“It’s all horribly unfair,” Mina complained, blithely unaware as Portia busily fended off an army of felines. “Before long I, too, shall be firmly on the shelf.”
Color spotting her cheeks, Constance muttered, “I’m sure Lady Portia has no wish to hear you prattle on about your life’s injustices.”
Mina’s bottom lip pushed out in a pout as Portia dropped one skinny tabby and then another that looked to be its twin onto the carpet. “I don’t mind—”
“Oh, but I do, Lady Portia.” The eldest Moreton sister fixed a chilly stare on her.
Portia blinked.
“Oh, cease being such a shrew, Constance,” Lady Moreton reprimanded over a cacophony of purring.
Portia set her cup down and pressed the back of her hand to her face, dismayed to feel sweat dotting her brow. Especially since she felt so wretchedly cold.
“Are you feeling well, Portia?” Mina leaned forward, her smooth brow wrinkling with concern. “You look a bit…”
“Pasty,” Constance supplied.
Empathy for Constance rapidly fading, Portia confessed, “Actually, I am quite fatigued. It has been a long journey.”
Lady Moreton quickly stood, cats leaping to the floor in every direction. “Of course, how rude of me to subject you to so much excitement. Let me show you to your chamber, my dear.”
Portia stood, prepared to follow, when the parlor door flew open.
No. Her heart jumped to her throat and she grasped the back of a nearby chair for support at sight of him entering the room.
He paused a moment, eyeing the surprised tableau—most notably her—before his swift, long strides ate up the distance separating them, advancing on her like some kind of dark angel coming to wreak his vengeance.
Heath.
For the briefest, bewildered moment, she wondered why he had come looking for her. Surely he did not intend to follow through on the wicked promise of his hot gaze. Of course not. His glittering eyes held no joy at the sight of her, only grim resolve.
“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“Heathston!” Lady Moreton exclaimed while Portia stood silently, her legs wobbly, feeling as though they might give out at any moment. “This is Lady Portia, granddaughter to my dear friend, the Dowager Duchess of Derring, and you would do well to watch your language!”
Realization washed over her, bitter as a cold wind. Heath was the Earl of Moreton. Her suitor. The man her grandmother would have her marry.
His large body loomed in the center of the room, dwarfing the dainty furniture, fripperies, and knickknacks so inherently feminine, making him all the more threatening—male, everything she remembered from the night before.
His storm gray eyes swung to Lady Moreton. “Tell me you did not send for her.”
Burning heat seared Portia’s cheeks and she dug her fingers into the wood of the chair, feeling a nail crack from the pressure.
“She most certainly did,” Constance volunteered. “She wants you to marry her.”
His gaze stabbed Portia once again, pinning her to the spot—like that knife he had flung into the painting at the inn.
“Is this all you could find, Grandmother?” His burning gaze scorched her. A sample of Hell, to be certain. “It would take a good deal more than this bit of baggage to tempt me.”
Portia gasped, the biting lash of his words as effective as a whip. Even if it had been her intention to chase the earl off, it was another thing entirely to be rejected out of hand in such a humiliating fashion.
“Heathston!” Lady Moreton exclaimed, twin flags of red staining her cheeks as she looked back and forth between her grandson and Portia.
“Rot you, Heath,” Mina hissed. “Can you not even pretend to be a gentleman?”
He did not so much as blink in the face of his family’s censure. His silvery gaze held her hostage. A muscle in his cheek ticked dangerously. She did her level best to return his dark scowl with one of her own, but feared she only looked cross. No one could look as contemptuous and threatening as the man standing before her. His fury was palpable, searing.
“Hop in your carriage,” he began, his voice low and deep as a wolf ’s growl, “and head straight back to wherever you came from. You’ll catch no husband here.”
Her rage came boiling to a head. Fury consumed her. Fury at her brother for necessitating that she marry, at her sister-in-law who pestered her to do so, at her Grandmother who sent her on this fool errand in the first place, and at the mother who long ago had promised her a different sort of life.
