And nobody had noticed? Or perhaps they were too polite to tell Penelope that weaving was perhaps not her forte. Either way, they had food and lodging for ten years until Odysseus sent them packing when he returned to reclaim his wife. Or was it Telemachus, his son? Surely as an immortal she should know these things.
Portia would have set out in search of him, not sat at home feeding a pack of useless men.
So why was she sitting in the parlour sewing daisies?
Because she had no alternative. She had to wait. And she wasn’t spending ten years about it.
Sighing, she threaded a fresh needle and set to work again. The piece of silk would be completely ruined and she’d have to patch it if she didn’t get it right. It would spoil the whole look of the piece, and since she intended it for an elaborate robing for a new ball gown, she’d have to live with it for some time.
At last the door opened. She looked up eagerly and Edmund stepped through, closing the door quietly behind him. When he opened his arms, she dropped her needle without concerning herself with securing it in the fabric and flew to him. His arms closed around her with finality.
“Does this mean you were successful?” she mumbled into his chest.
“What if I was not? What then?”
She chuckled into his chest, willing to play his game. If he had not been successful her parents would hardly allow him in here to speak to her alone. “Since I can’t live in sin with you without disgracing my family, how does a trip to Scotland sound?”
His arms stiffened around her and he drew a sharp breath. “It won’t come to that. He said yes.” He kissed the top of her head, but when she raised her chin for a kiss in a more interesting place, he gazed at her.
They exchanged a long look, not communicating by words or in their minds. A fraught moment when she wasn’t quite sure what he planned to say to her or what he was about to reveal.
Then warmth enveloped her and the moment was gone. “Miss Seaton,” he said, “I have become enamoured of your person. My recent interview with your father leads me to believe you would not mislike my approaching you, so I venture to ask you the question burning me alive for the past, oh, day. Would you, in short, marry me?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Then he did kiss her, long and sweet. She opened her mouth to him and he took her invitation unhesitatingly, sliding his tongue against her in a luscious tasting she shared with alacrity. Pressed against him like this, she wished for nothing more than for this moment to last forever. Except an urgency filled her to know what came next, and after that. She wanted more.
Accordingly she set about undoing his waistcoat buttons, one layer less and closer to his body heat. Only his shirt lay between them now. He made a sound into their kiss, a kind of groan she responded to, the vibration adding to their mutual intimacy. Her urgency increased and she pressed closer.
He spread his hands over her shoulders, then lower. Impatiently he shoved her fichu aside and palmed the top part of her breasts. He could draw them out of her stays. She hadn’t laced tightly this morning, wanting the room to breathe deeply if she needed to.
At the feel of his hands on her nipples, she gasped into his mouth. He made a soothing sound and curved his free hand around her waist, holding her close. His hand on her breast felt like heaven, encouraging her to move closer.
Trust me. His voice purred deep in her mind.
Always.
Again that hesitation, but this time mental. Don’t say that. Please. Just trust me now. This minute.
She did, and if he wanted her now, he could take her. Every part of her, if he wished. She didn’t have to tell him. He must know it from the way he moved closer and took possession of her. She wanted him just as much. Frantically she began to tug his shirt from his breeches, desperate to touch him.
He laughed and broke the kiss. “Gently, my love.”
She froze, gripping a handful of fine linen. “My love,” she repeated. She wanted him to say that some more. “Please tell me again.”
“Not until you stop that. We can’t take each other here and now.”
“Why not?”
His eyes widened. “Because the door isn’t locked and we don’t have time. Come and sit down.” Gently, as if she were made of porcelain, he restored her breast to its correct position, tucking it inside her bodice and drawing her fichu back over it. He stroked the soft fabric with his knuckle, gazing down at her, his heart in his eyes. “Let’s pretend we’re civilised for a while.” He drew away but kept his arm around her waist, turning her and leading her to the sofa before the fire. It crackled merrily, the metal guard preventing the sparks from the wood bursting into the room. They’d felled a copse of trees last week, and the wood was still fresh.
They walked to the sofa together, sat down together, and he pressed a kiss to her lips. “You’ve made me the happiest of men,” he said, and she gazed back at him, her heart in her eyes.
He touched her chin and smiled. She adored his touch, yearned for it even. Touch was one of the ways men and women flirted. Taking a glove off could be a provocative act, and stroking skin instead of fabric the aim of the most ardent swain. From the start Portia had allowed Edmund all the freedom he wished.
“I wanted you before I knew you were an immortal.” She smiled up at him, sharing their intimacy. “I love you, Edmund.” Without a doubt.
Something settled in her mind with those words. They eased her spirit, made her breathe more freely. “I love you,” she repeated, before his lips settled over hers and he kissed her again. Flinging an arm around his neck, she responded the way he’d shown her, loving the closeness and their shared emotions. She loved him, she wanted him and now she was to have him.
This time she drew away, a question burning in her mind. “How soon?”
