Dobson caught his arm, steadying him. “When you’re sober,” he said dryly. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“I knew she’d want to see me again,” Marcus announced with certainty as Dobson helped him to the door. “Women always do.”
How could he have doubted himself, even for a moment? With her veil and her mystery, he’d forgotten she was just a woman, and he had always had complete confidence when it came to his domination over the fair sex. With relief he put the strange feelings he’d been experiencing to the back of his mind.
And began to look forward to another assignation with his goddess.
Chapter 4
Portia felt her hands trembling. She clasped them, tightly, until they stopped. There was no need to be anxious. This was her decision and she was in complete control of the situation. It was she who had requested another evening with Marcus…and he had agreed to her terms.
She stood up, the scarlet silk rustling. Marcus had asked, in his acceptance of her offer, that she wear the same dress. She had been flattered by his request. Besides, it made it
all somehow pleasantly unreal, as if they were stepping outside real life and into their own private fantasy.
Now her body was trembling; little shivers. What was wrong with her? But she knew. Marcus Worthorne, he was what was wrong. He had made her his in a way she had neither expected nor wanted. She craved his touch as an opium addict craved the pipe. Her fresh looks had faded and she’d become pale and hollow-eyed. She wanted him with such an intensity she was afraid he would hear it in her voice, even if he could not see it in her face behind the veil.
You’re being ridiculous.
He was a man, nothing but a man. She sat down to dinner with people from all over the Empire; princes and princesses, sultans and sultanas, archdukes and their duchesses. She had conversed with prime ministers and exchanged opinions with famous poets and writers and composers. What was Marcus Worthorne in comparison to them?
Portia closed her eyes and took a deep breath and then another. That was better. She felt calmer now. She felt like Lady Ellerslie. After a moment she found herself drifting, her thoughts slipping back into the past, and she allowed it to happen.
A long avenue of trees threw speckled shade onto the surface of the lane. She glanced along it, half afraid she’d missed him already. She had purposely awoken early to take her morning walk when she knew he would be out riding. But what if this morning he had ridden earlier still? Or what if he wasn’t riding at all?
She breathed deeply, telling herself she was being ridiculous. Of course she hadn’t missed him, and if she had…there was always tomorrow.
She heard the beat of hooves before she saw the animal approaching. A big bay horse, and atop it sat Marcus Worthorne, his dark hair tussled from the wind. The boy for whom she had been heartsore all summer. Her heartbeat quickened, her palms grew damp. What would she say when he spoke to her? Would he have that twinkle in his eyes, as if he found her infinitely fascinating—or a bit of a joke?
But to her consternation he was lost in his own thoughts, and didn’t see her until he was almost upon her. He cursed and drew up his mount. “What are you about, girl?” he demanded, glowering down at her. His handsome face was tanned from the long summer, and she could see the vee of his throat because his shirt was unbuttoned and he wore no neckcloth.
If she had meant to dazzle him with her wit, this was the moment to do it, but her voice seemed to have dried up. She found herself staring at him like a child the sun.
His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, though more gold than green or brown. “Do I know you?” he asked, his arrogance tinged with amusement. His mouth twitched.
To her surprise, she could speak after all. “I am the Reverend Stroud’s daughter, sir.”
He gave her a slow grin, as if her identity was a matter of amusement to him. “The vicar’s daughter,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” Did he know how avidly she watched him in church, her gaze caressing his profile while her father read his sermon? Her immortal soul was probably in jeopardy because of him, and he didn’t even know who she was. It was a humbling realization.
“And what are you doing out here so early in the morning?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have thought there were many needy families down this way.”
“I am walking for my own benefit, sir.”
“Ah, a healthy body means a healthy soul.”
“Just so, sir.”
He was laughing at her, she could see it in his eyes, but suddenly he sobered. “I’ve just recalled…there is something a mile or two down this lane. A Gypsy camp. Take care, Miss Stroud. Those fellows are rascals.”
He was concerned for her. Portia glowed. “Th-Thank you, sir.”
He paused a moment more, holding his restless horse, and she thought he was the handsomest boy she had ever seen. But he had already lost interest in her, she could see it in his face as his gaze shifted to the farther end of the lane. “Good morning, Miss Stroud.”
“Good morning, sir. Perhaps I will see you in church?”
He nodded at her, briefly, noncommittally, and with a kick of his heels he and his big bay horse were off.