Most of all, she felt fury at the blackguard who stood before her. The man who yesterday had warmed her blood and filled her with never before felt longing.
Lips compressed, she nodded briskly. The movement sent the room spinning about her and she staggered back from the chair. Opening her mouth, she inhaled a steadying breath to deliver a blistering setdown. To inform the brute that nothing appealed to her more than taking her leave of his hospitality.
Unfortunately, the rush of blood to her head robbed her of speech. She shut her eyes against the spots dancing before her vision. It didn’t help. Dizziness swept through her and bile rose high in her throat.
Swaying, she dimly registered exclamations as her legs buckled, and darkness rolled in.
Chapter 5
Heath stared at the girl crumpled bonelessly in his arms, his gut clenching at the sight of her ashen face. He had not been able to forget her—despite Della’s most ardent efforts the night before.
Closing his eyes, he cursed beneath his breath, not sure what rattled him more. That she laid sick in his arms or that she—the girl he had never thought to see again—laid sick in his arms.
“Satisfied?” Mina exclaimed. “You’ve killed her, Heath.”
“Shut up, Mina,” Heath muttered, maneuvering one arm free to check for the pulse at her neck. There it was, slow and steady beneath the soft skin. He brushed the back of his hand against her brow, wincing at her fiery flesh. “She’s burning up.”
“Quickly, upstairs with her,” Grandmother commanded.
Heath readjusted Portia in his arms. Her head fell against his chest as he took the stairs two at a time, his grandmother and sisters fast behind, chattering nonstop.
He proceeded to the Rose room, knowing Grandmother would have sent her things to the most lavish guest chamber.
Mina jumped ahead to open the door.
A copper-haired woman froze amid unpacking luggage, demanding, “What have you done to her?”
Heath smiled wryly. The maid, he presumed.
“Your mistress has fainted,” he explained, laying her on the bed.
“Fainted?” The buxom maid murmured, suspicion in her voice as she eyed him up and down. “She isn’t the swooning type.”
“I imagine not,” he replied, recalling her saucy manners from yesterday. “I rather suspect her fever has something to do with it.”
“Fever,” the maid exclaimed, wringing her hands. “Oh, the old dragon will have my head if she up and dies.”
“And that would be the real tragedy,” Mina commented, nodding in mock seriousness.
“She’s not going to die,” Heath growled, annoyed at the maid’s histrionics. Turning, he spied the house keeper hovering near the door. “Mrs. Crosby. Would you send someone to fetch Dr. Manning?”
“Aye, my lord.”
As the house keeper bustled out of the room, he faced the maid again. “Can I trust you to see Lady Portia into her nightgown?” He motioned to her still form. “She’ll need out of her corset immediately.”
“Course,” the maid bobbed her head and moved toward the wardrobe.
Heath ignored his grandmother’s sniff of disapproval at his mention of a corset. Trust his grandmother to get her sensibilities offended at a time like this.
With one last look at the girl stretched out on the bed, he left the room so that the maid could attend Portia in private, and he could struggle to make sense of his spinning th
oughts.
His grandmother followed fast on his heels, not about to let him escape so easily. “As soon as she awakens, I expect you to apologize,” she demanded.
Heath felt a flash of annoyance at her automatic assumption that Portia would awaken. People perished every year from fevers and agues. Her large blue eyes, her milky skin, her slimness…all hinted at frailty, weakness.
He stopped in the hall and swung around to confront his grandmother. “If anyone owes her an apology, it is you. You’re the one who dragged her halfway across the country. And for nothing. You know my position. I will not marry. Ever. Accept it.”
Before she could respond, he whipped around and stormed off, too angered to abide the sight of her. For years, she had pestered him, tossing every eligible young lady in the district at him in the hopes that he would marry. But this? He shook his head. This time she went too far.
He wouldn’t be his grandmother’s pawn. No matter that he found the girl strangely compelling, no matter that she had lingered in his thoughts longer than she should have. Longer than any woman before.
