And despite everything, Portia wanted to remain. She loved looking out her window each morning to the windswept moors. She loved losing herself for hours in the Moreton’s inexhaustible library. She felt more alive here than anywhere else. And not, she told herself, because her blood burned in the presence of a certain man.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice tinny and small in the cavernous heart of the stables. No groom rushed forth, so she walked deeper into the shadowed interior, thinking perhaps they couldn’t hear her if they worked somewhere toward the back of the enormous building. Perhaps Mina was fetching her mount in one of the stalls. Heath’s sister didn’t strike her as the sort to wait for her horse to be fetched for her.
A horse stuck his head over a nearby stall door, whinnying for her attention.
“Hello, lovely,” she greeted, stroking her gloved hand over his velvety nose.
The beast snorted his warm breath into her palm.
“Looking for a treat, are you?” she crooned. “Perhaps next time, hmm?”
A whimper—or rather, a moan—diverted her attention. Angling her head, she listened. And heard it again. Definitely a moan. Dropping her hand, she walked ahead, peering over each stall door.
Finally, she arrived at the last stall. Rising on her tiptoes, she peered over the door.
Her gaze fell on Mina. Atop a pile of hay and buried beneath a young, virile-looking groom. The strapping fellow had wedged his body between her legs and was fondling her breasts through her bodice with the industriousness of a cook kneading dough.
Portia’s mouth dropped. The impulse to flee and pretend she never saw anything—never saw Heath’s sister rolling in the hay like a common crofter’s daughter—battled her urge to march into the stall, yank the groom off Mina, and give both a stern lecture. She shifted her weight back and forth between her feet, indecision twisting her stomach into knots.
The image of herself with Heath in the library—in the cellar—flashed through her mind and her own hypocrisy made her cheeks catch fire. Who was she to lecture on propriety?
With a curse under her breath no lady should know, she whirled around and headed back down the narrow alley lining the stalls. Her feet beat the ground in hard, agitated steps. It was none of her business with whom Mina cavorted. Goodness, it was none of her business whether Mina cavorted. Still…
Portia jerked to a halt and looked back toward the stall. Mina could very well be losing her virtue. In a stable. Did not her own recent carnal activities grant her some authority on this matter? Grant her the firsthand knowledge that decisions should never be made under the influence of passion?
Portia bit her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. Indecision warred inside her.
She had never stood by the notion that young ladies should be coddled and prohibited from enjoying all the freedoms and pursuits that young gentlemen were allowed. But did Mina truly want this? Or was this an act of defiance, a rebellion against the strictures imposed upon her.
Would she one day regret tossing up her skirts and losing her virtue in a pile of hay?
With a deep sigh, Portia lifted her skirts and marched back toward the stall with fierce steps. As embarrassing as it would be, she had to save Mina from herself.
The sound of hooves pounding on earth reached her ears, growing steadily louder, freezing her in her tracks. Turning, dread filled her heart as she watched Heath, riding at his usual breakneck speed into the yard, pull his mount to a stop before the stable. He dismounted in one fluid movement. The moment he spotted her, his lips compressed in a hard line.
“Portia,” he greeted, standing several feet from her, legs braced wide. He made no effort to close the distance. His mouth was drawn firmly, resolutely. He clenched his reins in one fist as he stared at her, his eyes unreadable. Sunlight glinted off his dark head and her eyes squinted against its glossy brilliance.
“Lord Moreton,” she returned, clinging to the formality of his title, a much needed barrier.
One corner of his mouth lifted, her formality clearly amusing him. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” her voice faded, dying on her lips. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder to where Mina conducted her tryst, wondering what to tell him.
With a gulp of air, she strode forward and looped her arm through his. Laying her hand on that hard, muscled arm, she said, “I thought I saw Mina step outside. Apparently, I was mistaken.”
He looked down at her arm looped through his, at her pale fingers resting on the dark fabric of his jacket, and arched a brow.
She flushed, realizing how forward he must perceive her. No doubt he thought she welcomed his attentions. Perhaps even craved more of the type he had lavished on her in the cellar. Swallowing her pride—and her own instinct to flee him and the fascination he stirred within her—she batted her eyelashes in the manner she had observed from countless coquettes. “Won’t you join me inside?”