“As soon as the banns are read. The first time will be on Sunday.”
“Three days hence.”
He nodded. “I could acquire a special licence. Would you prefer that?”
She shook her head, then changed it to a nod. “It would be faster, wouldn’t it? It seems the fashion, too, to marry in one’s drawing room. Lucy Satterthwaite did it when she married John Reveson. But I—I’d like to marry with my family looking on, in the church where I was christened.”
“How long ago?”
Of course. Immortals could live a long time. She could be hundreds of years old for all he knew. “Twenty-five years ago.”
His smile showed the release of his tension. “It should not make a difference, but I’m glad, for all that. I’m thirty-one.”
She frowned. Something about his age—what was it? She couldn’t remember, but her father had said something about it. He’d married her mother thirty years ago and moved here. Thirty-one years? Probably a coincidence.
He kissed her frown away. “If you want to make more elaborate preparations, then, my love, you must do it, but you’ll drive me to the edge of madness. I want you in my arms, in my bed, with nothing between us.” He kissed her forehead again. “Nothing,” he repeated softly, his words driving her to understand his meaning, together with a vision, sent from his mind, of them twined together in that bed, the butter-yellow silk upholstery framing their passion.
“I want it too.”
“The house will be ready, I swear it. I’ll work day and night to ensure that happens.”
She gave him the smile of the seductress. “Why should I care, when your bedroom is complete?”
“Our bedroom.” Another kiss punctuated his words. “I ordered that silk for you, because I’d seen you in it and I wanted the remembrance.” They lost a few more minutes in a passionate embrace, as he sent her more images, increasingly heated.
“Do we have to wait?” she asked him, her voice unsteady. She would trust him, give herself to him, as many country girls did to their swain. And with more reason.
“No. Yes. Sweetheart, forgive my blunt speaking, but are you a virgin?”
She stared at him, lost for words.
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, yes I am. It’s the thought of what you will do, and those images—”
Abruptly the images stopped. He’d forced them away. “I had no right showing you what I want.”
“I like it. Edmund, don’t stop.”
He smiled and took another kiss, sipping it from her lips. “It will be torture for me, but so exquisite. We will wait, my love. It will give me time to plan our wedding night, to create it properly. You know it might hurt your first time?”
She nodded. Of course she did. “I’m a country girl, Edmund. And I have a married sister.” A smile tilted her mouth. “Do you think Anthea and I didn’t ask her for her account of what it was like to be so close to a man?”
“And what did Millicent say?”
“That yes, it hurt, but the pain was soon over and it was worth it a hundred times over.”
He grinned. “I will endeavour to make it so.” He cupped her cheek and gazed at her as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight. She thrilled to the look and wondered what it would be like if they were both naked. “For an immortal, you’re remarkably innocent. I will not transgress that, my love. I don’t wish to bring you a moment’s pain, but this is inevitable.” His low voice thrilled her. “I love you truly. Never forget that, whatever happens next.”
She had visions of living in Thorncroft Grange for as long as they could, quietly and happily. “I know what will happen next.”
His smile held a touch of wistfulness.
“Sir, I have to counsel you on this. You should tell your lady who you are before you wed. It cannot be a good thing, to start a marriage with a falsehood.”
“Why?” Edmund strode out of the parlour and into the hall, barely dodging a couple of men carrying a large cupboard. He frowned, gazing at it as it disappeared into the dining room. “Did I buy that?”
“Yes, sir, in Paris. The marquis’s house, if you remember.”
Edmund’s face cleared. “Ah yes. I remember.” One of the purchases he’d made himself. Not that he had cause to complain about the satyr’s taste. “He was moving into the palace. Foolish man. I believe I bought much of his house, didn’t I? And that was in it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He followed the men into the dining room and regarded the item critically. “I don’t like it. Get me a sideboard instead.”
“You have one of those too,” Lightfoot informed him.
“Everything must be perfect. I want nothing to strike a false chord.”
Lightfoot cleared his throat. Except her knowledge of who you are?
“Enough.” He moved away from the satyr. I will tell her. Just not now. If she knew, she might feel honour bound to tell her father. I cannot risk that, not until I know the way the land lies with my mother. You never met my mother, did you?
No, sir.
She’s autocratic, and that is putting it mildly. You will meet her, because I need all the allies I can get.
I remember that part, sir.
He’d made his mother’s nature clear to Lightfoot when he’d employed the satyr. So why didn’t he tell his future wife?
The answer was plain. Because he feared losing her.
A plan forming in his mind, he led Lightfoot from room to room, dictating rapid notes. He was to create a place worthy of receiving her.
Every day she crept further into his soul. Knowing how that had happened didn’t make any difference. It was done and the emotions evoked within him were too seductive to disregard. He had no will, no desire to ignore it. The thought of her in these rooms drove him to strive for perfection.
When Lightfoot suggested they decorate a bedroom for her, Edmund turned on him with a viciousness that made the satyr flinch back. “One bedroom. Only one.” The thought of sleeping apart from her didn’t seem possible.
