She still thought about the baby they’d made, when all these years he’d convinced himself she didn’t. How could he blame her for what she’d done as a sixteen year old girl in a desperate situation? His father had all but guaranteed she would carry that burden alone. There were women in her situation who died, and that knowledge chilled him to the marrow. She might have died, and a world without her would have been a barren place.
“My wife’s been gone more than a year, now. Nearly two.”
“We were sorry to hear that news, Portia and I.”
“I was a better man after I was married.” Marriage had agreed with him, that was true. Not a perfect union, but not a bad one either. He’d been happy in a calmer way. His wife had been a fine and admirable woman, and he had always hated himself for not loving her as she deserved.
“You’ll marry again.” Magnus nodded to himself. “You must. Unnatural if you don’t.”
“That’s so.” He did not have a son yet, and that must be remedied.
“Have you met anyone who will do?”
He shook his head, but Jesus, the lie of his denial spread ashes across his soul.
“Pity.”
“I don’t like Stewart.”
Magnus took another pull of his beer. “He writes verses. Did he tell you that? No? I expect that’s why Portia’s set herself on marrying him. The poetry did her in, that’s what I think. Lord knows she’s never paid any attention to other men, and they’ve come calling. I know you don’t see her like that, but there’s a good many men who’ve wanted to marry her.”
He did not move for fear of Magnus seeing more than he ought, but then he wondered if that wasn’t a worse way to lie to his best friend than if he plastered on a disbelieving grin. “Is that so?”
“He’s not bad, you know. Stewart.”
Crispin snorted.
“As a poet.” Magnus slunk lower on his chair. “Goes on about cliffs and bluebells flashing with dew. But there’s one about a stag I like. Noble antlers and beams of sunrise.”
“He’s an architect, I thought.”
Magnus reached over and tapped the underside of the sketches on Crispin’s lap hard enough to make the paper jump. “Only one of his occupations puts money in his pocket.”
He slumped on his chair. A poet? The man was a damned poet? “God save us from poets.”
“The Lord will strike you dead for that.” Magnus grinned and the lines of his face deepened, and it seemed to Crispin there were more now than there had been the last time he’d seen Magnus. “Might take fifty years, though.”
He picked up Magnus’s portrait of Portia, and something tugged at him as he studied the smiling woman on the page. She was unhappy now, and she did not deserve to be. Not then, and not now. He glanced at Magnus.
The words that came to his lips felt odd and foreign and right. They shook loose from wherever they’d been lodged and flew into the air. “I want to marry Portia.”
Magnus choked on his laughter.
He waited until there was silence again and then said, “I will marry Portia.”
A furrow appeared in Magnus’s forehead. “You mean that.”
“With your permission. Of course.” He wanted this. He did. No more deception.
Magnus looked at him with his artist’s eye, seeing what was there. And what was not. “What makes you say a thing like that?”
He worked through what Magnus had said and the careful way he’d said it and he felt as sick at heart and just as defiant as he had been when he’d said the words to his father. “You won’t agree to my marrying her?”
“You’re like a brother to me. You know that.”
He pushed out of his slouch. He was…affronted. Magnus owed him this. He bloody owed Portia the life she ought to have had. “I feel the same. But that doesn’t make Portia my sister.”
All trace of Magnus’s usual good humor vanished. He leaned forward and set his cigar against the ashtray. “No one could ask for a better friend than you.”
He sat up the rest of the way. Magnus was telling him no? The insult pricked him. Dented his pride. More, though, it scared the hell out of him. “Why not?”
“Is it wise?”
“Yes, damn it, it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Magnus shook his head.
The urge to spear him with a look of blue-blooded incredulity was impossible to resist. “I’d be a better husband to her than that doughty old poet she’s going to marry so you and Eleanor can make a life together.”
Magnus’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what she told you?”
“Not in so many words, but it’s true. If she marries me, she’ll want for nothing, you know that. I should think you’d be pushing her my way. Most brothers with unmarried sisters do.”
It was Magnus’s turn to be insulted. “I’d never. You know that.”
“Yes. I do know that. Maybe you should have.”
“You and Portia?”
“Why not? Why the bloody hell not, I should like to know?”
“If she’ll have you.” He rested a hand on Crispin’s shoulder. “If she’ll have you, you’d have my blessing.”
“If she’ll have me?” The bottom dropped from his stomach. If Magnus didn’t think Portia would marry him, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe he’d never change her mind. “Why do you think she wouldn’t if I asked her?”
“I shouldn’t say this, but I think she used to be in love with you. After you left, the joy went out of her.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I’ve watched her here, the two of you, and to be honest, whatever there was between you, one-sided as it was, it’s long dead. I don’t think you’re what she needs. Not any more.”
Chapter Thirteen
Four days later
HE DIDN’T LIKE THE SILENCE at all. In all the times he’d been at Doyle’s Grange, the house had never been this quiet, not when Portia was here. Jesus, what if he was too late? What if while he’d been giving her time, Portia had convinced that ridiculous poet to take her to Gretna Green?
