them and headed for the stairs.
“You’ve no idea how worried Magnus was for you,” Eleanor said.
“We were caught in the rain.”
“I do not understand why you would go outside at all when you did not feel well. And to make Lord Northword chase after you.” Eleanor’s smile faded. “I cannot imagine what people will say when they hear the tale. It’s bound to follow you, my dear.”
“I was foolish. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience and your worry.”
“I do hope you’ve learned your lesson about acting impetuously.”
“I have, thank you.”
Eleanor pushed her toward the stairs. “Go on, now. We can’t have you catching your death either.”
Bridget, the maid she shared with Eleanor, was waiting for her when she entered her bedroom. The young woman clucked at her bedraggled state.
Portia stood where she was, her thoughts no place in particular. She was glad to be ministered to with no need to do anything but move as required to get her wet clothes off. The cold penetrated to her bones. Had that second rain washed away the smell of sex? Lord, she didn’t even know if Crispin had come on her clothes or his.
The maid unhooked the last of the fastenings of Portia’s gown. “You poor thing. You’re soaked to the skin. What happened?”
“Lord Northword and I were caught in the rain.” She pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her gown and was immediately caught up in another shiver. “We took refuge under a tree.” She fixed an image of the stream in her head, as if doing so would make it true. “By the stream. Near where my brother likes to fish.”
“So far from the house, Miss?”
“It rained so hard we were drenched. There was sleet, too.” That was true. There would have been sleet by the stream as well.
“And here you went out without a cloak. Goodness, why? Come closer to the fire, Miss.”
“Thank you.” She shivered again when Bridget stripped her of her petticoats and undergarments. The places where Crispin’s early beard had rasped against her skin were livid against her bone-cold skin. The bruise his mouth had left on her throat, the scrape left by his clothes against the inside of her thigh. She’d not felt any of that at the time, but she did now. Her skin contained the residue of his mouth, his hands and his cock, the sigh of his breath. Bridget would surely put the evidence of her deception before Eleanor. Ten years since her fall from grace, and she’d given up body and soul without a thought. She’d tried to love elsewhere. She truly had.
Wiped down, dried off, hair combed out, and her in dry undergarments, she came out of her dumb state when Bridget picked up the pink gown. “I’ll be up half the night with this.”
“Don’t bother.” She sank onto an armchair. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Crispin had done when he came to passion, other than she was sure he’d not come inside her. “It can wait.”
“If I don’t launder this right away, it will be ruined for certain.”
“If it can’t be saved, burn it.”
“Oh, it’s too pretty for that.”
“Keep it, if you like. Whether it can be saved or not.” She met the maid’s astonished gaze head on and managed a smile. “The color suits you better than it does me.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss.” She scooped up the rest of the wet clothes and undergarments then whisked away the gown before leaving Portia alone.
With no one to distract her, her heart crumbled. Part of her soul had vanished when she and Crispin proved unable to make a future together. Today, she’d had him in her arms again, and she wasn’t sorry for that. She wasn’t. But she’d been left with a newer and more painful reminder of exactly what she’d given up ten years ago.
Chapter Seven
THE BLOODY RAIN HAD STOPPED AGAIN. In Northword’s room, with its rear-facing windows, the light shifted with the constant change in the gaps of sky between the clouds. He held the note Hob had just delivered to him. He itched to toss it onto the fire. “No answer, Hob. Thank you.”
He left it to his valet to give Hob a coin, which was quickly and discreetly done. The moment the door closed, he crumpled the note—predictably, the sheet was scented—and threw it on the dressing table. It landed half on the portable secretary he’d brought with him and half on the abandoned leather strop. Meet at his earliest convenience. The devil he’d be summoned like he was a misbehaving son. Not again.
He yanked on his shirt sleeve. “Are we finished with this nonsense yet?”
“No, milord.” His valet was even tempered, thank goodness, since at the moment, Northword wore nothing but a shirt and clean breeches.
“Get on with it.”
After that display of impatience and having to endure the arrangement of the rest of his clothes, he fussed more than usual with his appearance. He wanted to strike just the right note of lordly perfection before he went downstairs to face the wife of his closest friend. He was prepared to answer any and all charges laid at his feet. He would not give honor short shrift. Not ten years ago, and not now. He studied his reflection and decided, just this once, that his resemblance to his father was acceptable. His father had been a ruthless, heartless specimen of manhood.
He went downstairs to the parlor, reminding himself that he could not blame the woman for being concerned about Portia. The truth was, he had done precisely what one imagined happened when a man ended up alone with a woman. He half expected Magnus to be there waiting to accuse him, too, but he wasn’t.
Mrs. Temple was just lifting a dish of tea to her lips when he walked in. She raised her eyes and smiled, and there was no anger in that smile, not the least sign of disapproval. He lifted a hand when she rose. He remembered the expression on his father’s face when he had been called to account. His father had not smiled. “Please, don’t stand on my account.”
“Lord Northword. Thank you for coming downstairs so quickly.” Mrs. Temple stood and curtseyed, unnecessarily deep if you asked him. He wasn’t the damned Prince Regent. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” There was a tray of chevron-shaped shortbread on the table and two plates. The one before her had one of the familiar chevrons on it. The shortbread at Northword House had always been shaped thus.
She poured for him without asking his preference and moments later handed him a cup of tea adulterated with more milk than tea, for God
’s sake. She gazed at him with that guileless, ravishing smile of hers, and it did absolutely nothing for him.
He took the cup and set it down. He did not care for milk in his tea. Sugar only for him. “Thank you.”
“Tea is so much more healthful when one drinks it with milk.”
He helped himself to the sugar only to have her tap the table by his tea cup. “My father’s physician instructed him to take a cup every morning, prepared just so. Without sugar.”
“Indeed?” She meant well. She did. A wisp of steam curled from the surface of his tea cup. He dropped in three lumps and then, in a moment of childish rebellion that was far too satisfying, added two more just to watch her horror. “It’s not my habit to take milk with my tea.”
She blinked several times, and his immediate instinct was to backtrack. She was not the sort of woman to see nuance in word or deed. “You ought to, my lord. After your adventures in our weather today, extra consideration for your health is in order, don’t you agree?”
“I enjoy excellent health.”
“Who’s to say it will stay that way?” Her hand fluttered around her upper chest. “Why, just today you were caught in a storm and soaked to the skin. I shouldn’t be astonished at all if you took ill as a result.”
He blinked, took stock of his state and decided he was mildly offended and feeling decidedly manipulated by that wide-eyed look of incipient distress. “Thank you for considering my longevity.”
“You’re welcome, my lord.” She beamed at him, and such was his irritation over tea with milk, he had almost no regret for his ironic tone. Besides, she gave no sign whatever that she’d heard the edge in his reply. “It was no trouble at all. I think you’ll find you’ll quickly acquire a taste for milk with your tea.”
“I dare say you mean I will learn to like a bit of tea with my milk.” He laughed and smoothed out the emotion that had sparked his pointed response. He failed, for the bite remained. Was he not better than this? This was not a woman of subtlety, and it was not kind of him to behave so with her.
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