“You’d be happy here for a time? Because I don’t intend us to have separate rooms. Not for sleeping, at any rate.”
“You made a yellow room for me in Thorncroft Grange. It was the colour of the gown I wore the night we met.” This room was predominantly blue, the furniture mahogany.
“Then I shall have this one made the same way.”
“It’s only leased for the Season.”
He turned his head and his smile warmed her right through. “For you, my love—you should have what is best for you. The other main bedroom is green.”
“No.” She put her palm on his chest. His heart beat steadily under her hand. “I want the room at the Grange to remain special. To be ours.”
“Yours.” He kissed her. “To make up for my cruelty. Truly, I didn’t know what had happened. If you were an agent of your father, or of the duchesse, or of my mother. She left a mess behind her.” He sighed. “She was one of the destructive Titans. She tried to control my sister, but she wanted me to become her adjunct, her assistant. She didn’t tell me who I was, only that I was immortal. You didn’t deserve what I did. The minute you left the house, I was sorry.”
That helped. She wouldn’t allow him to forget what he did. “You frightened me, and I don’t like being frightened. It doesn’t happen very often. I’d never seen you as the haughty duke.”
It struck her anew that she was the duchess. They were so close now that he saw it at once. “Be the duchess you want to be. Just be you. Everyone will love you. As I do.”
Without breaking the kiss he was pressing to her lips, she lifted her head and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “My turn,” she said, sitting up. “Ready to ride?”
Chapter Sixteen
The Duke and Duchess of Kentmere didn’t appear in public for two days. Society said they had reconciled after a lovers’ tiff. Portia knew because it appeared in the gossip-sheets the day after, and she read it to him. “That works,” he said, “And in a way, it’s right.”
She twitched her robe into place when he would have pushed it aside and palmed her breast. After a day and a night of lovemaking, she had finally agreed that yes, she believed he loved her.
However, although she had no doubt he believed he loved her, could he forget again? Or was he just carried away by the physical passion they had together? But she would forgive him. His apologies had been profound and inventive. She couldn’t wait for him to transgress again.
Finally he convinced her. Not just because she badly needed him to. Over breakfast on the second morning, she told him of her idea. “I didn’t come without a plan, you see. If I failed, I would return to Dover and set up as a widow. I’d say you died in a tragic accident in London. However, when I appeared in public I gave that up because they would have heard. They’d know me once I appeared in the newspapers.”
Instead of sitting opposite her at the table, he was sitting next to her, cater-corner. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “My clever wife would think of something. I am glad you had a plan, but when we return to Dover, it will be as the Duke and Duchess of Kentmere.”
“You mean to return, then?” She couldn’t help but be delighted at the notion of returning to the beautiful house he had worked so hard to make beautiful.
“Yes, undoubtedly. It’s closer to London, and the weather will probably be kinder than in Scotland. We will have to visit the castle. I don’t want to abandon the place of my birth completely. Would you be amenable to a visit soon?”
“At the height of the Season?” She arched a brow. “What if I wish to visit the theatre, the opera and Vauxhall Gardens?”
“Then you shall.”
The urge to show herself, to be acknowledged, went deeper than vanity, although deep inside she could admit that formed part of her desire. Edmund needed to establish himself as the duke, especially after the scandal that had attended his mother’s tragic demise. It was so shocking London was still talking about it, fully a month later. They needed to see the new duke going about his duties, and that included social engagements.
“We can’t dance, can we?”
“We should not. A mark of respect.” His lip curled, but he didn’t need to say anything. She tightened her hold on his hand, a small gesture of sympathy. After all, her father was a Titan too, and he could have taken the lust for power that overcame those of his kind. “We shouldn’t go to anything too frivolous at the theatre, either,” he went on, smiling.
“Early nights?”
“Indeed, my love.” He drew her closer for a kiss. She would never get enough of his kisses. Now she understood why her parents had stayed together for so long. She couldn’t imagine being this close to anyone except Edmund. Didn’t want to think of it.
“Edmund,” she murmured when their lips parted, and at last gave him what he’d been asking for since she came back to him. “I love you.”
That night Edmund accompanied Portia to one of the most prestigious balls of the Season. An invitation to the Duchess of Queensberry’s rout was coveted by many but received by few. Her house was one of the grandest in that part of London, near to Berkeley Square. The duchess greeted Edmund warmly, kissing him on each cheek, after he’d bowed to her and introduced Portia.
“Your father is already here,” she informed her. “Indeed, I feel we should be great friends, as my husband holds the title of Duke of Dover as well as the senior title. And of course, with our lands in Scotland, we have come to know Kentmere and his family well.” She glanced at the black armbands they both wore and nodded at the subdued colour of Portia’s gown. In truth it had not been a hardship for her to wear the lavender silk and white petticoat, as they were so pretty. “You are both welcome. Do you plan to travel north this year?”
“We have a house near Dover, but yes, I would like to. We will stay here for the time being. We have business to attend to here after my mother’s death,” Edmund said.
