She had set Nettie to the task of finding him, of checking all the hotels and inquiring among servants. Nothing. Had he done what she had asked and gone back to Yorkshire?
She lowered her hand and brushed the swell of her stomach, the linen of her nightgown soft against her palm. She thought of them in that moon-washed room again, the wicked way they had made love and something told her it would always be that way with Heath. Mad or sane, there would always be a part of him too wicked to tame. And she didn’t want him any other way.
Her balcony doors stood open and the curtains shifted, fluttering with a whisper in the wind.
Astrid hadn’t spoken a word to her, and although Grandmother could now sit up in bed and take down some food, she still needed a physician’s care. Portia didn’t have time to play at courtship. Where was Heath? He couldn’t have changed his mind. Couldn’t have given up. Could he?
Sighing, she rolled onto her side, thinking of Heath, of her desperate need to find him, to marry him.
Marry Heath. A warmth suffused her at the very idea, at the nights they would have, the leisurely attention they could devote to each other’s bodies. Frowning, she quickly tried to suppress the warmth with a cold douse of reality. He was still the man who had hurt her, who had crushed her in Yorkshire. Nothing would change that. There would be no love between them. She would not grant him such power over her, would not permit herself to fall in love with him.
But you loved him in Yorkshire. And you haven’t stopped.
“No,” she vowed aloud, her fist thumping the mattress beside her. “I don’t—I won’t!”
“Won’t you now?”
She lurched up in bed with a gasp, her eyes searching the gloom for the source of that velvet voice. Her heart hammered in wild relief. He had come. That he had been so bold as to climb the trellis outside her window shocked her not in the least. This was Heath, after all.
“Heath?” she addressed the room, her voice a hush on the air as her eyes strained for a glimpse of him.
Silence. She shoved back the covers and swung her feet over the side. Her bare feet dropped down silently. She moved toward the robe draped over the footboard.
A hard hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “Leave it off. One less item I’ll have to remove.”
A secret thrill skated over her skin. He meant to have her here? With her sister-in-law two doors down? And her Grandmother directly across the hall? Portia opened her mouth to deliver a ringing set down, but the words never made it past her lips. His mouth crushed hers and her protest died in her throat.
She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling his head closer, deepening their kiss and parrying her tongue with his. He backed her up until she bumped the bed.
He broke their kiss and her eyes fluttered open. Her chest rose and fell with each savage breath that shuddered free of her lungs. His eyes glittered at her in the dark, twin spots of gleaming onyx.
“What are you doing here?” Senseless question, she knew. He gathered her nightgown against her hips even as she asked.
“I think it would be clear what I’m doing.” In a single, swift move, he pulled the nightgown over her head. Night air rushed over and she shivered. “Did you miss me?” He breathed against her temple, stirring the fine hairs there.
She managed a strangled sound, a gurgled affirmation. Miss him? With every fiber of her being. His large hand cupped her bottom and lifted her high against him, snuggling her against his prodding erection. That hand rounded the curve of her bottom, sliding lower, fingers teasing, probing her entrance and ripping a gasp from her throat.
Then she was falling. His body came down over hers, surrounding her, pinning her to the bed. Instinctively her legs parted wider, allowing him to settle deeper against her. Their mouths fused together, a hot, wet melding of lips and tongues, of nips and long, deep drinks from the fountain of their mouths.
The dam broke at last and she let herself go, reveled in his mouth, his hands on her body. She had decided to marry him, decided to bind herself to him—had spent two days agonizing that she had lost her chance. Even without love, she could have him, have this.
An incredible sense of freedom, of power, seized her and her hands flew to his trousers. In a heartbeat, she freed him. Her hand closed around his hard length. His groan emboldened her. A shudder ran through him and vibrated within her as she stroked him—slowly, carefully at first, then in long, firm strokes that made him breathe harder. She rubbed her thumb over his tip, delighted at his low groan, at the bead of moisture that rose up to kiss her thumb and coat the head of him.
