“Sleep,” she echoed, her every nerve stretched tight, achingly alive. Sleep. Elusive as smoke circling overhead.
His hand splayed over her hip possessively, as if anchoring her to him.
She wet her lips, searching for her voice, pretending that the slight touch did not affect her. “Tomorrow,” she began, pausing, relieved that her voice did not quake as her insides did. “Your grandmother will prove difficult.”
“Isn’t she always?” he said against her neck, the moist fan of his breath making her belly flutter.
“We will have been alone together”—her voice tore, twisting into a sharp gasp as his teeth bit down on her earlobe. Desire, hot and savage, spiked through her, melting her bones and burning her blood as she fought to finish her sentence—“all night.”
“Yes,” he breathed in a voice warm as sherry, thick with promise. He raised his head to look at her. “All night.” His hair fell forward, a dark curtain on either side of his face. Light and shadow flickered over his features—sunlight on wind-rippled water, casting his face into sharp lines and hollows.
Her hand wobbled hesitantly on the air before pushing the heavy skein of hair back from his face. His eyes gleamed down at her, those dark fathomless pools, pulling her in, swallowing her whole. “What will we do?” She moistened her lips. “What will we say?”
He tensed and took his time responding. For a moment, she thought he would not answer at all—or if he did, it would be to heap the familiar abuse on her head.
Then he spoke, and in a voice that bore little resemblance to the intimate huskiness of moments ago. This voice rang with decisiveness, gravity. “Nothing. Nothing has changed. I know why you came here, Portia. What you expect.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he placed a finger against her lips, silencing her with the single feather-soft touch. “And I know what it is we’ve done,” he continued, “but I cannot marry. You or anyone. Ever.”
Nothing has changed. His proclamation echoed in her heart, her soul. And she had to confess that a secret part of her wished things had changed—wished he had. Yet he would never wed, not as long as he believed his destiny rested in madness…and he closed his heart to love.
“Can you accept that?” His gaze burned into her, demanding she understand. And she did. He need not worry she would turn into a hysterical female, insisting he do the honorable thing and marry her. She would prove to him that she had not set out to trap him. No matter how her heart bled to let him go.
“Of course,” she replied with forced lightness even as her heart tightened into a painful knot beneath her breastbone. “I have no wish to marry.”
His expression turned guarded, uncertain.
I have no wish to marry. True. She hadn’t. Ever. So why did the words stick in her throat? Spending a night in his arms had not changed her ultimate goal. She wanted independence, craved a life abroad, to stand before the Parthenon and see with her own eyes if it was as magnificent as everything she had read. She longed for the freedom her mother enjoyed. Not nights of passion with a man that reduced her will to ashes.
“No regrets, then?”
“No regrets,” she vowed.
Turning, he pressed a moist kiss to her palm. “This is all we’ll have,” he whispered against the tender flesh. His eyes met hers over her palm. “I’m in no position to offer more than to night.”
For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder, what if. What if he wanted to marry her? Not because his grandmother wanted him to, but because he wanted to. Would she accept? Would she cast aside her dreams, sacrifice her hopes? The delightful weight of his body atop hers was answer enough. For night after night of this? Night after night of him? Her mind shied from answering the question. Instead, she released a chest-shuddering sigh, relieved that she wouldn’t be given a choice—relieved and saddened.
His hand traced the line of her collarbone, the brush of his fingertips chasing away her troubled thoughts. That hand lowered, trailing a fiery path between her breasts and she trembled.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle Grandmother,” his low voice reassured her, most likely mistaking her shudder for anxiety over what his grandmother would say when they returned home. “We have to night.” His husky voice rumbled over her, a caress in itself. A slow lick of heat curled in her belly at his promise.
A single night.
She arched beneath his hand, thrusting her breast into his ready palm. Her hand circled his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.
This would be all they ever had. It had to be enough. She would make it so.
