“Sorry,” he muttered beneath his breath, turning for a refill.
“I warned you, Heath.”
“Come to give an accounting of all my mistakes, Constance?”
“Unnecessary. You know where you erred.”
His lips hugged the edge of his glass as he racked his brain, trying to recall the precise moment he first erred in regard to Lady Portia. He laughed once, a short bark. It seemed he had misstepped from the start. He shook his head, marveling at his stupidity. He should have sent her packing the moment he learned her name.
“What are you going to do about her?”
Heath shrugged, downed his glass, and answered in matter-of-fact tones, “Marry her.”
Constance’s jaw dropped. “You jest.” Her eyes widened as she eyed Heath’s grim expression.
“You cannot mean to risk—”
“I’ll marry her, but I’ll not risk anything.” Heath’s voice vibrated with anger. The same anger he had felt upon discovering Portia, naked and ripe for him at the lodge. Never again would he take such a risk. Never again would he be that weak to succumb to the heaven he found in her arms.
To do that was a straight path to hell.
Constance gaped, the dark slashes of her brows raised high. “Oh, you’ve got to be the biggest fool I’ve ever met. You think you can marry her and not once touch her? I’ve seen the way you look at her. Even I recognize you have feelings for the girl.”
He shook his head fiercely. “On the contrary. I’m feeling quite indisposed to the chit. She’s a heartless, greedy little witch who has done nothing but lie to me since she arrived here. I’ll have no difficulty avoiding her bed. You’ll see. The curse will not carry on. Not through me at any rate.”
“Careful you don’t underestimate her. She’ll likely not accept the type of marriage you’re offering. Most women wouldn’t.”
“She’ll have no choice.”
Just then the door burst open and Mina rushed into the room, face flushed and eyes shooting sparks as she demanded, “What have you done to Portia?”
Ignoring that Mina had finally deigned to speak to him, he replied wryly, “Come crying to you, did she?”
“Of course not. She’s in her room packing.” Mina paused, as if to see if this statement impacted him in the least.
“Indeed?” he asked, wondering what game Portia was about now. Did she want a pretty proposal? Words of enduring love? Him on bended knee? Well, she would not have it. He would not be as big a fool as either one of his parents who cared only for each other—of loving and hurting each other.
“Her driver has already brought their coach around to the front.”
Heath poured himself another glass, doing his best to not let that bit of information rattle him.
She couldn’t mean to leave. Not when she had succeeded in getting the proposal she had set out to win.
“No doubt she expects me to stop her.” He waved his glass in a small circle, indifferent to the sloshing fluid that dribbled over his fingers. “Expects that I shall fling my body in front of the coach if need be.”
“No! I do!” Mina slapped a palm against her chest. “She expects nothing from you. From the moment she arrived, she never has, you bloody ass.”
“Mina!” Constance rebuked.
He scowled at his younger sister, unaccustomed to hearing such rough language from her.
Usually she wouldn’t dare. No doubt more evidence of Portia’s influence.
“You cannot really mean to let her go, Heath,” Mina insisted, voice full of entreaty.
“Good riddance,” Constance grumbled. “Let her leave.”
“Shut up!” Mina cried, voice shrill, hands shaking at her sides. She swung her gaze back on Heath. “You can’t let her leave. You can’t.” Her small fists knotted and Heath suspected she might take a swing at him. “She’s the only friend I’ve got.”
Heath turned, suddenly unable to bear the torment in his sister’s face. Another sin to lay at Portia’s door. Not only had she tied him in knots, she had quite thoroughly, completely, captured the heart of his sister. She had managed to leave her mark on all of them in a short time, and it annoyed the hell out of him.
As his sisters erupted into argument, he inched toward the window. The curtains were pulled back, permitting the faint morning light to trickle inside. His eyes landed on the waiting coach, Portia’s ill-kempt driver leaning against its side, a bored expression on his face.
What manner of ploy was this? She would not leave. Not after accomplishing what she set out to win. Him. Or rather his wealth.
Then he spotted her, watched the straight line of her back as she descended the stone steps. She stopped at the bottom, rigid as a tin soldier while she pulled on her gloves in quick, efficient movements. He stared overly long at those pale hands, remembering their elegance, their petal softness.
