by Deb Marlowe
He reached out and quickly finished the job he’d started earlier, plucking and pulling until her habit was undone and falling to her waist. She wriggled her hips and it dropped, leaving her feet buried in a puddle of fabric and the rest of her clad only in her undergarments.
He made short work of them, too. In mere seconds, it seemed, she stood naked, unveiled before him. Candlelight flickered over her curves, shadows danced over her high, pink-tipped breasts. He let his gaze wander lower, over the thatch of her curls, darker than the honey-and-amber locks on her head.
She bit her lip and smiled at him, grabbing the waistband of his trousers. ‘Play fair, now,’ she admonished. Swiftly, her fingers moved over the buttoned placket and at last his erection spilled free, leaden with arousal.
She sighed in appreciation and touched him with delicately dancing fingertips. An erotic path she traced, over the top and down the length of him. He swelled impossibly high.
This, then, was why he’d spent so long denying them this. Her strokes grew firm; he grew—incredibly—harder and he knew that her touch had become a necessity, like air for his starving lungs.
Dio, yes. He wanted to breathe her in.
He kissed her again, open and intense. Excitement surged through him. He was going to learn her every curve, every contour, both inside and out, and he was going to start right here, exploring her mouth with abandon.
But soon enough, he needed more. Bending his knees, he lifted her and placed her on the bed.
She laughed. He caught his breath again at the sight of her hair in the dim light. A glorious welter, it slid over her shoulders and around her breasts. They called to him, teased him with the smallest glimpses of tightened nipples and darkened areolas as she moved.
He answered. He pursued her on the high bed, approaching with all seriousness until he loomed over her. And then he dipped his head and ran his tongue over a shyly peeking bud. The room shrank as he suckled, first one gorgeous breast, then the other, until nothing existed save for the caress of her hair, soft against his face, the little gasping sounds of her pleasure and the feel of his hot breath against her wet flesh.
At last she dug her fingers into his hair, lifting his face up to hers.
‘Come to me, Mateo. I’ve waited so long.’
No man could resist such a sweet summons. But incredibly, he hesitated. He had to be sure.
He pressed a kiss on her mouth, then turned over on to his back. A hairpin jabbed him and he fished it out, then threw it aside. He laid his head back against the pillows and his mouth quirked. Her fascinated gaze was locked on to his straining erection. Impressive already, even to his own eyes, it jumped a little, stretching impossibly under her regard. ‘Come and take what you want, Portia,’ he rasped.
She glanced at his face, puzzled, then her brow cleared. Her eyes widened. And she smiled.
She crawled up and over him, her eyes alight with excitement. Leaning down, she tantalised him with a long, hot kiss, and then she positioned herself, open and inviting, over him.
Already she dripped, hot and silky with need. She teased, touching down on just the very tip of him, and a groan travelled up and out of him.
Without any further warning, she sank down. And down and down.
God help him.
There were no words to describe the sensation. He was harder than iron and she was giving way before him, her inner passage clenching, then relaxing as she took him in.
Easy.
But she was hot and tight and he was greedy and nearly beside himself with pleasure. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t wait. In a flash he had her lifted off the bed, and then underneath him. And he did it without breaking their incredible, intimate contact. ‘All right?’ he asked, while he still had enough sense to comprehend her answer.
She moved, wiggled, adjusting. Her sex pulsed, coaxing him further, higher, longer. And then she nodded.
Thank God. Gripping her hips, he began to move. She met his thrusts with eagerness, hunger. He adjusted slightly, lifted his hips and settled into slow, rhythmic strokes.
‘Mmm,’ she said, and arched her back. Her fingernails carved little wounds into his shoulders. He had it right, then.
In the shifting light he saw her face sharpen with need. ‘More,’ she whispered.
Yes. His body echoed her. Almost against his own will he began to thrust faster. She tightened, pulling him even deeper.
‘Portia.’ It was a question. An order. A prayer.
‘Yes,’ she answered. Then she let out an exultant, strangled cry.
