Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3

by Lynne Connolly

  “What a mess!” But he hadn’t come this far for nothing, hadn’t learned his attributes and his power without some effort, and he would not give in now. That strength that had taken him to France would remain with him. “I came back to help my sister, but I discovered she had her own protector. If you can call him that.”

  “Oh, I think you can. He can no more help what he is than you can. He will care for her.”

  Edmund sighed with resignation. “I wouldn’t have allowed her to go with him had I not been sure. If I were not inexperienced, I wouldn’t have lost what I did. I could have killed him.”

  “I doubt that. For all your power, you’re a young one.” D’Argento fixed him with a determined gaze. “You would do well to remember that. Your wife’s father is a man of substance. Not a minor immortal.”

  “I will do my best.” What that would be remained to be discovered, but one thing was sure: he would discover it or die in the attempt.

  On Monday, the club opened for the first time. Portia opted to remain in her rooms. Enough to announce her presence when it was nearly time to open. Truth be told, she still wondered if Edmund would turn up, announce that he’d remembered everything, sweep her into his arms and carry her away.

  Halfway through the day, she threw down the book she was trying to read and changed her mind. Why should she skulk away like a guilty secret?

  One of her new gowns arrived. Madame sent a note to say she had some ready-made gowns that she hoped her ladyship would accept as a precursor of the magnificent garments to come. When the maid had helped her array herself in it, it seemed a shame to keep such magnificence to herself. A small hoop covered with aqua-coloured silk embroidered with spring roses made her appear almost festive. Satin ribbons covered her stomacher, and her maid tied a collar of frilled lace around her throat.

  Throwing her reputation and her anonymity to the winds, Portia sailed downstairs, head high, fan in hand, ready to meet her fate, her maid trailing behind to add some respectability to her shocking appearance.

  At first all she could see in the hall was gentlemen. Some turned to study her, holding quizzing-glasses to their eyes. Others glanced at her and then looked away as if they hadn’t seen her. She knew nobody. Inside, her heart was pounding so hard she prayed it didn’t disturb the tiny glimpse of her cleavage she’d allowed.

  She let her glance flick over the gentlemen as if they were no more than sticks of furniture and sailed towards what Amidei had assured her was the women’s drawing room.

  Empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she chose a seat and opened the book she’d brought with her. She had no more success reading it than she had upstairs, but at least she’d given her new gown an outing.

  After half an hour and a dish of tea she had to choke down, she went back upstairs and dressed in her old gown.

  At four, Amidei came in search of her. He walked into the small parlour where she was still trying to interest herself in Mr. Fielding’s newest novel and flung himself down on a chair.

  “I am exhausted but happy,” he declared. “We have received a lot of interest. We have enough members to make the club appear fashionable and populated enough to look busy.” He blew her a kiss, one she caught in a teasing fashion. “And I thank you a million times for your encouragement and the able demonstration of the ladies’ lounge. You created a huge amount of interest. Although the members knew that I was allowing women into the club, you did far more than I could ever have done. One or two promised to mention the matter to their wives, especially since I informed them of your identity. You are sure about this, are you not?”

  She appreciated his concern, but laughed. “If I were not, it would be too late.” Lightness invaded her mood. She had taken control of her own fate and she enjoyed it. She had to draw on all her reserves of courage to move downstairs, but whatever happened next, she would have nobody but herself to blame. “You are satisfied with the club, then?”

  He grinned. “So far, very much. Three centaurs and a minor god I didn’t know about. That is the main reason for this. They had no idea how to contact those of their own kind, and now they do. Jupiter himself, he travelled to London especially to lend his support, but he’s riding back tonight. He can’t bear to spend too much time without his wife. He adores her.”

  Portia recalled the legends. “Juno?”

  Amidei shook his head. “A mortal, actually. At least, she was. A sweet woman, determined and perfect for him.”

  “Are you done now?”