The driver pulled the door open. Her maid clambered in first. Portia moved to follow, then stopped. Slowly, she turned. Their gazes collided. She lifted her chin as if daring him to stop her.
He held his ground, careful not to reveal his bewilderment, careful to mask the silent question burning through his head.
Why are you leaving? What do you want from me?
He had agreed to wed her. Something he never imagined possible. And why did she wear that bloody wounded expression on her face? He inhaled deeply through his nose, but the air felt too thin, not nearly enough for his suddenly too tight lungs.
If she meant to go, he would not stop her, would not chase after her like some love-struck fool.
He had agreed to marry her, had made his offer. That was enough. All she could expect of him.
All he could give. He would not behave as his father—hotheaded and swept away with love to the exclusion of all sense.
He could not force her to accept his offer. He would feel no guilt, no regret.
Her gaze drilled into him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, her stance still rigid, soldierlike. Then she was gone. A blur of skirts ascending into the carriage.
He watched, the blood wringing from his heart until it ceased to beat. His gaze followed the coach as it clattered away, longing for another glimpse of her. His eyes scanned the dark curtain at her window, searching for the sight of hair the color of jet, skin like cream.
At last the carriage turned the bend. Out of sight. Out of his life. He scowled, vowing he would have her out of his mind just as easily. In no time at all, he would not even recall her name.
Portia stood in the dim foyer of her home and wrinkled her nose at the unsavory stench clogging the air.
“Finch!” her voice resounded in the emptiness, bouncing off walls of faded rose wallpaper and floating to mingle among the great canopy of cobwebs clinging to the domed ceiling. She squinted through the gloom at the cobwebs, marveling at how they had increased in her absence.
The shabbiness of her surroundings struck her full force. Especially since her stay at Moreton Hall, where everything gleamed and smelled of fresh lye, where light filled every room, where servants bustled about, busy making Moreton Hall spotless. A home.
Sighing, she tugged her bonnet free and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Several days in the coach, with only the most necessary stops, and her joints felt stiff as an old woman’s. A warm bath, edible food, a familiar bed—she’d feel restored in no time. Physically restored, at any rate.
Emotionally, might take a bit longer. Likely forever.
“Finch!” she called again, projecting her voice so that it reached the servants’ wing. The old butler never lurked far from the door. He was anything if not reliable. Loyalty alone had kept him from departing when the servants’ wages had diminished to naught.
“Where is the ol’ goat?” Nettie muttered.
Shaking her head, Portia dropped her reticule on the round marble-topped table in the center of the foyer, pausing when she caught sight—and smell—of the rotting flowers situated in the center. At least a week old, the flowers were no longer identifiable. Their fetid odor tainted the air and her nostrils quivered in revolt.
“I don’t know,” she answered, gazing at the brown, shrunken blooms, slow dread filling her heart.
“Suppose I’ll have to lug these to our rooms,” Nettie grumbled with a kick to Portia’s trunk.
“See to your luggage,” Portia replied, tearing her gaze from the decaying flowers. “I’ll have someone fetch my trunks up later.”
Without another word, she hurried up to the second floor, hoping to catch her grandmother at tea.
Her pulse thrummed frantically as her feet flew up the stairs, beating out a rhythm on the steps that matched the tempo of her heart.
That she did not come across at least one servant as she hurried to the drawing room heightened her unease. Where was everyone? The house seemed preternaturally still. Not a single sound save the whisper of her footsteps on the carpet and the anxious rasp of her breath.
“Grandmother?” she called, pushing open the partially closed door and stepping into the drawing room. An empty room stared back, dark and musty. The drapes sealed out all light and made her feel as though she had stepped inside a tomb. Turning, she headed for the salon, Astrid’s room of choice.
Upon entering, Portia did not find Astrid with her usual gaggle of Society matrons, duchesses like her mostly, all as cold and reticent as herself. Instead an altogether different breed of visitor occupied the room’s confines. A stranger. A Goliath of a man wearing an ill-fitting jacket.
They sat side by side in a double chair-back settee that looked dangerously close to collapse.