Chapter 21
Portia and Heath had just cleared the threshold of Moreton Hall when Lady Moreton swept down on them like a carrion bird in pursuit of fresh kill. Her darting eyes—quick and hungry—assessed them, searching, looking for a point of invasion. No doubt she had been watching for their return from one of the upstairs windows.
The feral light gleaming in her eyes spiked unease deep in the well of Portia’s heart. She shrank back, but Heath’s hand on the small of her back stopped her from total retreat. He gave her a reassuring wink, and she melted at the small gesture before gathering herself tightly under control. Tender feelings for him had no place in her heart this morning. Or ever again. Their intimacy ended the moment they crossed the threshold. A one time affair, a brief foray into passion that must be put behind her.
“Where have you been?” Lady Moreton demanded, then waved a hand, granting neither one the chance to answer. “It’s of no account now. You’ve been out all night together. Without a chaperone. The damage is done. You must wed posthaste.”
Portia sighed, suddenly very tired. Tired of Lady Moreton’s scheming and plotting and badgering. So much like her own grandmother with her insufferable expectations.
“Good morning to you, too, Grandmother,” Heath greeted. “And yes, we’re well—we found shelter from the storm, thank you for inquiring.”
“Well, I can see you’re both well,” she snapped, that elegant, blue-veined hand fluttering in the air. “Now, I recommend you leave at once to procure a special license. I shall make the arrangements here while—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted in a controlled voice, smooth as polished marble.
“What?” Lady Moreton blinked rapidly, as if trying to rid some particle from her eye.
“We won’t be getting married,” Heath announced in a voice that brooked no argument.
Lady Moreton turned her twitchy stare on Portia. “You cannot mean to accept this, my dear.”
From the corner of her eye, Portia saw Heath turn to study her, felt his unwavering gaze, his dark judgment as he waited for her answer. After everything, he still thought her a grasping, unscrupulous marriage-minded female. Her heart twisted. Yet if she were honest with herself, perhaps a small part of her did want to marry him.
Yet not like this. Not against his will.
Moistening her lips, she said as firmly as she could, “My lady, it’s really for the best that I leave.”
“For the best?” Lady Moreton’s voice splintered the air of the great foyer. “Where’s your dignity? You’re ruined, you stupid girl!”
Portia flinched and closed her eyes slowly in one long fortifying blink, retreating into that dark cave she resided when her family lashed her with the barbed whips of their tongues.
“That will be enough,” Heath’s voice rumbled beside her, the pressure of his hand at her back warm and comforting, a lifeline drawing her from the shelter of the cave.
“I was afraid of this,” Lady Moreton muttered, her head bobbing up and down like a buoy in tossing waters. “That is why I sent for the vicar.”
“You what?” Heath dropped his hand from her back and stoically faced his grandmother. “So he can wag his tongue to all in the district about affairs that are none of his concern?”
A cold draft swept over Portia. “Why would you send for the vicar?” she heard herself asking.
Heath answered wit
hout looking her way. “She means for him to persuade us, isn’t that so, Grandmother.”
“Persuade?” Portia echoed.
“Portia. Dear.” Lady Moreton seized both her hands with her chilled ones. “Mr. Hatley is a man of God. Surely he will help you and Heath see reason, convince you both to wed. For the safety of your souls if nothing else.”
“Oh, let’s be honest,” Heath sneered. “You’ve sent for Hatley to force my hand.”
“Did someone say my name?” a voice pealed through the vast foyer with the clarity of a bell.
Portia turned to watch the vicar descend the stairs. Dressed all in black, with a wide cleric’s collar, she retreated a step as if the devil himself approached and not a man of God.
“Mr. Hatley,” Heath greeted, his voice flat, void of warmth.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” the vicar boomed in a voice bred for the pulpit.
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” Heath replied. “My apologies. You made the trip out here for nothing.”
“I told you he would be resistant,” Lady Moreton chimed, moving to stand beside the vicar. Together they presented an imposing, united front.