  He grimaced. “Not yet. I want to preside over the evening’s activities. Not a few of the mortal bucks who came today left disgruntled. I will let them in to all but the inner rooms, the ones people must pass the test to gain.”

  Giving up on Fielding, she dropped the book on top of the other two.

  His attention went to the volumes. “You don’t like the divine Clarissa?” he asked, referring to the heroine of the tale.

  Portia snorted. “She’s a prig.”

  She enjoyed his laugh, rich and sincere. “I always thought so. I felt sorry for Lovelace right up until the minute when—but I’ll spoil it for you if I tell you what happens.”

  “Do spoil it for me, then I won’t have to read it. Besides, isn’t it an improving volume? Aren’t we supposed to read it for the lessons it gives to us?”

  He grunted. “Like Pamela, you mean?”

  She made a face. The book had come her way three years ago. She and her sisters had read it to each other. “She wasn’t a prig. She was a self-serving maid out for what she could get. And she got him, didn’t she?”

  “No doubt about that. Do you truly believe a rake can be converted by the love of a good woman?”

  This was the most interested in anything she’d been all day. “No, but if he wants to change, a woman can help him.”

  Amidei regarded her through half-closed eyes. “Almost, I wish Kentmere would reject you utterly. Then I can have no compunction in coming after you. You interest me, my dear. I’ve been around a long time and I thought I’d lost my urge to settle down with a good woman. Perhaps you’re the one.”

  She got to her feet and planted her hands on her hips, glaring at him in mock-anger. “Are you calling me good?”

  His laughter rang around the room. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She picked up the three volumes that contained the novel and strolled across the room to the bookcase, with the intent of putting them away. “I will read of Clarissa and her wicked Lovelace no more. Perhaps I should read something improving, sermons or some such.”

  “Only if you think they’d improve you.” Amidei covered his mouth when he yawned. “I would much prefer to remain here with you and have a comfortable evening discussing literature. I am exhausted.” He stretched his arms out to either side and gave every impression of a man engulfed in ennui.

  His attitude made her laugh. “Don’t be so foolish. I don’t believe that for one minute. You’re excited. You’re finally doing what you need to in order to fulfil your mission and you can’t wait.”

  “Ha!” All attempts at laziness cast aside, Amidei leaped to his feet. “I must confess that dealing with mortals can tire a man. They are all taking the blood test, convinced they’ll pass—because, after all, they have the bluest of blood—and losing their tempers when they’re failing. They’ll be back. I’m giving this place all the cachet it needs.”

  He turned back to her. “I can’t escort you tonight. Would you consider tomorrow?”

  Her eyes gleamed. “I have a place I can go.”

  At the door he bowed to her. “Don’t forget a mourning band, don’t forget that your mother-in-law is recently deceased.”

  She thanked him for his advice.

  When she sent a footman to Drury Lane, he bespoke a box for her. An extravagance, a whole box, but it would do the trick. She wouldn’t have to speak to anyone if
she didn’t want to.

  She took Carter, who grumbled and told her that she should stay at home like a good girl. “Your lady mother would be distressed by such wanton behaviour.”

  Near to the edge, but not wanton. After a message to Madame, she received a magnificent gown in deep plum. Heeding the mantua-maker’s words, she refused to allow her maid to powder her hair, but set out in a carriage that Amidei insisted on lending to her, with his coat of arms discreetly covered. She wanted to be known as daring, not wanton, and arriving at the theatre in a carriage with anything other than the Kentmere shield would give rise to the kind of gossip she did not want.

  As that afternoon, she sailed up the stairs, not talking to anyone and not looking to right or left. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she reached the box and settled down to what should have been an exciting evening. Of course she had attended theatre performances before, but this was Drury Lane. The great and the good crowded into the boxes and the pit. She caught the glint of their quizzing glasses and spyglasses when people trained them on her, but she took no notice of their interest.