Hob came into the entryway and bowed his head. He wasn’t wearing his livery. “Milord.” He straightened. “Didn’t expect to see thee here.”
Out of pure habit, he took off his hat, but rather than hand it over to Hob, he hung it from one of the pegs above the doorway that led to the servants’ quarters. “Where is everyone?”
“Gone. Or out.”
“I see. Who is out and who is gone?”
“Mr. Stewart. Mrs. Stewart. They’ve gone.”
“And Portia?”
“Out.”
“With the Stewarts?”
“With the tree.”
“Thank you. I’ll just go see her then. I’ll announce myself.”
“Milord.”
He left his hat on the peg and walked outside to the back of the house. She was sitting on the ground by the rowan tree, industriously doing something to the earth around the trunk. Her hands stilled when he had yet another five paces to cover.
“She’ll dig them up next spring, but I don’t care.” With both hands, she tamped down the dirt around the rowan sapling. “I’ve planted a hundred of them here, and next spring they’ll come up, and I’ll be the only one who knows it’s my name they’re saying.”
“The crocuses?”
She swiped a hand across her forehead and twisted a bit to look at him. There was a smear of dirt just at the part of her hair. “Yes. Why are you here?”
“Where is Mr. Stewart?”
Her hands fell to her lap. “I sent him away.”
“Did you?” He held out his hand, and she put her gloved hand in his and stood.
She glanced away, then back. “He’s a decent man, but you’re right. He doesn’t deserve a wife who will never love him.”
He pulled her close and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Don’t be unhappy. You know I can’t bear it.”
His bare hand against her warm skin, a touch so light he hardly felt it, except he did. He re
membered his mouth over hers and the dizzying wonder of finding her in his embrace again. This contact plunged through his body in the same way. He continued downward, caressing along her jaw, her throat. “I’ve done nothing but think about you since I left. Every second since I arrived. Before Wordless. After Wordless.”
“I as well.”
“Every bloody moment of the last ten years and, God willing, every moment of the rest of my life.” He brought out his handkerchief and cleaned away the dirt on her forehead.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He removed her thick gardening gloves one at a time, and shoved them into his coat pocket. “Please. Hear me out. You’re right, too. All along you’ve been right. We can’t change the past, but we don’t need to. Everything we need to know about each other we discovered that day at Wordless. If you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you again.”
“Prove what?”
“That we are still in love. Despite what happened. Because of what happened. Will you let me show you?”
She tugged on her hand, and he tightened his fingers. “Here?”
“In private, if you don’t mind.” Her hand clasped in his, he dashed across the lawn to the back door. Inside, they caught their breath, and then headed upstairs, an urgent journey to his room.
Northword closed the door to his room as softly as he could. His fingers were tight around Portia’s hand, and he didn’t let go even after he turned the key in the lock. Arm straight down, he interlaced his fingers with hers. The palm of his other hand slapped on the wall above her shoulder, taking his weight while he leaned in and kissed her.
Eventually, they left off the frantic kissing and set themselves to an equally frantic removal of each other’s clothes. It took some time to remove the layers, to untie knots and unfasten buttons. But they were still young and healthy and far, far wiser about such things than they’d once been.
When she stood in just her shift, he touched her gently, from cheek, to throat, to her collar bone. Her breath hitched when his fingers reached the top swell of her breast. “You see?” he murmured. “That’s not changed. The way I react to you. Or you to me.”
His palm dropped down, too, touching her breast, curving over her, and with that, the world narrowed to him and Portia and that was precisely right. He allowed himself a smug smile. Again, he brushed just the tip of his finger over her. “Is that good?”
“Yes. Damn you, yes.”
“Think how it would feel if you were naked.” God, he loved to see her face when she was in passion.
“Beast.”
Her name was a sigh on his breath. He kissed her, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other fully curved over her breast, molding her there so that he could push her breast higher. His tongue flicked out and followed the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth and for him, it was like falling under her spell all over again.
He pulled away and cupped her face in his hands. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists, but that was all. They stayed like that, touching each other, settling into the familiarity of the contact and this time, there was a sense of the world coming right.
His torso pressed against her as he leaned in and kissed her ear. “I love you, Portia Temple.”
He wanted her now and afterward, and that was that. He wanted her in his life, this amazingly lovely creature who kissed with such delicate fever. Portia, who had inhabited his dreams for a decade. Portia, who had become a woman he admired and respected. He drew back before he completely lost control.
“How can you?”
“Because you are brave and strong and when I am with you, I want to see you laugh and smile. Because you would never, ever, ever put milk in my tea and tell me it’s good for my health.”
She gasped, and her fingers tightened around him. “She makes Magnus drink it that way, too.” They laughed together at that and then she draped an arm around the back of his neck, and set the other around his naked waist, fingers angled downward. “She did the same to me once, but I poured it all in the slop bowl. She nearly came to tears. Poor Magnus.”