His brows drew together and he looked at her strangely, as if she had sprouted a second head. “I don’t think so.”
“You must be parched from your ride,” she needled, suppressing the pride that demanded she cease such shameful cajoling. “I can send for a tray of tea. Or perhaps you would care for something a little more fortifying?” She wet her lips, slowly, deliberately.
His eyes darkened as he stared at her mouth and she felt a stab of satisfaction.
Giving his head a hard shake, he muttered, “I need to tend to Iago.” He tried to shrug free of her arm and advance into the stable, but her fingers clung harder, panic seizing her.
“Oh, pooh.” She thrust out her bottom lip and lightly slapped his chest, fluttering her lashes.
He scowled down at her with narrowed eyes. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he demanded, clearly past patience. “And what’s wrong with your eyes?”
Portia ceased batting her lashes and fought back a scowl of her own. Deciding another tactic in order, she leaned heavily against him, complaining, “I’m not feeling quite well.” Her fingers dug into his muscled arm, clinging for support. “I must not be fully recovered. Would you escort me to the house, my lord?”
His piercing gaze drilled into her and she held her breath, waiting for him to either accept or reject her little charade.
At last, he nodded slowly and she remembered to breathe.
“Certainly. Perhaps you’ve overtaxed yourself these last few—”
A sudden giggle tinkled over the air, twisting into a sharp, feminine gasp of plea sure.
“What was that?” he asked, craning his head to peer into the stable.
“I didn’t hear anything,” she replied, her hands fastening tighter on his arm as she attempted to pull him along with her. He plucked her hand from his arm and started down the wide aisle.
She rushed to keep up, still bent on distracting him. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she tried again. “You know, I’m suddenly feeling very feverish, my lord.”
He didn’t so much as look her way. A quiet rumble of voices drifted from the end stall. Why were they talking? Couldn’t two people caught in the throes of passion put their mouths to better use? Heat flooded her face and she suddenly did feel feverish. She briefly considered dropping in a swoon at his feet. Yet with her luck, he would fail to catch her.
Heath advanced on the stall, Portia fast on his heels.
“That’s it, love,” a deep voice encouraged. “There you go, that’s it.”
Portia closed her eyes, afraid to know what Mina did to elicit such ardent approval. Opening her eyes, her stomach dropped to her feet as Heath stopped before the last stall door, his dark head cocked at a dangerous angle.
Feminine laughter floated over the door, so incongruous to the dismay hammering in Portia’s heart.
“Mina?” he murmured, apparently recognizing the laughter. Laying a hand flat on the door, he gave it a push. It swung inward with a slight creak of iron hinges.
Wincing, Portia forgot to breathe as her gaze landed on Mina—with her hand in the groom’s trousers.
Heath charged into the stall, blocking her from seeing more. A relief, to be certain. Portia would likely be haunted by the unwanted image for years.
Heath yanked the groom to his feet. Mina bounced to her feet, pulling her bodice over jiggling breasts as she babbled incoherent explanations.
The groom managed a few warbled words before Heath’s fist made contact with his face in a sickening smack of bone against bone. Portia jerked, startled at the unrestrained violence of the blow. The groom careened backward into the hay, limbs flailing, blood spurting from his nose like a fountain.
“Pack your things,” Heath snarled, fists flexing as he stood over the hapless young man. He kicked violently at one of his jutting boots. “I want you off my property. Never show yourself in the area again. If word should ever leak of you and my sister—”
The groom nodded his head vigorously. Blood, thick and crimson, seeped between the fingers of the hand he clutched over his nose. With eyes averted, he staggered to his feet again and fled the stall.
Mina, eyes round as saucers, looked from her fleeing would-be lover to Heath before uttering with quiet intensity, “I hate you.”
Portia grimaced, her hand fluttering to her heart, the stab of Mina’s words burying themselves there as effectively as a well-aimed arrow. Her gaze flew to Heath. A flash of raw emotion flickered in his eyes. A deep vulnerability that revealed itself for a mere instant before the familiar gray fog rolled back in, obscuring his exact thoughts.
