She wetted her suddenly dry lips, deciding to change the subject. “What brings you here? Have you found Avery?”
Wolf’s jaw hardened, his displeasure at her avoidance apparent. But he continued to hold her as gently as before, as if she were fashioned of glass. “Nothing is certain yet, but I needed to see you again. To hold you again.”
His words made that last sliver of ice inside her melt.
But she told herself it was for naught. There was no future for herself and Wolf Sutton. Her brother would vanquish every chance she had for happiness. At least until Edwin was of age, and he was no longer subject to Granville’s tyrannical rule. But years would pass before then.
Sadness crept over Portia. “I cannot do this with you.”
“You cannot do what?” He raised a brow, cocking his head. “Stand here in the privacy of the Duchess of Montrose’s salon? I see no one else about. Even the butler has gone, obliging cove that he is.”
“Be with you,” she clarified. “I cannot be with you, for it makes me want what I can never have.”
“And why can’t you have it?”
He was full of questions, and so handsome he made her ache with all the repressed longing she possessed. But she had to be strong.
Portia shook her head. “Because it is impossible.”
“Plenty of things are impossible, Countess.” The hand he had pressed to the small of her back moved in a slow caress up and down her spine, the heat of him traveling through the layers of her gown and undergarments, searing her in the best possible fashion. “Flying is impossible, unless you’re a bloody bird. Swimming around the world is impossible, unless you’re a damned fish, and even then, it ain’t likely…”
She could not contain her smile. There was something about Wolf Sutton that was just so naturally charming. He was the sort of man she could fall in love with.
The realization was jarring.
“But I do not wish to fly,” she said softly. “Nor swim around the world. Heavens, I cannot swim at all, and I certainly have no wings.”
“Why is it impossible to be with me?” His fingers trailed over her jaw in the barest whisper of a touch. “You are here with me now.”
Yes, she was.
And being with him felt like a dream.
A dream from which she would have to wake, and go on living the grim, passionless existence that had been her life these many years.
“This is finite,” she explained grimly, reaching for his wrist and staying his hand when it touched her cheek. “It must end.”
His jaw tensed, his hazel eyes flashing with an emotion she could not define.
“For now, you are here.” His head dipped slightly, the parity in their heights rendering it easy for him to scarcely move and yet press his lips to her forehead in a sweetly unexpected kiss. “I am here. Let us think about the present rather than what happens when we part, aye?”
For a moment, she allowed her eyes to flutter closed. Permitted herself to imagine being with Wolf was not just fleeting but permanent. And savoring him, too. Savoring them. She liked who she was when she was with Wolf. Liked herself in a way she had not in longer than she could recall.
For so many years, Portia had buried herself in penance for her sins, marrying a man she did not love, being a faithful wife to him, maintaining a spotless reputation for the sake of her son. All so that she could shed the unwanted mantle of Lady Scandal she had received in her wild first Season. She had paid the price for her girlish longings, her impish curiosity, for trusting a gentleman who had proven himself not to be a gentleman at all. She had learned the most difficult lesson of all as a naïve lady who hadn’t an inkling that a man who would profess to love her had also issued those same words to half a dozen other ladies, all of whom he had ruined by various means as well…
“Portia?”
Her eyes jolted open at Wolf’s prod, and she fell into his hazel gaze. “Forgive me. My mind was drifting.”
“To unpleasant places?” he guessed grimly.
“To places that make me understand myself,” she answered honestly, and then wished she could retract the confession the moment it fled her.
For in her experience, vulnerability always heralded a betrayal. Whenever she had made herself weak to a man, he had exploited that weakness. Crushed her, heart and soul.
But Wolf was different. He was not like the other men in her life. The ones who had disappointed and hurt her. The men who hurt her still.
And he reminded her of just how different he was from them when he pressed his face to her neck and inhaled as if her scent were all he needed to fill his lungs. All he required.
“Have I told you I missed you?” he asked, his voice a deliciously low growl that teased her senses.
An ache began, the sort she knew could not be assuaged when they had only a few stolen moments in her friend’s formal salon. But she smiled at his words just the same.
“You have. But you may say it again if you like.”
“I missed you.” He rubbed his cheek against hers, the prickle of his whiskers sending more heat to pool between her thighs.
“I missed you, too,” she admitted at last, allowing herself to lower her defenses.
“You smell so fucking good.”
His crude language startled a laugh from her. “I do?”
Wolf kissed her ear, making her shiver. “You do.”
She suddenly became aware of his cock, thick and rigid, pressing against her lower belly. “Thank you.”
She sounded breathless, even to her own ears. Good heavens, what was she doing, embracing him like this in Hattie’s salon, where any moment her friend might walk through the door unannounced? It was the height of wanton disregard for propriety. And if Granville were to learn she had been paying a call to her friend at the same time as Wolf Sutton happened to also visit…
Another shudder went through her, uncontrollably.
Wolf must have sensed it, for he held her tighter. “Cold?” he asked.
“No.”
“Ah.” He kissed her ear again, his hand traveling up and down her back in that steady, reassuring caress. “No one shall know we were here together, love. Your friend the duchess is a square mort.”
A square mort.
How was it that even his odd turns of phrase, the lack of polish his accent sometimes possessed, made her heart sing?
“She is indeed a square mort,” she agreed. “Hattie is a true friend.”
And she was beyond grateful for Hattie’s steadfast nature, her willingness to overlook the oddity of Portia’s requests. To offer the use of her carriage and her salon without batting an eyelash.
“Her husband ain’t bad either,” Wolf said. “I always thought dukes were arrogant arseholes, but I’m learning there are some who ain’t.”
She had a feeling that from Wolf Sutton, it was high praise.