Mr. Hatley smiled. A patronizing curve of moist, over-fleshed lips. “Come now, my lord, be obliging. I can’t say I endorse Lady Portia’s methods”—e paused to waggle his brows at Portia in a look that could only be described as a jeer—“but you’ve been well and truly caught, lad. Time to own up to your responsibilities and marry the lady.” Mr. Hatley winked at her and added in less than discreet tones, “You said you would bring him to heel and right you did, my lady. Right you did.”
Horrified, Portia shook her head, opening her mouth to deny she had ever purported to do such a thing. Those were his words. Not hers. Yet she knew with a deep pang in her heart that Heath would take this as the final, irrefutable proof that she was a liar, a heartless manipulator.
Even as he turned on her, eyes full of disgust, she knew nothing she said would ever convince him otherwise. Still, she had to try. “Heath—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, the single word a knife to her heart. As if in reflex, she pressed a hand against her chest, looking away from his scornful gaze, unable to bear it. “I’m weary of your lies.”
“I told you we should have sent her back,” a cheerless voice rang out.
Portia followed the sound, her eyes landing on Constance, grim and unsmiling at the top of the stairs.
Chest tight as a drum, she looked back to Heath, braced to hear him second his sister’s opinion. He said nothing. His eyes remained locked with hers, chips of ice that nothing could thaw. His stare imprisoned her; she wished she could look away, escape the intensity of cold gray eyes that chilled her very heart and froze her blood.
“Leave us, Constance,” Heath said. “We’ve audience enough.”
“But Heath—”
“Leave us!”
From the corner of her eye, she noted Constance’s departure, relieved for that at least. Yet she had eyes only for Heath. She stared at him, praying that he would see the truth in her gaze, that he would see her.
“I’m aware of your reservations, my lord,” Mr. Hatley inserted, heedless of the damage his thoughtless words had wrought. “I’ve counseled your grandmother on the matter for quite some time. Your concerns for spreading your family’s disease are commendable.”
Portia tore her gaze from Heath to watch the vicar’s fat lips smile in a denigrating manner. He continued, “But such things are in God’s hands, my lord. Not yours.”
She glanced back at Heath to see how he took this pronouncement.
“God’s hands?” Heath ground out, the muscles along his jaw knotting dangerously. “I’ll not leave it to God’s hands, sir.” Each word fell hard and swift from his mouth, cracking on the air like a volley of gunfire. “As I recall, God did not intervene when my brother screamed from his crib. For nigh on two years, he suffered—his screams filling this house.”
Her hands twitched at her sides, the urge to reach out, lay a hand on his tense shoulder and offer comfort, burning her palm. Yet she knew he would reject the gesture. Reject her.
In a voice still hard and unrelenting, he demanded, “Do you know what it’s like for the screams of a child to fill your head night after night? To watch blood and puss ooze from sores that you could not stop his little hands from clawing?”
Portia’s throat constricted, blocking the sob that welled up from her chest. Were such the side effects of porphyria? Is that what Heath had to look forward to? The thought made her heart clench in pain and bile rose up in her throat.
“I’ve seen God’s work, Mr. Hatley,” Heath went on in a low voice, subdued, a quiet thread of anguish on the air. “And I’ll not leave my fate or that of my family’s to His hands again. Not if I can help it.”
The vicar’s face swelled and reddened. “Very well. Might I suggest you consider of the young lady, then?”
Heath looked her way. She suffered his scrutiny, certain that he had no wish to consider of her just then. His cool gaze flicked over her as if she were a stranger and not the woman he had loved so thoroughly the night before.
“Heath,” she murmured, desperate to reach him, to gain a glimpse of the man she had seen last night. The man she had taken into her body and held against her heart. She didn’t want to part from him like this, with bitterness and misunderstanding between them. Didn’t want last night to become a blight in her memory.
“Heath,” she said again, her voice low with appeal. “Look at me. You can’t believe I would—” She stopped and swallowed past the lump rising to choke her.