Releasing him, she shoved hard at his chest. He fell back on the bed. She hovered over him for a moment, wishing she could see the magnificence of his body. Memory would have to serve. Hands fumbling in her excitement, she removed his jacket, vest and shirt, at last exposing him to her roving hands. At least she could feel him. She traced the ridges of muscles along his stomach, the outline of each rib. And taste him. Dipping her head, she tongued his navel before licking her way down the thin line of hair.
She stopped, perched uncertainly. The rasp of his breath filled the air, encouraging her. Taking him in one hand, she placed a kiss at the tip of him.
“Portia,” he croaked in a voice she had never thought to hear from him. Vulnerable. Lost. Totally at her mercy. It thrilled, aroused and prompted her as nothing else could. Slowly, like he was the most delectable piece of fruit she had ever sampled, she licked him.
His body jerked almost as if in pain.
She released him. “What? Did I hurt you?”
In response, hard hands clamped down on her arms. Before she could draw a breath she was on her back and he was driving into her, so deep he touched her soul.
His mouth slammed over hers as he plunged in and out, loving her in a way completely unlike their previous times together. The first time had been a reluctant loving, sad and resigned, shadowed by guilt. Their second time had been a punishment, his way of proving to her that she wanted him. But this was wild, uninhibited. He took what he needed, pounding into her ruthlessly and she didn’t care because she wanted it too. Needed it. Needed him.
Her hips rose to meet him and she cried out as he drove harder into her, gripping her hips as if she were a lifeline, the only thing that kept him grounded to earth. Her heart swelled even as she reminded herself that this wasn’t love. Only lust. Lust in all its thrilling, consuming thrall. Hopefully they would always have this.
And it would be enough.
This was more than lust. Heath knew it the instant he felt her shudder beneath him, felt her tremble and arch under him in the throes of her climax. His own climax followed fast and fierce. He reveled in the sensation of his seed spilling inside her—again. Knowing he could release himself without fear—knowing nothing would please him more than creating children with this woman.
She breathed heavily beneath him, the tips of her breasts pebble-hard and rubbing his chest in the most arousing way. He propped himself on his elbows and stayed just so, buried in her, never wanting to leave.
“Portia,” he began, determined that to night, once and for all, she would agree to become his wife. Why it burned within him with such importance, he dared not examine. He simply knew that he had to marry this woman, to wake up beside her every morning for the rest of his life. Never could he abuse her as his father hurt his mother. He’d cut his own heart out first. “Portia, I—”
“Portia? Are you awake?” A gentle knock sounded at the door and the two of them flew off the bed as if a red-hot poker prodded their backsides. Heath tossed her nightgown at her and made short work of straightening his clothing. He glanced at the thin line of light glowing beneath the bedroom door.
“Portia?” The woman at the door knocked again. “May I come in?”
Her small hands pushed wildly at his chest, shoving him in the direction of the balcony. It occurred to him that he could linger until that door opened and put an end to the question of their marrying. Yet he di
dn’t want her to agree to marry him because she’d been compelled. He wanted her to want to marry him.
His eyes searched the dark, desperate for a glimpse of her face, desperate to say—
“Go,” she hissed.
“Tomorrow,” he managed to say before stepping onto the balcony and plunging into the night.
Portia dove beneath the counterpane a mere moment before Astrid strode into the room. She took a gulp and tried to steady her breathing and the erratic thumping of her heart against her chest.
“You’re still awake?” Astrid asked, her expression surprised.
Her cheeks flamed. “Yes.”
Astrid motioned to the side table and the goblet sitting upon it. “Why did you not try the tonic I sent up for you earlier?”
Portia glanced at the goblet, having forgotten all about it. Leery of Astrid’s “tonics,” Portia wrinkled her nose.
“It’s my special tonic,” she chided. “Will do wonders for those bothersome wrinkles you’re starting to get at the corners of your eyes. One cup and you’ll look much improved.”
