“I am your sister,” she said, needing to hear him acknowledge their connection. Needing to be certain.
Why, she could not say. She had all the proof she needed in his presence here, the bend in his nose, his emerald eyes. His voice. It was the same, only lower. And his face was the same as she recalled, only he had grown into a man when the last time she had seen him, he had been very much a boy.
What had happened to that boy in the intervening years, to cause him to become so cold and jaded, so cynical?
“You would be wise not to claim me,” he said, rather than denying her words.
And she knew for certain in her heart.
This was Avery before her.
“You are my brother,” she said fervently.
The brother she had been searching for. The only brother who had loved her. Protected her. And the brother she loved in return. It did not matter what he had done, who he had become. She knew that now.
“Half brother,” he countered coolly. “A bastard best cast to the wolves.”
Cast to the wolves. Half brother.
He had acknowledged it, at least. Still, she knew little relief. For his response was leaving her with more questions than answers.
“What happened to you, Avery?” she whispered. “Where did you go?”
“Archer,” he said again. “That is my name. It is who I am now.”
“Archer,” she agreed reluctantly, and only for his sake. “You disappeared.”
“I was taken away, but it is immaterial now,” he said shortly. “What happened occurred many years ago, and it is in the past, where it belongs.”
“Taken away,” she repeated, struggling to understand. “By whom? Your mother?”
“By yours,” he snapped. “But never fear, the bitch who sired me was eager to be of service. Essentially, she sold me. The countess paid her a price, and she accepted, and I was taken away.”
Mother.
Portia closed her eyes, reeling at the revelation. She should have known, of course. Her mother had never been kind to Avery. Indeed, she had made no effort to hide her resentment. Still, Portia had never supposed her mother had been behind the abrupt disappearance of her half brother. After all these years, learning it had been her mother and not her father or Mrs. Courteney as Portia had supposed came as a shock.
She opened her eyes again, needing to reassure herself that Avery was indeed in her sitting room. Standing before her after so long. “Where? Where did they take you?”
“No, my lady.” Her half brother shook his head. “You ain’t the one asking the questions here. I am. So tell me, who has been raising his fists to you?”
Portia felt the blood leach from her face. “No one.”
A muscle twitched in her brother’s jaw, an indication of how tightly he held himself. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve come here for one reason, and that’s to discover who dared to hurt you.”
Wolf had told him.
Disappointment, hurt, shame, and fear collided.
“I do not know what you are implying,” she lied.
Because lying was easier than admitting what she allowed—what she had no choice but to allow. It gave her control of a situation over which she had none.
“It was him,” her brother said, lip curling in a sneer.
And he did not need to elaborate or offer a name. They both knew who her brother was speaking of.
Granville.
Portia did not want to cause any more problems for herself than Avery’s visit would already produce. She had no choice, after all, but to live beneath the marquess’s rule.
She took a deep breath. “I have no notion of what you are suggesting, but—”
“Stubble it,” he interrupted, a snarl. “Don’t lie to protect him.”
The rage emanating from Avery—Archer, as he would have her think of him now—was palpable. She stared, stricken.
“Where is Wolf?” she asked him instead of confessing as he had demanded. “Why have you come to me? Surely he must have told you the difficulties you are inviting for me by calling upon me.”
She was deflecting, it was true. But Portia had become quite adept at the art. Hiding her misery, prevaricating, distracting. Years of it.
“Wolf, is it?” Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Care to tell me how you’re so familiar with Sutton?”
“He is my friend.” Another lie. Wolf was far, far more. No mere word could capture him and what he was to her. “Not that it is any of your concern. You cannot reappear in my life after all these years and make demands of me.”
He shrugged. “If you don’t want to give me the answers I seek, I’ll go to Granville. Is that what you want?”
The ice in her heart returned. “No. Please. You must not go to him.”
Her brother’s countenance changed, perhaps at the vehemence in her voice, softening. “I’ve been waiting to ruin him, Portia,” he said, his tone gentling. “Tell me what power he has over you.”
The dam inside her broke.
“My son,” she admitted. “Blakewell named Granville as Edwin’s guardian in his will. Granville has threatened to take my son from me if I do not abide by his rules. I have no choice but to do as he wishes, and he has been very firm in his disapproval of me attempting to find you.”
“Christ,” he spat. “He must love the power that gives him.”