“And now you have turned against me, too. How could you? You used to be always telling me how much you distrusted him, how he would ruin me, how he was a selfish, self-centered rake with—”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Hettie interrupted blithely.
“But why?”
Hettie just looked secretive.
With a groan, Portia allowed Hettie to undress her, stripping her down to her chemise and drawers. Obediently, she climbed into the bed and rested her head back on the pillows. The scent of the flowers drifted across her.
“Where is my mother?” she remembered to ask.
“She has her own rooms, my lady. She seems happy enough. I don’t think she knows what is happening, not really, but she isn’t concerned. She has already told me twice that she likes Mr. Worthorne. He has wicked eyes, she says, and then she giggles like a girl.”
“Oh Lord,” Portia moaned, “not another one,” and turned on her side.
She heard voices and some hammering outside, on the other side of the house, and then birdsong. The light shone in dappled patterns through the velvet curtains. Soon her whirling thoughts began to settle. Marcus had kidnapped her, she reminded herself, and there was nothing she could do.
Her eyes flickered and closed and she gave a great sigh.
And slept.
Chapter 23
By the time Portia woke it was late afternoon. The house was quiet and there was a light spatter of rain against the small windowpanes. She stretched and climbed out of the big, soft bed. Her stockinged toes curling on the floor, she made her way to the window and drew the curtain aside to look out.
The world beyond was awash with water. The sodden marshes were ruffled by rain droplets, and the slate gray sky was glowering. It was a bleak prospect, and yet there was a glimmer of sunlight on the horizon, and a man in a narrow boat was slipping through the channel between the reeds. He threw out a fishing net to trail through the water, the smoke of his pipe hanging about him in a cloud.
It was all so peaceful.
She felt as if something inside her opened up and soaked it in. Gradually the rushing in her ears and the thumping in her chest and that faint nausea in her stomach began to disappear. London was far away. Even if she’d wanted to explain herself to the queen, she couldn’t. Marcus had taken matters out of her hands and out of her control. This was his home, and no matter what he said, in essence she was his prisoner.
She should be furious—she was furious! She wasn’t a woman who looked to be saved by anyone other than herself. But she was also strangely excited by the prospect of being Marcus Worthorne’s captive. He’d never hurt her. He was probably planning to make love to her, if she agreed to it.
Her skin warmed, tingled, at the thought of him touching her.
So much for it being over. Portia knew she wouldn’t be able to keep up that pretense for long. She wanted him as much as ever, and all the more for being starved of him for so many weeks. But she wouldn’t just roll over and let him take her. She would hold out as long as she could, for the sake of her pride.
She was still gazing out of the window when Mercy brought her a tray and asked her if she wished to come downstairs. “We dine early here in the country, but there is time for you to explore,” she explained. “Duval Hall is the sort of place you can live in for years and still find something you’ve never seen before.”
“Is Marcus here?”
“The young master is about, aye.”
The term they used for him had annoyed her before, but strangely, it now it made her smile. Portia stretched her arms above her head and yawned, apologizing with a grimace.
“You’re weary, my lady. Happens to city people when they come here. They don’t realize how weary they are until they stop.”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right. Things have been rather fraught lately.”
“You have a sip of tea while I find you something to wear. Later on you can have a nice long soak in a hot bath.”
It sounded heavenly. Portia’s eyes blurred and she wondered why she was being so emotional. “Thank you. Is there something to wear? I don’t have any luggage.”
“Master Roger had a trunk of clothing belonged to his wife. They’re very old-fashioned, my lady, but none of us here care about that. It’s what’s inside the clothing, here,” she touched her heart, “that’s important.”
Was there a hint in there? That appearances weren’t so very important at Duval Hall? In such a bleak, isolated place there would be no room for posturing and pretense.
The tea was hot and sweet, and she drank it down as she waited. The sound of a bell began to toll out across the marshes, but try as she might, she could see no church or tower.