“Poor me. You’re not naked yet.” He let go of her hand and fumbled at her shift while he kissed her, open mouthed, tongue involved. She kissed him back because Portia never did anything half way. Her shift dropped to the floor with the rest of their clothes.
If Satan himself demanded his soul for this, he’d gladly hand it over.
“I want you in my arms. I want us skin to skin. I want to make you spend and call on God and me. I want your mouth on me, your hands, your thighs around me. I want your eyes glazed with passion for me.” He took a step toward her. “I want to hear us both groan when I am inside you.”
Northword leaned against her, his cock hard and him halfway to coming because, God save him, Portia’s body was soft and curved, and he was going to make love to her until they were witless fools, and she had no choice but to agree they belonged together. She pushed up to kiss him again, and she was so very, very good at setting fire to his blood.
Lust, an unfathomable need, came from deep inside him, and it was everything he’d missed every damned time he’d had sexual relations. It wasn’t that he hadn’t loved his wife, he had. Or that he hadn’t enjoyed other lovers who came to his bed. He had. But not like this. Never. The missing part of his soul clicked into place with her, and he was whole as he had not been since the day his father had engineered their split.
Every shiver of Portia’s body, every soft sound to fall on his ears mattered to him because it was her in his arms. Failing to please her would rip him to pieces. He pushed away from her and grabbed her hand while he walked backward to the bed, bringing her along. No half measures. No caution.
Portia laughed and gave him a push. The backs of his legs hit the bed, and he sat on the mattress, splayed out to catch his balance. She stepped between his spread legs and he touched her naked backside or just stared at her breasts.
He drew her to him, hands sliding along her waist, up her back, fingers dancing down the dip of her spine. He took her mouth and she answered with a taking of her own. He cupped her bottom and brought her up until she had her knees on the mattress on either side of his hips. She gripped the top of his shoulders until she had her balance and when she did, he pulled the pins from her hair and kept going until her hair, dark, dark red, curled around his fingers.
“I adore your hair, every curl.”
“I’m glad you like brunettes.”
“My darling, you are deluded.” He took some of her hair in his hand. Light from the window nearest her reflected off her hair, turning even the shadows a rich, dark red. “Your hair is red, and I adore every lock on your head.” He slid his fingers beneath her chin and brought her face back to his. “I want you again. I want inside you now.” He leaned forward and nipped her lower lip. “Anything you want, if you’ll let me do that.”
Her smile was everything he loved about Portia. Her smile was bright and bold and for him, and her smile had been living inside him for years. A part of Crispin Hope and a part of the man who had become the Viscount Northword.
“Although, I feel I ought to tell you that I am inclined to be selfish just now.” For this slice of time, he was looking not at Portia, but solely at a naked woman whose proportions pleased him inordinately. Wickedly so. He brushed her hair behind her shoulders. In ten years, she’d become a woman. “You’re still beautiful, more beautiful and desirable than ever.” He put his palm over her mound, slid a finger between, and found slick heat. “That’s lovely.” He drew in a breath. “You’re wet for me.”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I’m hard for you.” Jesus, he wanted those legs around him. He wanted his hips tucked up tight against hers. He swept the back of his hand across her shoulder then down to her breast. “Lovely. That’s a fact.”
Her nipples peaked, and he swept his fingers across her again. His belly hollowed out. Somewhere in the house, timbers creaked. Outside, rain patter
ed against the windows. Then harder until it beat on the roof and windows. He held his breath until he was sure the noise was just settlement and the rain, and they weren’t about to be interrupted by a furious Hob.
He leaned close, his mouth by her ear. “What I’d like to do isn’t decent at all. It’s wicked and depraved.”
She angled her body against his. “You make it sound delicious. Is it?”
He fit both his hands over her breasts, and she leaned into his palms. He looked his fill of the sight, his hands over her, the flesh he couldn’t cover, the way her mouth parted. He pressed his lips to her shoulder; a light kiss while he swept his fingers along the underside of her breast, one, then the other, and the curve of her devastated him. He brushed a finger over her nipple and saw, felt, and reacted to the way she hardened at his touch. “I want my mouth here.” His fingertip came to rest at her mons then slid down until his hand cupped her. “And here.”
Her eyes opened wide, and she tipped her head to one side, curious. Intrigued. “There?”
“Yes. Precisely there.”
She arranged herself on his bed, her hair spread out, and her body open for him. He joined her and slid his hands underneath her bottom. One thing he’d learned was that he loved the taste of a woman. He’d had a mistress before he married, a courtesan who taught him things he hadn’t worked out on his own with Portia or some other woman who could never measure up.
Portia gave herself over to his mouth on her, and he made damned sure he didn’t bring her too fast. He adored her moans, the tension in her body when she came close, the way her hands touched his head, the tilt of her pelvis toward him. She made him feel like the best lover in the world, and the proof was in the way she came.
Seven Wicked Nights Page 36