  She had little idea what she saw. Shakespeare, but which one she didn’t know. The blood was throbbing in her ears too hard and her mind skittered in different directions, refusing to allow her to concentrate on the action on the stage. At the interval she stayed where she was. A few gentlemen called, but the footman Amidei insisted escorted her rejected them all. She could not let herself be labelled fast, although her behaviour would have given Dover a month’s gossip.

  She left before the farce and went back to the club with a great deal of relief. It should have been so different, this visit. With Edmund by her side, she’d have enjoyed the play and gone home with him later, to make love in the privacy of their bedchamber.

  No sense crying over what could not be. Instead, she set her mind to the morning.

  At least she got some sleep that night and could dress in one of her new gowns the next day. More were arriving as they were completed, and she hoped Edmund had joy of the bills. That notion gave her a boost of confidence as she prepared for bed.

  The next morning she felt positively fresh as she ate her breakfast and prepared for the day. Even better once the newspapers and gossip-sheets arrived.

  The journalists and hacks had been busy. Reports of the mysterious woman at the theatre were replaced in later editions. She read one out to Amidei when he joined her in the drawing room later that morning.

  “‘The new Duchess of Kentmere is astonishing the city’,” she read out. “‘Appearing in public without her husband is not unusual for a lady of fashion, but we had understood that she and the duke were celebrating their marriage in the countryside. We understand, from an interested party, that the duchess is not residing at the house the duke has leased for the Season, but at the new Pantheon Club, the talk of St. James’s. Rumours are rife that relations between the duke and his new wife are not everything they should be. We condemn the forwardness that modern women assume they may use in order to achieve their desires. Could it be that the duchess is intending to be cast out at the palace before they can receive her?’”

  She put the gossip-sheet down and rose from the sofa. “I decided to go shopping today. I’m taking great care not to do anything I should not, except for living here, of course. They’re all saying that I’m shocking, but I’ve not yet put myself beyond the pale.”

  Amidei’s eyes danced. “We’re both shocking, my dear. If they knew we were sharing living quarters, they’d be agog. But they will not learn that. I only allow my most trusted servants in this part of the house. However—”

  Whatever he was about to say was cut short at the sound of bellowing. Someone shouting, a male yelling her name.

  Portia covered her eyes. “It’s my father.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Portia backed off as the door was flung open, bouncing against the wall and springing back. If Sir Mortimer hadn’t been prepared to catch it and move it aside, it would have hit him in the face. But as he often entered rooms this way he had prepared himself. He caught the door and pushed it aside almost without noticing.

  Every wall in his house bore some evidence of his occupation and her mother had the servants install a selection of doorstops, which at least saved the dents from getting any worse.

  Amidei sighed. “My visitors seem intent on pushing dents into that wall. It is not as if it has offended them in any way.”

  At first, relief and pleasure filled her, but she could hardly fling herself into her father’s arms and cry until he made it better for her. Adult experiences didn’t work the same way as childhood ones.

  Instead, she pasted on a smile and dropped a curtsey. “Papa, I had no idea you meant to come to town.”

  “Damned inconvenient,” was his greeting. Only then did she notice the people standing behind him.

  He’d brought the Duchesse of Clermont-Ferrand and her ward. Or they had come along with him. There was no trace of Portia’s sisters or her mother. “You have come on your own?”

  “The duchesse insisted,” he said. “Your mother and sisters are behind us on the road. They should be arriving tomorrow, but your mama refused to travel on a Sunday and refused to rush.”

  He shot a fulminating glare at the duchesse. “This lady, however, believes in haste. We had the devil of a job getting staff to work on a Sunday, even though I offered to set out after church. You can’t get the service these days. I don’t know what the world’s coming to when you can’t get people you give good wages to get off their fat backsides and do some work for a change.”

  “Papa, you know they’re devoted to you.” Not least because the smuggling added significantly to their income. The business had never been so profitable. Not surprising, because of her father’s identity.