The duchess nodded. “Of course. After such tragic events, there must be a great deal to attend to. Do make yourselves at home.” She gazed at Portia speculatively, but said nothing, although her bright eyes conveyed nothing but kindness. The duchess had been an accredited beauty in her day. The fine bone-structure and fineness of feature remained, as did her elegance. A notable hostess too.
Portia curtseyed and passed on, walking into the hall and handing her hat and gloves to the waiting footman. She hadn’t worn a cloak. At last, after a late spring they had left winter well and truly behind, and the sight of the buds and fresh leaves on the trees mirrored Portia’s mood. Except for this one thing. The duchesse, who they knew had an invitation here tonight.
Upstairs, the rooms were already thronged. Large chandeliers, every candle lit, hung above them, the lights glittering off the surfaces of the crystal drops and the pier-glasses that hung on the walls, adding heat and light to an already animated scene.
People danced, and Portia spared them barely a wistful glance before laying her hand on her husband’s arm so he could take her around the room. They exchanged greetings and Edmund introduced her to the people he deigned to stop before.
He looked magnificent, his fair hair covered by a formal wig, his clothes sober dark blue but richly laced with silver, his buttons pure gold. The picture of the wealthy aristocrat, only his black armband reminding people of his recent loss. Mourning customs were extremely elastic, especially for gentlemen, but Portia had decided to err on the cautious side.
She bowed, smiled, said yes, her father was here or was planning to attend tonight. She was mildly surprised that a mere baronet should evince such interest, but when one of the company explained that he was quite the nabob, she understood.
“He’s never visited India, ma’am,” she told a particularly curious mama. “I do take your point. We are not impoverished.”
The woman glanced at Edmund, making her message more than clear. She’d sn
agged a duke, so her portion must be considerable. Portia didn’t explain that they had fallen in love when he was a mere Mr. Welles and she the daughter of a smuggling gang leader. That might not be approved of, and Edmund needed to build his reputation, not destroy it.
After they left the lady, a man planted himself before them. “Will you introduce me, Kentmere?”
Edmund bowed. She couldn’t discern pleasure or dislike on his features. “My dear, may I introduce my friend Marcus, the Duke of Lyndhurst? Lyndhurst, this is my wife, Portia, Duchess of Kentmere.”
The title sounded more real every time he said it. This man—a wave of recognition swamped her. She had never met him before, but he was an immortal. And Edmund had introduced him as a friend. Did that mean he was an Olympian?
Mars, he said into her mind. His voice was as low and gruff as it was on his lips. And you are?
Before she could answer, Edmund did it for her. Psyche, he said. Whether she is the personification of the nymph or just re-enacting her story, it matters not. She is, and will always be my Psyche.
In a flash of intuition, she saw what he meant. In the legend, Psyche had fallen in love with Cupid, but he’d only visited her at night and made her swear not to discover who he was or to look on him, for fear she would recognise him. When, one night, she’d lit a candle and looked on his face, he’d left her. She travelled the world to find him, but he was cursed by his mother. When she’d found him, he took her back and claimed her as his beloved wife.
There were similarities. Not complete, but yes, she’d come to London to claim him and found him once more. He’d fallen in love with her all over again, his body telling him what his mind fought not to recognise.
They had reached their happy ending.
What was she thinking, standing here dreaming when she should be attending to Edmund’s friends? Mars? Goodness, she was meeting legends, as well as creating ones of her own.
She bobbed a curtsey and received a smart bow in response. “You have been in the army, your grace?”
He nodded. “Perspicacious of you, ma’am.” His smile transformed his face, from military austerity to warmth. The god of war, it seemed appropriate he should have some military experience. “I ran away from home, you might say, and found another with the army.” He glanced at the dance floor, already full of couples performing the steps of a minuet. “Would you care to—” He broke off and laughed shortly. “I’m sorry, of course you cannot dance as yet. My sympathies on your loss.” He didn’t sound sorry. Considering his immortality, he probably knew the truth.
“Thank you.” She hated the necessity of accepting the condolences, but considering she had not met her, she might be feeling that way anyway.
Glancing over to the door, a sight transfixed her. Her father had seen her and was heading their way, her mother and sisters in tow. Although she hadn’t been parted from them for long, it felt like an age since she’d seen them.
They met, but they couldn’t embrace, since they were in the middle of London’s finest inhabitants. Any rough embraces and they’d be condemned as country bumpkins, however wealthy they were. So bows and curtseys were exchanged and smiling greetings. Her father glared at Lyndhurst, who had closed his mind, choosing not to introduce his immortal nature to her father. She could understand that. After all, he was a Titan.
The orchestra ended the stately measure and changed to something more lively, suitable for country dancing. Several couples took to the floor, forming the sets they would require, and Lyndhurst bowed to Anthea. “Would you do me the greatest honour of joining me for the next dance?”
Blushing prettily, Anthea acquiesced and let the big man lead her onto the floor. “That’s a substantial gentleman,” her mother commented, not referring to his wealth but the man’s form. Lyndhurst must be over six feet tall, and broad of shoulder. His dark good looks dominated the floor, drawing all gazes, the women with sighs, the men with grumbling and scowls. He could probably have any woman he wanted, just for the asking. He was truly the personification of might and strength.
