“Who?” he asked.
A lover? He hoped not.
“My brother.” Her countenance became troubled. “His mother led me to believe he was perhaps working at your establishment.”
That gave him pause. “A brother of yours?”
Seemed deuced unlikely.
She sniffed, reminding him she had been doing her utmost to suppress her tears. “A half brother, in truth. Avery is illegitimate.”
Ah.Suddenly, he understood her reticence.
Wolf released her cheek before reaching into his coat to extract a handkerchief, offering it to her. “Take this, love.”
She accepted the square of linen, biting her lower lip. “Thank you.”
Portia dabbed at her eyes and cheeks.
“Was it the bastard brother who did this to you?” he asked, thinking that when he found this Avery, whomever he was, Wolf was going to show him why striking a defenseless lady was a bleeding bad idea.
“No,” she said quietly. “I haven’t found Avery. My intentions yesterday were…well, I was led astray.”
Aye, he well recalled how led astray they’d both been. The seductive wet heat of her on his fingers would haunt him until his last breath.
“And then someone discovered where you had gone and what you had done and took out his anger on you?” he guessed, wishing he knew why she was so determined to protect her abuser.
Her fingers tightened on the handkerchief as she extended it toward him. “Thank you, Mr. Sutton.”
Bloody hell, he was in her chamber. He had stroked her quim the day before. He was not a bloody stranger.
“Wolf,” he corrected, “and keep the handkerchief.”
He fancied the notion of her having something of his, he would not lie. But he would be damned if he would admit that aloud. His response to this woman—the way she made him feel—was unprecedented.
“Thank you,” she said. “But you should go. You have tarried here long enough, and with each moment you remain, the risk of discovery heightens.”
She was fearful in her own household. Distrustful of her servants. Someone held a great deal of power over the Countess of Blakewell, and since the earl was dead, it had to be someone else close enough to want to control her.
“Your father?” he guessed.
Because while a patriarch was meant to protect and care for his family, no one knew better than Wolf what an utter louse a father could be. His own had been lower than low.
“My father is dead.”
As was his. No one was sad about it.
“An uncle, then? Another brother?” he continued to guess.
Her response—parted lips, a sudden pallor in her otherwise healthy complexion—told him everything he needed to know.
“Wolf,” she protested.
If she refused to tell him, he would find out in his own way. He had men in his employ and money in his purse. He’d discover who it was she feared, and he’d do everything in his power to make certain the bastard could never hurt her again.
He studied her. “You needn’t answer. I can tell I’m not far from the mark. When can I see you again?”
Her countenance was stricken. “You cannot. I should never have… What happened between us must not happen again. I have a son, whose needs I must place before my own.”
Fair enough. He would never presume to come between a mother and her child. But what if whomever it was who had struck her decided to take out his wrath on the lad? Part of him knew this was not his battle to wage. That what happened to Portia and her son was none of his concern. Yet, he could not simply forget he had ever met her.
“But what are your needs?” he asked, reminded once more that they were alone, in her chamber, and she was clad in nothing more than that temptingly prim dressing gown and likely an equally proper night rail beneath.
The prospect of peeling her out of both should not have been so appealing.
Especially not when romantic entanglements would not serve either of them well. He did not need a woman in his bed; he never had. And she did not need more trouble, as she had rightly perceived he could bring her.
And still…
Still, he could not simply walk away from her.
Instead, he waited in the intimate shadows of her chamber, surrounded by her scent, and awaited her answer.
* * *
Needs.
He wanted to know her needs.
Tell him you have none. Demand that he leave. Go to sleep.
Yes, that was what she should do. She should tell Wolf Sutton to leave her alone. Make him promise to never again seek her out. But she had been doing what she should ever since she had found herself unwed and carrying the child of a man she’d wrongly believed had loved her. To protect her son, she had married a man thirty years her senior. She had become the Countess of Blakewell. She had lived a life above reproach. Nary a hint of scandal or passion. She had spent all these years doing what she should rather than what she wanted. Had tamped down her every need. Ignored the part of her that longed for something more.
For what she had felt yesterday and then again earlier today in this man’s arms.
It was dangerous.
Reckless.
Foolish.