“When I first saw you at Aphrodite’s Club you were so at home there, so obviously a man of the town. I could not imagine you in any other setting.”
She was being honest, and her opinion did not come as a surprise—he had known all along what she imagined him to be—but it was an opinion he was determined to change.
“I am a man who enjoys the good things of life,” he said softly, “it is true, but I could not spend all my days and nights with nothing to do but live such an existence. I thought I could, but I know now I am not a man to be idle for long. I am looking for a challenge, and I think I have found it here.”
“And women?” She spoke as if she was merely curious and did not care. “Will you be content with the village girls, or the…the vicar’s daughter?”
Something in her face, in her tone, struck a chord. For a moment he tried to puzzle out what she was telling him, but he could not. He reached out and cupped her face in the warmth of his palm. “Why would I want the vicar’s daughter when I have you?”
Her breath caught, but whatever she was about to say was never said. He’d realized how cold her flesh was and exclaimed, “You’re freezing!” Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his warm embrace.
He thought she’d protest and struggle, but instead she did the opposite. She burrowed into his chest, soft and yielding, her cold hands resting against his bare skin. “Oh Marcus,” she sighed, her breath tickling his throat, “you don’t want me. What use am I to you? You’d be better off with the vicar’s daughter, or at least someone who will not bring you infamy and trouble.”
Her unexpected response surprised him. “Portia? What is it? Tell me.”
He was certain he felt her lips press against his skin. But the sensation was brief, and the next moment she’d pulled away, leaning back in his arms, her gaze fixed on his. “You seem to have found your life here, Marcus, but mine is in London.”
“You’re being suffocated,” he said, angry, annoyed by her refusal to see what was in front of her. “I can’t believe you want to continue to live like that, under Arnold’s watchful eye.”
“Whether I want to or not is not the point. I will have to go back. I will have to face the consequences of what I’ve done. There is Arnold and Lara to deal with, remember? I can hardly leave them in my home as if they are entitled to it and all my belongings. And there are people there who depend upon me and the decisions I make. Even if it means returning to disgrace, I will have to go back and deal with all of that and…and explain myself to the queen.”
It was courageous of her, and he could see why she needed to return. Just not yet. And for God’s sake not alone! She was cutting him out of her life. He tried one more time, as the clinging fog closed in on them. “Then we can face them together. You don’t have to be alone, Portia.”
“But I am alone,” she reminded him quietly.
He took her arm again, and led her through the empty courtyard toward the front door of Duval Hall. “You forget. I kidnapped you.”
“No. I asked you to take me away. And that is what I intend to say when I return to London.”
She thought she could take the blame for his actions. Portia the martyr. He looked down at her and shook his head in disgust. “No. That will not happen. I forbid it.”
He was regarding her with that familiar look. Portia wished he wasn’t half naked. There he stood, feet apart, hands on his hips, his trousers clinging to him, while the skin of his chest gleamed with sweat and was streaked liberally with dirt.
She should have been appalled and disgusted. Any other woman in her position would have been. But she knew she must be different because she found him tempting almost beyond her ability to resist. A moment ago, when he’d held her in his arms, she’d kissed him. It had taken an immense strength of will to pull away and put some distance between them.
It was her own fault. When she and Hettie had climbed up the bell tower to see the view, she’d spied him working with some of his men down on the marsh. Bare to the waist, swinging a pic
k like a navvy. Not like the sort of gentlemen she was used to at all.
The sight had made her heart begin to race wildly.
She’d heard of grand ladies who preferred to share their charms with servants and the common men of the streets, but she’d never thought she might be one of them. Or was it just Marcus who stirred her blood? He alone who made her legs turn to jelly?
His eyes, more gold than hazel, were warm and amused and staring into hers, seemingly reading her thoughts. “Portia, my love, you are my prisoner now. I may never let you go back to London.”
Oh Lord. She should be furious with his arrogance. It was the sort of thing Arnold might have said. But it was different when Marcus said it, and her senses had never spiraled out of control when she was confronting Arnold Gillingham. If she was a lesser woman, she would have given in right now, handing herself over as his hostage, but Portia knew that would not be fair to her, or to him.
He had spoken to her of his dreams in a manner that touched her heart, but he could not see that if he wanted to fulfill those dreams, he could not be saddled with her. Her disgrace, the scandal that would attach itself to them, would put a stop to any hopes he had of being well thought of here in Norfolk. People would look at him sideways and hurry on their way, and as for being elected to Parliament…it would not happen. He would end his days alone, ostracized and bitter.
He would hate her, and Portia could not bear that. Better to be parted now.
But she could see he had no intention of letting her go, and she would need time to persuade him it was the right thing to do. They needed to come to some sort of compromise.
“I will stay for a week.”
“A year.”
“A fortnight.”