He was gone. Over. Lost in a tumult of surging, throbbing joy. Almost, it was too much. He hung, balanced on the knife’s edge between madness and bliss—and then came down hard on the side of bliss.
He could heartily recommend bliss.
Slowly, he returned to himself, happy to find Portia just as thoroughly boneless and content as he. Her head lolled. She gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile and a huge sigh. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard in his life.
He disengaged, rolled them into a comfortable position, and buried his face into the sweet curve of her neck.
‘There,’ he said into her damp flesh. ‘Try to forget that.’
Chapter Fourteen
Portia had worn her finest day gown, a lovely striped linen in varying shades of green and ivory, but she realised with sudden certainty that it was not near fine enough for an audience with the Countess of Lundwick.
She stood, staring like a country yokel at her surroundings, at the immense marble hall, at the collection of priceless curios and the grand, sweeping staircase. And this was just the entrance hall.
She was an Earl’s daughter herself, for goodness’ sake. She’d grown up on a large estate with a big, rambling, ancient house. She’d danced at balls, drank tea, listened to music and dreadful poetry at some of the most prominent houses in Town, but never had she witnessed such an ostentatious—but somehow also flawless—display of wealth.
A stiffly reserved butler handed them off to an only-slightly-less-rigid footman, who escorted them to a drawing room where they could await the Countess’s pleasure.
Dorrie entered first. She came to a dead halt just a step into the room. Portia crowded in behind her, and was forced to go around to make room for Mateo. She followed Dorrie’s gaze around the opulent room and her mouth dropped open.
‘It’s as if we’re inside a pastry,’ marvelled Dorrie.
‘Or a boudoir,’ Portia answered, taking in all of the laces and flounces and rich pastel fabrics.
She flushed. Perhaps, after last night, she just had boudoirs on her mind. And who could blame her? She glanced at Mateo, to gauge his reaction.
He said nothing. Loath, no doubt, to add to the meagre number of words he’d allotted to them this morning.
He met her gaze suddenly, and she was taken aback by the bleak shadow that crossed over his features. ‘Portia, I’d like a word with you, if you please.’
‘Of course.’
He held out his arm, an oddly formal gesture, and she took it, wondering where he meant for them to go. But he only crossed to the window at the far end of the room. They stood there a moment, while he gazed back at the decadent décor and out to the street below, anywhere but at her.
Her heart began to thrum in sudden panic. All of last night’s laughing charm had converted to pensive silence. Why?
Perhaps it was her—though she was a widow, her experience was not extensive…No. She cut loose that thought almost as soon as it blossomed. Last night had been wonderful—in his eyes, as well as hers. His tenderness had told her so, as had the joyous urgency of his touch.
Did he know something, then? Or suspect something about what they might learn today? Brow furrowed, she waited.
‘There’s something I should tell you, cara, though it’s not easy for me to say.’
She nodded.
‘God only knows how this will turn out today.’ Each word emerged reluctantly, like a tooth
that must be tugged out by the root. ‘But if something happens, and we are not able to save Stenbrooke, I won’t expect you to give up Cardea Shipping.’
She jerked back a pace. ‘Mateo, I—’
‘No. I didn’t bring this up for discussion. I’d rather not talk about it at all.’ He paused. She could practically see him gathering fortitude. ‘But I want you to know that I believe that all you’d need is a little coaching, and you’d do a good job with it. You’ve proved yourself several times over. You’ve a good head on your shoulders. More important than any of that, though, I want you to understand how much I value your kind and generous heart.’ He lifted an ironic brow. ‘You’ll acquire more Cardeas than you’ll know what to do with—all those uncles and cousins are still employed as agents and clerks and captains and mates.’ He faltered a little. ‘I know you would do your best for them and take care of them as if they were your own.’
He’d shocked her. Never had she been so taken aback, or so deeply, deeply touched. Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip. ‘No one has ever paid me a bigger compliment, Mateo.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Thank you.’
He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. Across the room, the door swung open again. Together they turned to face the future.