He had responsibilities. Responsibilities that far outweighed his grandmother’s desires. Or his own.
Chapter 6
Portia opened her eyes and blinked against the invasion of light. She stretched her hands out at her sides, luxuriating in the feel of soft sheets. Looking up, she studied a swath of rich plum-colored damask above her and tried to sort her scattered thoughts. Slowly, she sat up, her gaze sweeping over a large chamber dappled in soft light.
“What are you doing? Back down with you.” Nettie pushed her back into the soft mattress.
“What happened?”
“You swooned.”
“I never swoon,” Portia denied, prepared to argue further, but stopped suddenly as memory flooded her.
Heath’s face swam before her like something out of a dream. Stark good looks. Eyes that glittered gray one moment and black the next. Hair dark as sin, long enough to tangle her fingers in—
Portia halted her wayward thoughts with a swift shake of her head. He should have stayed in her dreams. She had planned to keep the memory of him there—the wickedly handsome stranger who rode like Satan set loose, who knife-played for sport and climbed mountains in the dead of winter, who scandalized her with hot words whispered against her ear.
Only her dream had turned to the stuff of nightmares.
Her anonymous rescuer was none other than the earl her grandmother wanted her to wed. She shook her head, trying to chase away her ridiculous sense of betrayal.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. Chasing him off wouldn’t be a problem. Not when he wanted her gone.
Sitting up again, she flung back the thick counterpane, humiliation stinging her cheeks as she recalled his wretched treatment of her. “Nettie, fetch my clothes.”
“I’ll do no such thing. The doctor said—”
“A physician was here?”
“Yes. He said you needed to stay abed until you’re well.”
Portia shook her head fiercely, an image of Heath’s hard features flashing in her mind. In no way would she stay a minute longer under his roof. “I feel better now. Let’s be on our way.”
Nettie opened her mouth, but Portia waved a hand to silence her. “I will not remain here. Not after the way that brute treated me. Can you imagine, Nettie?” She flattened a palm to her heart as if she bore a mortal wound. “He thinks I would want to marry him!”
Nettie tossed her hands up in the air. “Fine. Kill yourself—”
“I’m not on death’s door.” Portia winced when the shrillness of her voice pierced her head. Sighing, she rubbed her throbbing temples. “Truly, I feel much improved. Certainly fit for travel.” Her feet dropped down from the tester bed, sinking into the thick carpet.
She made it halfway to the armoire before a brief rap sounded on the door. Halting, she turned and watched Lady Moreton breeze into the room.
The countess froze midstride. “What are you doing?”
Portia twisted a toe in the plush carpet guiltily, feeling absurdly like a child caught at mischief. “Getting dressed.”
“You most certainly are not,” Lady Moreton declared.
Before Portia could lodge a protest, both women ushered her back into bed, tucking the covers to her throat as if she were an invalid.
“I am really well enough to travel—”
“Travel?” Lady Moreton’s eyes rounded. “You’re quite ill, my dear. And even if you weren’t, you’ve only just arrived. Why in heavens would you wish to depart so soon?”
Why? Portia blinked at the countess, wondering if she mocked. Did she not hear her grandson demand her departure? “I think it best if I leave.”
“Leave?” Lady Moreton glanced at Nettie as if needing confirmation that Portia truly intended to leave. “Why would you want to do that?” Hurt flickered across features surprisingly smooth for a woman of her years.
Portia wet her lips. “Lady Moreton, your grandson made his wishes exceedingly clear—”
“Posh!” Lady Moreton sliced the air with one slender, blue-veined hand. “I invited you. You are my guest. Heath cannot uninvite you.”
Clearing her throat, Portia tried again. “At any rate, I would be more comfortable taking my leave.”
Lady Moreton frowned, pursing her lips until they all but disappeared in her face. A determined glint entered her eyes and a hush fell over the room as Portia suffered her scrutiny. Swallowing, she stubbornly held that considering stare, resisting the inclination to fidget. As with her own grandmother, Portia knew better than to show even a hint of weakness.