Before he could respond, Mina tore out of the stall.
Heath bellowed like an outraged bull behind her. “Mina, get back here. I’m not finished with you!”
His sister ignored him, dashing for the house like a hare in flight.
Portia moistened her lips and inched her way out of the stall, not about to be left alone with Heath in his present state of ire. Her eyes fixed longingly at the leaves scuttling across the ground outside the stables.
“You.”
Portia froze.
“Yes?” she asked in a small voice. Turning, she faced the full blast of Heath’s glare, as bitter cold as a glacier wind.
He advanced on her, face stark and jagged as the wind-carved countryside. “You knew she was in here.”
Nodding, she backed up until she collided with a stall door. Hard wood at her back, she trembled as if she stood outside the shelter of the stables.
“You knew and attempted to distract me,” he accused, closing in like a deadly jungle cat. “You tried to get me to go inside with you.”
She held up a hand as if she could ward off his blistering accusations. “I merely wanted to save her from getting into trouble with you. I would have come back for her and put a stop to it.”
“And in the time it took to get rid of me, my sister could very well have been ruined.”
Portia flinched. She was not responsible for Mina’s tryst, nor would she permit Heath to place the blame at her feet. Not when a good portion of the blame could be attributed to him. If he had allowed Mina some freedom, she wouldn’t have gone to such extremes.
“So your sister wants a little adventure.” She flicked her hand in a gesture of impatience. “Not so surprising. You’ve prohibited her from meeting and courting gentlemen of her station, prohibited her from marrying. How else is she to satisfy her desires?”
Heath shook his head. “You think her behavior acceptable then? Do you satisfy your desires with servants?” he pressed, stepping closer, his eyes intense, feral as a predator.
“Of course not,” Portia snapped, discomfited by his nearness, his encroaching heat, the way her skin warmed as if too near the hearth. “But I understand you do.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, wondering what had possessed her to say such a thing, true or not.
His jaw thrust forward. “That is neither here nor there. Gentlemen are held to different standards.”
She dropped her hand from her mouth. “Which is absolute nonsense. If gentlemen are free to sew their wild oats, then why not women?”
“Gently bred ladies do not have wild oats.”
“Posh.”
He blinked. “Posh?”
“Posh!” she repeated, voice firm.
Heath frowned and cocked his head, a challenging glint entering his eyes. His gaze raked her as if seeing her for the first time, as if she were some strange creature, a species never before sighted by man. “I’m not so certain I should permit you to associate with Mina. Your notions are nothing short of scandalous.” His voice dipped dangerously low. “Have you sewn your wild oats yet, Portia?”
She swallowed nervously. The memory of his kiss surged forward and made her lips burn. She sucked in a fast breath and pushed the memory out of her head.
“No. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t do so. I’ve simply not been tempted yet.” She grimaced, praying he would not call her out on the lie. He need merely fling her wanton behavior in the cellar to remind her that he tempted her. Shaking her head, she added, “It’s not my place to judge Mina’s behavior—although had it been a brother in the stall with a kitchen maid, I doubt we would be having this conversation.”
Heath opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand, stalling him. “Your sister is bored, lonely.” Her mind searched for the apt word. Arriving at it, she exclaimed with relish,
“Oppressed.”
“Oppressed?” His eyes flared wide, an unholy light gleaming at the center of his pupils.
Portia nodded. Who better than she understood such feelings, after all? She had felt oppressed ever since her grandmother pushed her through her first Season at the tender age of seventeen.
“I’m the great oppressor, I take it?” he demanded.
“Who else?”
“So you’re saying my sister will likely continue on this ruinous path until I give in and grant her a Season?” His jaw tensed, muscles knotting beneath the taut skin.
Her fingers twitched, itching at her sides to reach out and smooth the flesh into evenness. She laced her fingers together in front of her, locking her hands lest they betray her.
“All I’m saying is that you need to talk to your sister. Don’t bark commands. Don’t issue edicts.
Come to an understanding. She has to be allowed to pursue her desires to some degree or else her life is no better than a slave’s.”