Portia picked up the goblet. Mostly to appease her sister-in-law, but also to distract Astrid from looking too closely at the rumpled bedcovers, or her mussed appearance, or to catch the lingering smell of sex, she downed the contents of the goblet. It tasted like wine but with an underlying bitterness that she puckered her lips against.
“Good girl.” Astrid smiled and patted her hand with far more solicitousness than she had ever displayed.
“Astrid,” Portia began as she settled against her pillows. “I know you’ve been angry with me—”
“Hush.” Astrid waved a hand, averting her eyes to arrange the covers around Portia. “Let’s not talk about it.”
“Please believe me when I say that everything will be fine. You have my word.”
A vague smile played about Astrid’s lips. For some reason the sight made Portia’s stomach tighten. Unease settled between her shoulder blades, tensing her back.
“I know, Portia,” she murmured evenly. “I’m not angry anymore.”
Portia studied her closely, trying to gauge that smile of hers. The one that never reached her eyes, the one that Portia had seen her exhibit on countless social occasions. The one that hid something. Everything.
“Get some sleep.” Turning gracefully, Astrid strolled from the room. The door clicked shut and darkness shrouded her again.
Portia bounded from the bed, hoping Heath hadn’t left, that he lurked somewhere in the humming night outside her room. Standing on the balcony, she scanned the lawn below. Gripping the stone railing, she risked a loud whisper. “Heath.”
Nothing. He had gone.
Deflated, she rubbed her arms for comfort and leaned upon the railing, the cool stone seeping through the thin cotton of her gown, chilling her.
A pleasant lethargy crept over her. Strange. Moments ago she had not even felt tired. Goose bumps broke over her flesh, but she still didn’t move. Her legs felt heavy, leaden. She glanced down as if she would see fetters about her ankles. Turning, she pushed from the railing, suddenly eager for the comfort of her bed.
She dragged herself forward, her hand seeking the balcony door for support. Her legs felt steady as rubber. Blood rushed to her ears—made her head feel stuffed full of cotton.
She grasped the door, clinging to it, her fingers digging into the wood. One of her nail’s splintered from the pressure as she tried to stop from sliding to the floor.
Her knees buckled and she fell, sliding down like a limp doll. She dropped to the floor, head whirling, spinning until black oblivion rolled in.
Chapter 28
Heath bowed low over Lady Astrid’s hand, slender and delicate. Her skin was pale as cream, the blue veins visible beneath.
“Lord Derring, how nice of you to call.” Her un-swerving gaze reflected no such frailty. Her eyes, a dark coffee brown, were a startling contrast with her fair hair and skin. They looked straight through him, direct as any man’s.
“My apology for not calling sooner, Your Grace. I’ve heard the Dowager is unwell.” He lowered himself into the chair across from her.
Lady Astrid inclined her head slightly. “That is true. Although she has improved markedly in the last few days.”
“I’m greatly relieved to hear that. I know my grandmother will be most distressed to learn she has been ill.” Unable to hold off any longer, he inquired, “And Lady Portia? Is she receiving today?”
“Portia?” Lady Astrid straightened where she sat, pulling her shoulders back as if preparing for something unpleasant. For half a second alarm flashed in her cool gaze. “You’ve come to call on Portia?”
“Yes. She and I grew acquainted in Yorkshire.”
“Acquainted,” she murmured, rolling the word around her tongue as if it were some strange sound. In a single, fluid movement she rose to her feet and strolled to a cabinet in the corner.
Her back to him, she asked bluntly, “What are your intentions concerning Portia?” She opened the lacquered door and removed a tray arrayed with a decanter and glasses. “Sherry?”
“No.” He gave a swift nod, still mulling over her question. He supposed it fair. With Bertram gone and the dowager ill, Lady Astrid did have some right to know the depth of his interest in her sister-in-law.
“I intend to marry her.”
At his declaration, she downed her glass in one swallow. Reaching for the decanter again, she asked, “Are you sure you won’t join me for a drink, my lord?”