“Sir, you should try to regain some semblance of sanity.” Lightfoot stood by the door, ready to leave if Edmund started to throw things.
He shook his head and grinned wryly. “The compulsion is impossible to resist. In a while I should make more sense of it, but one thing won’t change. I’ll still love her. She’s the most important person in my life.”
Lightfoot spread his hand over his heart. “A remarkable sentiment, sir. I’m glad to hear you will steady in time.”
Edmund wagered he would. He must be driving his factotum insane, but he was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t want to stop. Somewhere deep inside a note of warning sounded, but he ignored it. He’d made the mistake and he would live with it. Gladly.
Portia’s first taste of triumph came at the next Dover assembly, when Edmund escorted her and had eyes for nobody else. He danced with her sisters and her mother, and then devoted the rest of the evening to her. Everyone saw it, but that was the last time he appeared in public in Dover.
“I want you to myself,” he told her at the end of the evening and proceeded to prove it.
In the last instance he courted her with every possible propriety. No lone alfresco walks or rides, no lingering after dinners except for once. One night after dinner at her parents’ house, she waylaid him and dragged him into the breakfast parlour, which wasn’t used at that time of day.
He devoured her mouth when she begged him to kiss her, thrust his tongue into her almost desperately, sending his hands roaming over her back, her arms and her breasts, anywhere she was exposed. Shivers racked her body, desire taking her with complete devastation and she could think of nothing but him, and completing what they were well on the way to. Lovemaking.
He pulled away with a low roar. “No, my love, this will not do.”
“Why not? We’ll be married in a week.”
“Enough time, then. Believe me, sweetheart, after our wedding I will not let you out of bed for a week. Or a month.”
“No. Now, please, Edmund.” A fever took her, a need so fundamental she had no way of refusing its insistent demands. Shoving aside the heavy folds of his coat, she forced her hands beneath his waistcoat at the top, dragging open the long line of cut steel buttons. One grazed her finger, but she didn’t stop in her task.
He did. Edmund lifted her away, kissing each digit, and lingering on the sore spot, playing over it with his tongue. “It’s hard, but this must be right.” He kissed the place again. “We don’t have long now.” Keeping hold of her hand, he held it against his chest, just below his left nipple. She could see the shadow of it below the pristine white of his shirt, the closest she’d ever come to touching and caressing it recently. Those first times when they’d explored each other freely had gone. She relived them every night in her lonely bed.
“This beats for you. It’s yours, my love, as is the rest of me. We must hold strong. Kiss me once more, and I’ll go.”
While she adored his protestations of love, she wanted more. He had more patience than she did. She didn’t know how she’d stand the long wait until her wedding day.
Chapter Seven
Portia discovered the meaning of anticipation a week later. They were to marry on a Monday, the first day they could after the last banns were read, just under a month since he’d asked her father for permission to address her. The longest three and a half weeks of her life.
She woke far too early for comfort, but too late to make it worth trying to get more sleep. The household was up, but the family was not. She wanted her sisters, who were most likely snoring in their rooms further up the corridor.
The birds sang outside, heralding the new day. Getting out of bed and repressing her shiver at the early morning chill, she crossed the room to the window and drew back the curtains. Dawn crept over the land, the fields catching the light of the sun, glint
ing as if someone had sprinkled gold dust there. Heavy morning dew enhanced the effect.
She couldn’t let anyone know she was up. Her pride demanded it. They would see her nervousness and judge her for it. The level of it made her vulnerable, more so because she had opened herself completely to him. Opening her mind she tried to find him, but he must be asleep or out of her range. She could only communicate when the recipient was close, as most immortals could, although she suspected her father of greater powers.
She hadn’t told Edmund who he was. Accepting her first loyalty was to her father until today, she swore she’d tell Edmund if he wanted to know, because after the ceremony, she would be his wife. Her loyalty would be his by right and not just by instinct.
Turning around, she checked for the twentieth time at least that her underwear and jewellery were in the right place, ready for her to put on when the time came. Which it would in—four hours.
They were marrying at the parish church, a half hour’s journey from the house, so that brought the time back to three and a half hours. And she’d need some breakfast, so two and a half, if she went down to eat at half past eight. She didn’t have much time at all, really.
An hour to compose herself and think of the wonderful life that lay ahead for her. That wasn’t nearly enough. Sitting on the window seat, her arms around her upraised knees, she closed her eyes to dream.
Her maid woke her when she entered the room and shut the door with a sharp snap. Portia started awake, shocked she even dropped off for a minute. The light was clear outside, and the birds had stopped shrieking in favour of a general morning sound of cattle in the fields and the wind in the branches of the sycamore tree near her window. Familiar, comfortable morning sounds. She’d miss them. They’d been the same all her life and in the new house, so much closer to the sea, she’d have to replace them with new. Plus the breathing of the man who would share her bed.
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 10