“I can’t possibly think of such a thing until I have my affairs in order,” Portia said stubbornly.
“See?” Marcus gave his brother an exasperated glance. “This is what I have to contend with. The woman is impossible. And selfish. So used to getting her own way she doesn’t consider how she is breaking my heart.”
He was teasing, of course, but Portia wasn’t amused. “You are deliberately blind to anything that doesn’t fit in with your plans.”
“Very well. Let Seb take you to Worthorne Manor and we’ll be married there. Make it a huge affair, as if we have nothing whatsoever to hide. The Earl of Worthorne can give you away and we will invite everyone who is anyone. Let them come and see that we have nothing to hide.”
“If you had nothing to hide, you’d marry her in London, in St. James’s,” Sebastian said levelly, watching them with amusement.
“And risk a riot?” Marcus asked with mock horror. “The police would outnumber the guests. No, Worthorne is grand enough for the occasion. But I forgot, Portia has never seen it. You’re in for a treat, my love. My family home may be in need of a few repairs but it has everything from an ornamental lake to a baronial hall full of rusty weapons and moth-eaten stag heads.”
“Portia knows Worthorne Manor, Marcus.”
Marcus frowned. “She knows it? Have you visited the New Forest, my love?”
Portia’s heart sank. She had known the truth would out, but not like this. She should have told him long ago. Why oh why hadn’t she?
“Portia?”
Sebastian, realizing his mistake, said hastily, “I beg your pardon, I did not realize…”
“Is there a secret?” Marcus looked from one to the other of them. “Will someone please tell me?”
Portia set down her teacup. “Sebastian, I wonder if you would leave us alone for a few moments?”
Obediently, Sebastian rose quietly to his feet and left the room.
“We have met before,” she said, “you just don’t remember it.” She glanced at him across the table. He was watching her intently, a frown between his brows. “But perhaps you do, in a way. You have mentioned several times that I seem familiar.”
“Tell me,” he growled.
“My father was the vicar when you were a boy at Worthorne Manor.”
He stared at her hard. “You are the vicar’s daughter,” he said blankly.
“Yes, I am.”
He didn’t smile. She had grown so used to his smiles that his sternness was unsettling. Almost as if he was a stranger.
“You should have told me.”
“It was a long time ago, Marcus, really I didn’t think—”
“You did think. You think too much. That was why you didn’t tell me, wasn’t it? You had some idea that I would think less of you if I knew, or that I would use the knowledge against you.”
He was too intuitive. She tried to brush his words away. “Marcus, you don’t even remember me from then! What does it matter?”
“I do remember. You used to walk in the lane when I was riding there. I wondered sometimes whether you did it on purpose.”
Suddenly Portia could not bear it if he knew how much she’d loved him in her girlish way. That was why she hadn’t told him. She was embarrassed; she did not want to dredge up memories of the poor lovelorn parson’s daughter. She had put all that behind her.
“You should have told me,” he said again, and he didn’t sound like himself. This man was grim and serious, and when she looked into his eyes she saw nothing of her lover.
“You are making too much of this!”
“And you are making too little. If it was nothing, you would have told me long ago. But you didn’t. You hid it. And I am wondering why.”
Portia rose to her feet, the chair scraping on the floor, her teaspoon clattering against the saucer.