Something that looked damnably close to guilt flashed in his eyes, and she knew, like her, he was thinking of last night, remembering their less than innocent time together. He remembered and regretted. Damn him. No regrets, he had said. Liar, her heart cried as her hands knotted at her sides. He would not taint last night, would not sully the memory with regret. As if it were something he wished to take back and erase.
She shook her head swiftly, her heart beating like an angry drum against her chest.
Heath turned from her and addressed the vicar. “I am thinking of her. And I strongly suspect I’m the only one.”
“Oh, Heath, that’s absurd,” Lady Moreton cut in. “You’ve ruined her. Only one thing can protect her now.”
The vicar patted Lady Moreton’s arm. “Don’t overset yourself, dear lady.”
Seemingly mollified, the lady gave a delicate sniff and pressed her lips together, nodding for the vicar to continue.
“Am I correct in saying that you two stayed the night together?” Hatley inquired evenly. “Alone?”
“We were caught in the storm. I couldn’t very well have forced Lady Portia out into such inclement weather for the sake of propriety. She has only recently recovered from an ague.”
“Precisely,” Portia agreed, nodding, gladdened for the sound logic.
Mr. Hatley inclined his head. “Yet if you had no intention of marrying the lady, you should have braved the elements, my lord. Better to have risked her life than her soul.”
A small hiss of breath escaped her lips at this heartless comment. Yet should she feel such surprise? Mr. Hatley’s attitude was typical of Society. A lady’s virtue was of more value than the lady herself.
Heath, however, did not seem to value this attitude. His upper lip curled in a sneer as he said, “I’ll pretend you did not say that, sir, and ask you to take your leave before I say or do something truly regrettable.”
“Heathston,” Lady Moreton cried in shrill, affronted tones, her hands opening and closing in front of her as if she could grab a handhold of control, power. Something. “You dare address Mr. Hatley in such a fashion.”
“Oh, I dare.” His eyes glittered a glacier gray and Portia felt their chill right to her core. “That and more if he doesn’t take his leave.”
Portia blinked, thinking she had misheard him. Surely he had not taken
offense on her account. He, who thought her the lowest sort of female?
Mr. Hatley made a small bleating sound and his face reddened even further. “Perhaps,” he started, addressing the countess even as his eyes narrowed on Portia, “Lady Portia’s brother should be notified of recent developments. I am certain he would like to weigh in on the discussion.”
Portia’s stomach rebelled at the obvious threat. If Bertram knew she spent the night unchaperoned with the earl, he would insist they wed.
“Get out,” Heath ordered, his voice lethally soft.
Almost as from nowhere, Mrs. Crosby appeared, the vicar’s hat and coat in her hands. Mr. Hatley collected his things, his fat lips squashed tightly with censure.
Mr. Hatley shrugged into his too small coat with maddening slowness. His fat lips trembled from suppressed speech, and Portia could well imagine the tirade he fought to hold back. At the door he stopped. His voice rang out with high sanctimony, “I will pray for you, my lord.” His small, vapid eyes shifted to Portia. “And you, too, my lady. For what it’s worth.”
The moment he scurried out the door, Lady Moreton swung on Heath, her slender frame shaking like a reed in the wind, radiating a fury so thick, so palpable, it clogged the air. “What have you done? What have you done? You know he’ll tell everyone!”
Lips compressed in a flat, ominous line, Heath turned his back on Lady Moreton. He glared at Portia in a way that made the hairs on her nape tingle. She angled her head warily, eyeing him up and down as she slid back a step.
“Why are you—”
He snatched hold of her hand, cutting short her question.
“Come,” he ordered, pulling her along, her feet slipping along the damnably slick marble floor. He thrust her into the library, slamming the door behind them.
Twisting free, she crossed her arms over herchest and watched him pace the vast room like a great caged cat. Her muscles tensed, wary that at any moment he would turn and pounce on her as if she were a sparrow to be devoured in one breath.