Portia glanced about the room, thinking to spy a maid tucked away in a corner, serving as chaperone. No such luck. Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze on the pair. True, Astrid did not rank among her favorite people, but Portia had never marked her the sort to cuckold Bertram.
She was a stickler for propriety.
The stranger withdrew his great paw from where it fondled one of Astrid’s curls. He moved slowly, the backs of his fingers skimming Astrid’s shoulder as though loathe to relinquish his hold.
Astrid rose hastily to her feet, her muslin skirts rustling softly on the air. Her guest followed, unfolding his monstrous frame from the settee, an expression of mild annoyance on his blunt features. The walnut wood legs creaked in relief to be freed of his considerable burden. At least Astrid had the grace to look discomposed, flushing as she patted her honey blond curl, as though she needed to make certain it still hung there and he had not taken it with him.
“Portia,” she greeted, a tight smile fixed to her face. As if nothing untoward occurred. Yet her voice gave her away. Usually modulated and dulcet in tone, it shook the barest amount. “I did not expect you home so soon. How was your trip?”
“Uneventful,” she murmured, managing not to choke on the colossal lie. Uneventful. The single word said enough, would serve to answer the question burning in Astrid’s eyes. No, she had not nabbed the wealthy groom she had been sent forth to snare.
Astrid’s slight shoulders sagged a bit, but she soon recovered and straightened her spine.
“Forgive my manners, Mr. Oliver. Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Lady Portia.”
Mr. Oliver’s gaze shifted to Portia. He assessed her from head to foot, coal dark eyes shining with a feral gleam. She felt instantly wary, like a hare caught in the hound’s sight. He stepped forward and bowed over her hand.
“Delighted,” he murmured, eyes trained on her face.
Her wariness intensified. She was no beauty to produce such an immediate reaction in men. Only one man had ever treated her as though she were anything beyond the par. The same man, she quickly reminded herself, that had so devastated her heart. Reclaiming her hand, she inclined her head in stiff greeting.
“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, swinging his avid gaze to Astrid. “It escaped my attention that your husband possessed a sister. And such a lovely one.”
Portia drew a shuddering breath. Possessed. He said the word as if she were just that—a possession.
Astrid gave a slight shake of her elegantly coiffed head at him. A slight motion, almost imperceptible, but Portia noted the gesture.
“Thank you for calling, Mr. Oliver,” Astrid said, all ice and vinegar again. The duchess Portia knew well. “I shall send word if I hear anything.”
A nasty smile twisted his lips. For a moment, she had a glimpse of a man with whom she had no wish to tangle.
“You’ll be seeing me soon, Your Grace.” He turned to Portia. “A plea sure, my lady.” With another clumsily executed bow, he murmured, “I’ll show myself out.”
Portia waited for the door to shut before rounding on her sister-in-law. With a hand propped on her hip, she asked flatly, “Who, precisely, is he?”
Astrid smiled heartlessly. “Always the blunt one. No wonder you can’t catch a husband.
Gentlemen don’t care for such straightforwardness.”
Portia expelled a heavy sigh. When Astrid had first joined the family, Portia felt the sting of her words daily. She had even retaliated in kind. Yet that was then. Unable to summon forth a scathing retort, she only felt a bone-deep weariness.
Her sister-in-law eased herself onto the chaise with a natural elegance that Portia had always envied. She watched as Astrid carefully positioned the pillows at her back. Finally she looked up, saying with the mildness of one remarking on the weather, “Your brother has left.”
“Left?” Portia felt herself frown. “Left for where? When will he be back?”
“Perhaps I am not being clear.” Smoothing both hands over her striped muslin skirts, she straightened her spine. “He has left us.” Another pause. “Abandoned us, to be accurate.”
Portia sank onto the chaise, mouth working in bewilderment before she choked, “How can that be?”
Astrid looked out the window. “He absconded with the jewelry. Mine, your grandmother’s, even the little he found in your room. He should be well out of the country by now.”
Portia shook her head. It didn’t make sense. True, they were well in the dun, but why would Bertram wish to leave all the privileges of his rank for life abroad? Here, at least, he had a roof over his head. Creditors here couldn’t lay claim to their property and would grant him much more latitude than those on foreign soil.