The Countess of Lundwick stood poised on the threshold, prettily framed.
In direct contrast to the room they occupied, she was clad in the sort of simple elegance that only an abundance of money could buy. It was a brilliant manoeuvre, and one that only enhanced the stunning perfection of her beauty. For a beauty she still definitely was, for all that she was old enough to be Portia’s mother.
She swept a beaming glance across the room, shining joy indiscriminately upon them all. Then her gaze settled on Mateo and she stilled.
‘Mr Cardea.’ She nearly floated across the room, her arms outstretched.
Portia bristled. The expression in the Countess’s eyes as she ran her gaze over Mateo could only be deemed hunger. The older woman clasped his face in her hands and kissed both of his cheeks.
Her irritation fled, turned to bemusement, really, when the Countess then turned immediately to her—and with the same avid interest. It was not a sensation Portia was used to—to be gazed upon with something that looked almost like…covetousness.
‘Lady Portia.’ Portia’s cheeks flamed as she found herself greeted in the same continental manner, and also subject to a soft caress over her brow and along the line of her jaw.
‘My darlings,’ the Countess breathed enthusiastically. She reached out a hand to them both. ‘I am so glad you’ve come to me at last.’
Portia shot a quick, baffled glance at Mateo. He looked just as dumbfounded as she felt.
‘Lady Lundwick.’ Mateo sketched a bow. ‘Clearly you know who we are. Might we also assume you know why we’ve come?’
‘But of course!’ The Countess turned a beguiling smile on him. ‘At least, I presume you are here to discuss Averardo, no?’
Portia stared. Her heart sounded suddenly loud in her ears. It gave her such a jolt of pleasure and relief—to have someone actually verify the man’s existence. She’d almost come to believe he was a myth.
The door swung open once more. She turned, almost expecting, in this day of surprises, to see the elusive Averardo himself. But it was a different entity altogether who rather absently entered the room.
‘Lundy!’ the Countess exclaimed brightly. ‘Just see who has come!’
‘Can’t! I’m off, my love!’ The Earl, for Portia assumed ‘Lundy’ to be the Earl of Lundwick, was the very image of a life lived hard and well. Wide, where he had once been broad and soft where he had once been firm, he still possessed a degree of handsome appeal. ‘I’ve just come for a proper goodbye, then I’m to Tatts for…’ He faltered as he took in the trio of visitors. ‘Well, now! Look at this. They’ve come at last, have they?’
‘Yes, they’ve only just arrived.’ The Countess crossed the room to greet her spouse with a fond kiss. Together they turned and smiled upon their bewildered guests. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’
Portia felt befuddled, as if she’d stepped into a waking dream. After all the trials, hardships, horses, carriages and questions, this elegant, affable couple was not what she’d been expecting to find here. She reached over to reclaim Mateo’s hand.
‘Very happy to have you all,’ boomed the Earl. ‘Sorry I can’t stay.’ He leaned down and kissed his wife once more. ‘Enjoy them, my dear, and I will see you tonight at the Ashfords’ ball?’
The Countess waved him off and opened the door wider as a maid came in, wheeling a cart spread with a lavish tea. ‘Now, my dears, we will have tea. You can introduce me to your friend…’ she indicated a wideeyed Dorrie ‘…and then, we shall talk.’
Torn between amusement, frustration and impatience, Mateo waited. He waited through tea and sandwiches and cakes, through awkward silence punctuated by stilted small talk, presided over by an inexplicably delighted Countess. And when their hostess at last set down her dish of tea, he leaned forwards.
‘Averardo, my lady?’
She laughed, an appealing little trill of good humour. Nearly everything about her was appealing, in fact. He could well understand the Earl of Lundwick’s choice, although if he recalled, there had been a buzz of scandal at the time, due to her age and her obscure background.
‘Yes, Mr Cardea. All in good time. First I would like to offer my condolences on the loss of your father.’
He blanched. ‘Thank you.’ He sharpened his gaze. ‘Did you know him?’