“Quite.” Uneasiness tightened his gut. His statement did not elicit the reaction he expected.
“Does Portia know of your intentions?”
“I believe she will accept my suit.” He damned well wasn’t leaving until she did. After last night, she couldn’t seriously consider refusing him. At least that’s what he told himself, what his heart desperately whispered to his head.
The duchess downed her second glass with one swallow. She turned bright eyes, burning with emotion, on him. With a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Then you best go after her.”
He rose slowly, his pulse quickening. “Go after her? Where has she gone?”
“Scotland. She left early this morning.”
“Scotland?” he echoed.
“Yes.” She grimaced. “Where else could she marry on such short notice?”
Portia woke to a throbbing headache. It pounded at the insides of her temples with fierce little hammers. She cracked open one eye, then the next. Hissing at the harsh invasion of light, she clenched them shut again.
A slight rustling sounded near her head. “Nettie, would you draw the drapes?” she asked, her tongue dry as sand in her mouth.
Before Nettie could respond, her world tilted and careened.
“Nettie,” she choked, a hand flying to her mouth as she fought down her heaving stomach. “Chamber pot—quick!”
With more strength than Portia thought Nettie capable, she was pulled upright and forced into a sitting position. Much too quickly for her rebelling stomach.
“Ah,” she groaned against her fingers, a vile taste rising in her throat.
“Open your bloody eyes and stick your head out the window you daft female!”
Her eyes flew open at the sound of the coarse command.
Simon Oliver stared back at her, looking both anxious and wary. She lunged for the window. Sticking her head out the flimsy drapes, she heaved the contents of her stomach, mindless of the rain soaking her as she watched the wet earth roll by beneath them.
Confidant that she would not be sick again, she fell back against the squabs, demanding weakly, “What have you done?”
She pressed a hand to the base of her throat as if she could still the wild thud of her pulse beating there. His eyes, feral and gleaming, fixed on that hand, watched it as a fox watched its dinner. “You thought you were finished with me, didn’t you?” He leaned forward in his seat. “I warned you—”
“Mr. Oliver,” she croaked, her ton
gue thick in her mouth. Pausing, she swallowed and tried to force words out of her dry mouth. “I insist you turn this carriage around at once. My family must be besides themselves with worry—”
“Your family,” he cut in, the crack of his voice loud as the falling rain around them, “is in full support of our marriage. Who do you think helped me make off with you in the middle of the night?”
Portia sucked in air and jammed her eyes shut against the sudden spots filling her vision. “No. They wouldn’t do that. Not Grandmother. Not Astrid.” They would not have betrayed her, would not have resorted to such methods.
She must have spoken aloud, for Oliver suddenly sat on the seat beside her, his voice a serpent’s slither in her ear, his chest a barrel pressing at her side. “I know nothing of any plans your grandmother may have had. Lady Astrid, however, came up with this. She said once we were wed, you would see reason.”
Astrid. Portia knew her sister-in-law was angry, desperate even. She had felt it in her cold stare. Yet if she had just trusted Portia, given her a little time, she would have seen that she intended to honor her promise.
Heath. A dull ache began to throb beneath her breastbone. An image of him filled her mind, her soul. When precisely had he become everything to her? When exactly had he turned into her every dream, her every hope for the future?
Oh, Astrid, how could you?
“No,” she breathed, jamming her eyes shut, unwilling to open them and face the man at her side. Face the ugly truth that spilled from his lips and washed over her in wave after horrible wave.
“No,” she repeated, as if the single word had the power to remove her from this awful reality.
Fingers hard as iron grasped her chin. “Yes.”
Her stomach heaved anew. Swallowing, she opened her eyes to glare at her abductor, to stare him down as if every inch of her weren’t trembling at the prospect of becoming his wife, at never again seeing Heath or feeling his arms surround her. Wrenching her chin free, she dragged herself to the edge of the seat until her shoulder dug into the carriage wall.