She shook off her languor and looked up at him. “That doesn’t mean you should see me again.”
“Oh, come, Portia. You can’t pretend any longer. I’ve seen into your heart and soul, and I know what you want.”
She smiled. That wicked, teasing smile he knew was for him and him alone. She reached up and with her fingertip traced his left eyebrow and then the right. Then she ran it down the center of his nose, over his top lip, and finally pressing it to his mouth.
“You’re a dangerous man, Marcus,” she murmured.
His expression turned fierce. “I love the sound of my name in your mouth.” He felt his body stirring, wanting her again, but she stood up, shaking her head and reaching for her wretched petticoats. She began to wriggle back into them, a crease between her brows.
“This is madness. Marcus, you know it as well as I. We can’t see each other again. We must end it now.”
“Not if we’re not found out, and we won’t be.”
She stared at him in silence, and it was as if he could read her thoughts in her face. She wanted him, and she felt as if drawn into something she knew was dangerous, and yet she couldn’t seem to resist. But she was trying.
“Marcus, we can’t continue to do this. We will be found out.”
Exactly, and the chance of discovery only increased the sexual tension between them. But he didn’t tell her that.
“Meet me again, Portia. Do I have to beg?”
She was straightening her skirts, bending to smooth the creases, and she turned and looked up at him, her face pale and beautiful, glowing from their lovemaking. Marcus was filled with a burning determination to have her. He had to have her. Whatever the cost.
“We can go outside London, if you wish,” he went on levelly, convincingly. “Somewhere no one knows you.”
Portia gave a shaky laugh. “Marcus, I doubt there is such a place.”
“We can stroll along the seaside. Take off our shoes and stockings and run in the sand or splash in the waves. We’ll pretend to be there for a holiday. I’ll be a…a clerk…”
“I’ve never seen a clerk who looks like you.”
“…and you’ll be a draper’s assistant. No, wait, an expert petticoat seller!”
She laughed, even as she shook her head.
“We can pretend that this is our first time away together, and that normally we live in a little house in Deptford, with your parents, but they hate me because they don’t consider me good enough for their only daughter…”
The story grew, becoming more and more preposterous—he even knew how many dogs and cats they owned—but as he spoke, embellishing and elaborating, he could see the longing in her eyes. Even so, she continued to fight him—and herself.
“Marcus, I don’t—”
“You do, Portia. We both do. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Why not?”
“Why not?” she mocked, and walked past him to the door.
Outside, in the Campaign Room, Portia tidied her hair before the mirror, checking her appearance from all angles while Marcus watched her in silence. He had said all he could. Now, the decision was hers. Was that one of the reasons why she attracted him? Because she was not easily seduced by his justly famous tongue?
“You promise me that no one will recognize me in this seaside paradise?” Her shoulders were unnaturally tense, her gaze fixed on his in the mirror. “I cannot afford a scandal.”
“I promise.”
She took a breath, then nodded brusquely, almost as if agreeing against her will. Perhaps she was. Perhaps it was a case of her desires overruling her brain—he knew all about that phenomenon.
But he didn’t let her see his sense of victory. He might have triumphed over her scruples, but he had yet to win the war. Still, it was quite something to have corrupted the Widow of the Nation’s Hero, the angel in widow’s weeds.
Except his Portia was far from being an angel.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” he said lazily. “Don’t worry.”