  Not one to be ignored, d’Argento gave a flourishing bow, first to the ladies, then to her father. “Sir Mortimer Seaton, I presume,” he murmured.

  “Yes, and what the devil are you doing alone with my daughter?” he demanded, glaring at her host.

  “Talking,” Amidei said mildly. He glanced outside. “I will close the door so we may converse comfortably.”

  As if he had all the time in the world, he quietly closed the door and gazed sorrowfully at the mark in the wall.

  “We may speak more freely now,” Amidei said.

  Surprisingly, the company turned to look at him, because he hadn’t shouted or emphasised anything. Normally at home it took some waving and yelling to get her father to notice anything other than himself when he was in a temper.

  “Thank you.” Calmly Amidei walked to the centre of the room and faced the visitors. “Since I’m the messenger, I’ll perform the introductions. Please allow me a little informality or this will take all day.” He smiled easily. “The Duchesse de Clermont-Ferrand, Mademoiselle Susanna Howard, Sir Mortimer Seaton and—” He paused, glancing at Sir Mortimer. “—her grace, the Duchess of Kentmere.” Ignoring her father’s growl of surprise, he continued, “Otherwise known as Venus, Suadela, Oceanus and Portia, a nymph.” He glanced at her. “I can’t find your other name.”

  She glanced at the floor, awed by the company. “I don’t have one.”

  “Then you should have one.”

  “May I keep Portia?” She was used to it and she liked the name. She didn’t want any other.

  Amidei took her hand. “Yes of course.” The kiss he bestowed in it was so soft she hardly felt it, but she recognised his intent and loved him for it. Not in the way she loved Edmund, but she didn’t love anyone like that, not even her parents. She was an idiot, she thought with an inward grimace.

  “Duchess?” her father echoed.

  “Not if I can help it,” the duchesse said, almost at the same time. “This is the future Duchess of Kentmere.” She gestured to Susanna.

  Amidei gazed at the beautiful blonde ny
mph. He released Portia’s hand. “Not in legend. In legend, Suadela is the wife of Mercury.” He bowed, making it deep and flourishing. “At the moment in the body of Amidei Massimo, Comte d’Argento. Myself.” He winked. “Sometimes she’s his daughter. Shall we see which is correct?”

  The room hushed. Outside the constant sound of wheels against cobbles filtered up, and outside, the murmur of a house full of guests added its concord.

  Then the people burst into speech, all at once. Her father blustered, as he did when confused, the duchesse protested and Susanna shot back with a startled cry that pierced the sound of the other two. Portia remained silent and glanced at Amidei, who was relaxed and smiling.

  After a minute, she held up her hand. Her father’s attention went to her, and reddening, he fell silent. The duchesse followed and then, when blessed peace descended, she added, “I could live with an Italian comte as a son-in-law.”

  “So Susanna isn’t your ward, then?” Sir Mortimer asked.

  The duchesse gave him a pitying look. She wore a creamy yellow today, but somehow the colour didn’t clash with her golden hair. She was Venus, after all. Aphrodite, the eternal temptress. Every move she made was poetry, and every word musical, however loudly she spoke.

  Portia watched her dispassionately, assessing the woman she might have to regard as an enemy.

  “Susanna is my ward. According to the world she is the daughter of my mother’s oldest friend. I have no mind to appear older than I am. It is enough.”

  Susanna didn’t seem surprised, so presumably she’d known the truth. Although she said little, she didn’t appear passive. More of an observer. What kind of nymph was she? Portia came from the sea, that was obvious, despite her father only giving her one name.

  “Are you offering your services in place of Eros?” the duchesse asked Amidei.

  Amidei shrugged, the gesture more Continental than English, elegant and expressive. “It is possible. Mythology doesn’t have to repeat over the different lifetimes. Although it frequently does. I would ask the favour of getting to know the lovely nymph a little better.”