Sutton's Scoundrel (The Sinful Suttons 5)

He noted tension in the manner in which she carried herself, her shoulders going stiff. “Because I didn’t. Believe it or not, I’ve better ways to occupy my time than following about ladies who appear at my gaming hell and then disappear with equal haste.”

Her gaze traveled about frantically. “You should not be here with me in this fashion, sir.”

Back to sir again, were they? Formality made him itchy, especially after his hand had been up her skirts.

“Am I not allowed to buy gloves and lace as well as the next cove?” he countered, taunting her when he knew it was unwise.

The lady was clearly disturbed that he had approached her in a space where anyone might see. However, his own cursory inspection of the department revealed a handful of shoppers examining the wares, presided over by a trio of shopkeepers who were seeing to their customers’ every whim. No one was paying any attention to Wolf and Portia at all.

His gaze jerked back to hers in time to watch her catch her lower lip between her teeth in a worried nibble. The action revealed her vulnerability, and despite his determination to remain impervious to the woman before him, Wolf knew a pang of regret that he was the one to have caused her discomfiture.

“You came here to buy lace?” she asked, uncertainty edging the sweetly melodic tones of her voice.

Aye, he didn’t exactly look like the sort of cull who went about buying lace, did he?

But then, he was not the sole gentleman patron within. Perhaps the others were purchasing trinkets for their mistresses and wives, or acting as reluctant duennas to their female relatives as he had been.

“No,” he answered truthfully, without offering his true reason.

He did not owe this woman an explanation for his presence. Indeed, he ought not to even be standing here with her, near enough to touch her. Lily was about somewhere, and his reason for venturing to Pall Mall was his sister, not Portia.

And yet, all he could think of was not his duty, but kissing the woman who had haunted him all night long. He could not do so, not in public. He may have been born in the rookeries, but he had manners. He knew what was expected of a gentleman, damn it.

“Then you have followed me.” Her voice was low, laden with accusation.

He had not sought her out to argue with her. Hell, he did not know precisely why he had sought her out, but the reason no longer seemed to matter as much as his need to get her somewhere more private. Somewhere they would not be attended by so many eyes and ears.

“I see you have found your wife, sir.”

Wolf turned to discover the same annoying, sharp-eyed cove who had greeted him at his entrance had followed him into the haberdashery department, apparently hungry to make certain any purchases Wolf made were attested to him.

The man’s irritating manner aside, Wolf found himself relieved the fellow had been so determined. “I have indeed,” he said, ignoring the glare of warning Portia aimed at him. “Is there, perchance, a private room where we might view the goods of my lady’s choosing?”

“Of course, sir,” the man said, eager to be of service. “If you will follow me?”

“We would be delighted.” He grinned unrepentantly at Portia, who looked as if she would like to sink a blade between his ribs, and caught her hand, placing it firmly in the crook of his elbow.

“Your wife,” Portia muttered. “What have you done?”

“Nothing yet,” he reassured her mildly.

But wait until I have you alone, my dear.

He did not say that, preferring to keep his plans to himself for now. And to think, merely one quarter hour before, he had been grimly seated in a carriage, awaiting Lily’s return, plagued by restlessness and the memories of the lady on his arm. How quick was the turn of fortune’s most fickle wheel.

The man led them to a small room which had been built into the perimeter of the haberdashery department. Within, there was a looking glass, a table, and accommodating chairs.

“Tell me, if you please, the items I may bring for your inspection,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Wolf told him. “The finest gloves you have, a pair in every color, if you please, and some of the lace as well.”

The man nodded. “Of course.”

With a bow, he discreetly took his leave of the room, closing the door at his back.

It had scarcely snapped closed when Portia released her grip on Wolf’s arm and whirled on him, eyes flashing with fire. “What are you about, sirrah? You have taken this game too far.”

Bringing her to a private alcove was not nearly as far as he wished to take things between them, and he was rather ashamed to make the realization. It went against every tenet, every guiding principle with which he had ruled his life since Lydia.

But never mind that now. He had Portia. Alone. The blasted fart sniffer aiding them would be at least five minutes before he returned with the gloves and the lace. Wolf would wager his life on it.

“This ain’t a game, love,” he said, reaching for her, his hands settling on her waist in a way that felt familiar and right.

He was careful to keep his grasp loose enough that she could disengage with ease if she so chose. She was nettled with him, and whether it was because she had not expected to see him at Bellingham and Co., or whether she truly believed he had somehow followed her here, or if his fib about being her husband had managed to send her into high dudgeon, he didn’t know. But he would sooner be dead than force his attentions upon a lady when they were unwelcomed.

Judging from their heated exchange before, they were very much the opposite. However, he was proceeding with care because Portia mattered to him. He swallowed a knot of some unfamiliar emotion at the unwanted acknowledgment.

“You are correct that it is not a game,” she told him, her hands settling over his.

However, she kept them there, gloves and civility separating them from bare skin and the sensual connection they had shared the day before.

“Tell me your name.” The demand fled his lips without thought, half plea.

Until this moment, he had not believed himself desperate to know who she was and how he might find her again. But he understood it now. This madness between them was deep and visceral. It went beyond lust. He was not prepared to examine the unspoken bond more fully, for fear of what he would discover.

“You already have it,” she said, her lips, pretty and pink and so bloody inviting, parting.

“Portia,” he agreed, his head dipping just so he could be nearer still, so he could inhale her scent, feel the heat of her breath wafting over his lips in the prelude to a kiss. More madness, he knew. He was queer in the attic. “But that ain’t enough. I need to know the rest.”

Her gaze searched his, a crease of worry forming between her brows. “You cannot.”

She was so deliciously tall. God, he loved that about her. He scarcely even had to bend his head, and he could claim her lips with his. And yet, he was hesitant, for he was not certain how he would be received.

“Why?” Instead of kissing her, he satisfied himself with allowing his right hand to roam from her waist until it was splayed on the small of her back, where the natural curve fitted to his touch. It required all the restraint he possessed to keep from hauling her against him, letting her feel the effect she had on him.

His prick was half-hard, and from nothing at all. Nay, not from nothing.

From her.

From the sight of her.