The opposite, in fact, of the lady entering the room now. Male heads swung in her direction as Venus made her way around the perimeter, strolling slowly towards them.
Edmund glanced at her. “Are you ready?”
Tensely, she nodded. They planned to ask for a private meeting tomorrow, because they didn’t intend to cause a scene and a plethora of gossip here, in the Queensberry ballroom. The portraits ranked on the walls of the duke’s ancestors reproached them and the landscape above the unlit fireplace reminded her that they were here, in England, not in some far-flung mountain in the rarefied atmosphere of Olympus. This room was as rarefied, she was sure, containing some of the most powerful people in the world.
The parallel didn’t pass her by. The gods had recreated themselves in one of the greatest nations in the world, in terms of wealth and power. So appropriate it could be seen as deliberate. Had they met here on purpose thirty years ago? Were they even now planning to retake their power?
No. They had come from all over the world for the meeting Jupiter had called, but the king of the gods and most of his colleagues had died in the explosion caused by the Titan Kronos. They’d been remade as British, their essences taken by the women Kronos had assembled nearby. Maybe he had planned it, but nobody could ask him now. He was unstable, mad, his son his guardian.
They would never know.
While the duchesse approached them, she murmured to Edmund, “Do they all have to be dukes and duchesses?”
He got her meaning immediately and smiled down at her. “My love, d’Argento is an Italian count and Stretton is a marquis. Kronos had an exaggerated sense of importance and gathered the wives of the greatest in the land to be there that night. We are what we were born, as well as what the spirit that entered the womb made us.”
That made a twisted kind of sense. “Then why have they not been discovered earlier?”
“Because their parents ensured they didn’t know the full extent of their powers. Mars broke away early, the army his salvation, but others remain to be found. We suspect some were hidden away, maybe in secret places, fostered or even lost. They didn’t catch all the spirits abroad that night.” Anyone watching them would think they were talking about society matters. Both kept pleasant expressions on their faces and stood in the approved way, only his head tilted slightly towards her to answer her question.
The duchesse finally reached them, after conversing with half the ballroom, it seemed. Her smile didn’t waver. Susanna stood by her side, as always, her expression completely blank.
Lord d’Argento followed shortly after. “My, my,” he commented, whipping out a quizzing-glass suspended to his waist by a black ribbon. He surveyed the company closely. “It’s just like we were never apart.” His expression warmed when his gaze landed on Portia. “And is everything well with you?”
“Perfectly.” She would have hugged Edmund close were it in the bounds of propriety.
Edmund was glaring at the duchesse and she was returning the favour. “Do you mean to back down?” the duchesse demanded.
Edmund gave her a long, considering stare. “I am married. I’m sorry that I couldn’t oblige you both, but I cannot turn away from the woman I made my wife. You know my story. Surely you can find forgiveness in you.”
“I don’t forgive,” the duchesse said shortly.
Amidei gave a huffed laugh. “I would wish you back in my house. It has rung with accusations and arguments. It’s all I could do to keep her grace and Sir Mortimer from attacking each other bodily.”
Portia clicked her tongue. “Papa did always have the worst temper.” Most of it was bluster, but when Sir Mortimer meant to see the matter through, it was another matter entirely. She turned a reproving stare on to her father, who had the sense to look away. “Papa, I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs.”
/> “Not in this instance, daughter.” Sir Mortimer puffed out a breath and glanced around at their fellow guests, most of whom were blatantly listening in to the conversation. “I will say no more.”
“What if I should show an interest in Susanna?” Amidei took the nymph’s hand, ignoring her startled exclamation to drop a kiss on the back of it. “I find her most charming and biddable.”
Was Portia the only person who heard the slight snort? There was more to Susanna than she had thought. It emboldened her to say, “What do you say, Susanna? Which would you take? The duke or the comte?”
Susanna gave both Edmund and Amidei supercilious glances. “I have no preference.”
Then she didn’t deserve Edmund. He was superior to all men in Portia’s eyes. She held him more firmly. “I’m sure the misunderstanding can be sorted out.”
Oh, now the ears were flapping. The silence around them became so blatant the observers were positively salivating. “I will not let my wife go,” Edmund said.
“You may not have to,” the duchesse said, smiling sweetly. “Why not have both?”
Edmund growled, startling Portia, but she still didn’t let go of him. “I have had enough,” he said. He glanced at the dance floor, where Lyndhurst was still dancing with Anthea.
He held up his hand. Everything stopped. The musicians froze in the act of scraping out the measure, and people halted, some graceful, some decidedly not so. A man was in the process of hopping, but he had his foot on the hem of his partner’s gown, so that in a moment she would stumble.
The silence was absolute. Nothing stirred, not inside the room or outside.
“What have you done?” Portia said, shocked that she could move and speak.
“Stopped time.”
Lyndhurst was also frozen, a charming smile softening his features.
“It works on Ancients too?” she asked.
“It works on everyone I choose. And I choose that he remains unaware of this.” He turned his attention to the duchesse. “I will make a bargain with you,” he said silkily. “You like the look of Mars, do you not?”
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 25