“Very well, if you wish to leave I cannot stop you.” The silkiness of Lady Moreton’s voice made the tiny hairs on her neck stand. “You may leave, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you here against your will.” The countess blinked wide, innocent eyes, a hand fluttering to her throat.
Portia waited, breath suspended, knowing more was to come. Lady Moreton stroked the emerald pendant resting in the hollow of her throat.
“Thank you,” Portia murmured, sliding the counterpane to her waist. She was on the verge of swinging her legs down when the countess’s voice stopped her.
“Of course, I can’t permit you to leave until I deem you fit for travel.” Lady Moreton drew the counterpane back up to her throat and gave Portia’s shoulder a patronizing pat.
“Truly, I am well now,” she insisted.
Lady Moreton held up a hand, cutting off her protests. “Not another word on the matter. When I deem you fit for travel, you may depart and not a moment sooner.”
Nettie laughed behind her hand.
Portia sagged into the bed as if a suffocating weight had been placed over her. The counterpane suddenly felt hot, heavy—a death shroud.
Lady Moreton smiled sweetly, as if she had not just sentenced Portia to prison for an undefined amount of time. “Rest. Recuperate. I’ll send up some broth.”
Broth. Her stomach growled at the mention of food. She could stand a bit more than broth. Roast pheasant with creamed potatoes sounded about right, but Lady Moreton appeared determined to treat her like an invalid.
“Very well,” she relented, already thinking how she might get Nettie to fetch her some real food—and how soon she might arrange to depart without offending Lady Moreton.
The earl’s face emerged in her mind and her chest tightened. It would take a good deal more than this bit of baggage to tempt me. Humiliation burned a fire through her at the memory of his words.
Three days. Three days and not a minute longer, she vowed. Then she would leave. With or without Lady Moreton’s approval, she would leave. And she would put the earl’s hot gaze firmly and forever behind her.
A sudden knock at the door had Portia thrusting her plate of cheese and bread into Nettie’s fumbling hands. She anxiously arranged the counterpane around her as she struggled to swallow her mouthful of cheese. Nettie dropped the plate to the carpet and kicked it unde
r the bed. At Portia’s nod, she opened the door.
A woman walked in pushing a cart laden with books. “Afternoon, my lady. I’m the house keeper, Mrs. Crosby.” Stopping beside the bed, she bobbed a brief curtsey.
Portia rose up on her elbows, her heart accelerating at the haphazard stack of books. The sight of so many, some whose leather spines never looked to have been cracked, filled her stomach with butterflies.
“What have you there?” Nettie asked.
“Lady Moreton selected these books for Lady Portia.”
Portia glanced from the twenty-plus books to Mrs. Crosby, a brow arched suspiciously. “Lady Moreton selected these?” No doubt her grandmother’s letters had related Portia’s fondness for books.
She reached for one, examining the spine. “Voltaire,” she read aloud. Her hand went for another and another. “Austen, Cervantes, Burney, Defoe.” Trying to still her racing heart, she slid her gaze to the house keeper. “Where did all these come from?”
“The library. Perhaps when you feel better you could explore it yourself, my lady. It’s quite a large collection.” Mrs. Crosby made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Oh, but you’ll be leaving, won’t you? Unfortunate.” In that moment Portia knew Lady Moreton had sent the books deliberately.
Portia reassessed the books, trying to suppress her tremor of delight now that she understood them for what they were—a bribe. She pressed her lips into a grim line and crossed her arms over her chest. No amount of books would tempt her to stay. She had her pride. Nothing could keep her here with that brute skulking about the place.
Then she spotted it. Her breath caught in her throat. With a shaking hand, she pulled a thin volume off the top stack. Freshly bound, her fingers skimmed over the smooth leather surface with its shiny embossed lettering. Mr. Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. She had heard of Mr. Poe’s unconventional stories.