‘I did.’ Her bright countenance faded a little. ‘A very long time ago.’ She turned troubled eyes towards Portia. ‘And your father, as well, dear. His death was such a shock, being the first. It quite frightened me, I confess, for I am not in the habit of contemplating my own mortality.’
No one seemed able to conjure an appropriate response to that. After a moment she straightened. ‘Well, then. I know you must be anxious indeed to hear what I can tell you. But first, I would ask a favour. I want to hear something from you.’
‘What is there about us that could possibly interest you?’ Portia asked her. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I find myself quite at a loss here.’
The older woman gazed at her fondly. ‘I long to hear about your journey, dear.’ She sketched in the air with her hands. ‘How you got here from there.’ She smiled. ‘Though it is a loathsome prospect, I have been forced to acknowledge that I have reached a certain…maturity in my life. Though it’s a slight compensation, with age doe scome a little wisdom.’ She smiled. ‘I will share with you some of the most important lessons I have learned.’
Intent, she leaned forwards. ‘It is true that destinations are important. People need goals to achieve satisfaction. But more important than even achieving your goals is the journey—the path you take in pursuit of your ambitions.’ She glanced slyly at Mateo. ‘And most crucial of all? The people you travel with. Those are the things that make life worthwhile and reaching your objective palatable.’
Mateo stared at the woman. She sat, her head tilted in earnestness, her toe pointed, hair still dark and face still largely unlined. A fey, gorgeous creature. She radiated contentment, like a cat curled before a fire. He greatly resented being her plaything.
She glanced askance at him, with her wise, knowing eyes and sudden suspicion bloomed. A snap echoed in his head. His brain had just sorted the pieces of separate puzzles and realised they fitted together into a breathtaking whole. It seemed an impossible notion.
He returned her look, and then, quite deliberately, he decided to give her what she wanted.
‘I, for one, have experienced an incredible journey on my way to your drawing room, my lady. It started in anger—but ended in something else altogether. Along the way I’ve experienced frustration, exasperation—’ his eye fell on Portia ‘—but also laughter and admiration.’
‘Tell me,’ the Countess urged with a smile.
So he did.
He told her of Rankin and his disgruntled clerk, of Riggs and his wasted field, of Lord Dowland and his horses and his young family. But mostly, he spoke of Portia. He waxed enthusiastic over her passion and skill for landscaping, over her incredible knowledge, over her sensitivity and quiet strength. And when he was finished Portia sat with a reddened look of bashful joy, Dorrie gazed at him with a thoughtful, worried expression and the Countess—she watched him closer still, with undeniable cunning, but also extreme satisfaction.
‘Is that what you wished to hear?’ he asked her gently.
‘It is indeed.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘And so I shall tell you what you wish to hear.’
‘Averardo?’ asked Portia.
The Countess nodded. ‘That is one name by which he is known. There are others.’
‘Like Lorenzo and Cosimo? The names of the Medici?’
She laughed delightedly, but it was respect that shone in her eyes. ‘Very good, Mr Cardea. And why not? The Medici were self-made men—they worked and schemed their way into prominence. They made themselves great, but they also lifted others—men of art and science and architecture—into greatness.’
‘My home…’ Portia swallowed and Mateo winced at how difficult this was for her. ‘This man won my home, in a card game with my late husband.’ She glanced over at Mateo. ‘We wish to buy it back.’
‘I do not think he will take your money, Lady Portia,’ the Countess said gently. ‘But I also do not believe that he will take your home.’
Portia looked stunned. ‘But…but why?’ She swept an encompassing arm. ‘Why put me—all of us—through all this?’
The Countess regarded her kindly. ‘I cannot say. You will have to ask him that yourself.’
‘I’d be happy to do just that.’ Portia’s eyes flashed with anger and Mateo wondered if perhaps he should warn the Countess about the danger of underestimating her. ‘Do you know where we can find him?’
The older woman shrugged. ‘I do not know, precisely. He is a mysterious figure.’ She flicked her fingers. ‘He comes in, he goes out. One never knows when one will see him next.’
