They only had their daughters’ happiness in mind. Or so they said. Parents always said that. Three unmarried daughters—well, two unmarried daughters and one widow—meant they had many cares. They said that too. Often.
They weren’t here now and they couldn’t tell Portia not to speak to this enchanting man. He looked around thirty, maybe a little older, but with features so classically handsome it was hard to tell.
When he swept off his cocked hat to perform his exquisite bow, she received another shock. He wasn’t wearing a wig, as almost every man did these days. That fine, gleaming fair hair was his own. So fair it was almost silver, but gleamed golden when the sun caught its carefully combed-back strands.
She wanted to touch it, feel the fine locks sift between her fingers. The hunger shocked her, the raw need to touch him. Her skin itched with it.
She was walking between her two sisters and it would be too particular to leave them in order to place her hand on his arm. His fingers were long, and when he spoke he moved them to emphasise a point, as if they were restless. She had to work hard to keep her hands still and demurely linked together.
He was talking about his recent visit to France. She gleaned few clues from his artless speech, but gathered he wasn’t short of money and could walk into Versailles if he wished. But then, so could half of France. What mattered was how close to the king and his intimates they could get, and he gave no hint about that. Just about the magnificence of the palace.
Portia didn’t care. She wanted to know more about him.
They reached the King’s Head with no more hints forthcoming. He bade them farewell with a flourish and presented them with the box.
They watched him until he was out of sight, threading his way past the busy shoppers. He walked with a swinging gait, a country gait, not at all like a man who spent his time around town. Portia liked that.
“Well,” Millicent said, with her tone of a job well done. “Do you think we’ll see him at the dance?”
“I hope so,” Anthea said, and she spoke for all of them when she said it.
Chapter Two
Portia took special care dressing for the assembly on Thursday in case Mr. Welles should decide to attend. He’d have to apply to the master of ceremonies, who would consider him as a worthy addition to the ensemble who met there on a regular basis. She hadn’t heard or seen Mr. Welles since that memorable encounter on Tuesday, but he appeared interested and he had said he wanted to purchase a house in the district. A shame the only one she knew of near here was the lamentably run-down Thorncroft Grange.
“Everything all right, miss?”
She forced a smile. Witney was doing her best. She wasn’t a lady’s maid, but she made a creditable job of Portia’s hair and she would have to do Anthea’s and Millicent’s before the hour was out. Although her gown was old, Mr. Welles had never seen it before. It was still unmarked and the silk good. The colour, a rich buttercup, suited her. It was the best she could manage. She scrambled into it on her own and added her string of pearls, her best piece of jewellery.
Once ready, Portia scurried out of her bedroom and barely made it in time. Their parents ordered the carriage ready promptly at half past six, and they wouldn’t wait for anyone.
She tried to keep her excitement under control, because it would never do to let her family see her level of anticipation. Especially her father, who told her never to lose her head over a man.
She was happy enough. Her father might approve of Mr. Welles. If he even turned up tonight.
The girls squeezed in together, their hooped skirts overlapping like fish scales, leaving room for their parents on the opposite seat. Her sister Millicent broke the silence inside the carriage. “Will we see Mr. Welles tonight?”
Portia gave her the reward of a sharp jab in her ribs, but it was too late. Although the jab gave her personal satisfaction, it didn’t stop her mother perking up. “I don’t think we know a Mr. Welles.”
“He rescued Papa’s new snuffbox from getting lost when James dropped it,” Portia put in quickly, hoping the Good Samaritan ploy would work.
“So do we know a Mr. Welles?” Their father’s mild tone fooled no one.
She let Anthea take that one. “We could hardly snatch it from him and move on. He’s a most respectable-seeming gentleman, Papa, but of course we allowed him no favours. He said he was looking for property in the area.”
Sir Mortimer glared from under beetling brows. “Why we don’t have more sons, I’ll never know.”
Their mother shrugged. “You have a son.”
“We should have had a quiverful.”
“Even gods can’t dictate everything.”
Sir Mortimer grunted and settled into his seat, something the three girls opposite him couldn’t do. They were laced in and trussed up to within an inch of their lives, and then crammed together like sardines in a pot. It didn’t deter him from complaining all the way to Dover, but at least he wasn’t questioning them about Mr. Welles.
He might not be here tonight, in which case Portia would have to be satisfied with the attentions of Peter Knight, her longstanding suitor. Even if Peter was only half-hearted in his pursuit of her, she had someone. The neighbourhood assumed she and Peter would make a match of it, and she had been considering it. She liked him. She would have to vouchsafe her secret to him—the one about being an immortal, anyway—but that should prove no problem. If he cut up rough, her father could wipe his memory and they’d return to the way they were. But she only liked Peter. She’d never have a grand passion with him.
The coach jolted its way to Dover. Portia’s apprehension rose to shorten her breath and turn her hands clammy. Despite her commands to her recalcitrant self to calm down, anticipation bubbled up and refused to be quelled.
By the time they arrived at the King’s Head, where the assembly was to be held, Portia was fighting to keep her emotions under control. Her mind was on that handsome face and the moment their eyes had met. She had imagined it, she told herself.
No, this would not do. No immortal should moon over a mortal. Her father had warned her about that. If she wanted one, she’d either have to face his death long before hers or convert him. If she could even do that.
They reached the assembly rooms in full dark. This time of year the nights drew in quickly and the carriage lamps were lit. If the weather was bad, they’d stay the night, and she prayed the threat of frost proved true. Then they’d stay in town. Maybe—no. She had to stop this.
The master of ceremonies met them and bowed them through. Going upstairs proved a torturous journey, as many other people were arriving and they had to pass the time of day. Other people, ones she didn’t know, were present. The master of ceremonies performed introductions, as he deemed them necessary. No Mr. Welles.
No Mr. Welles upstairs either, but Peter came forward to greet her, a happy smile on his genial face. “What has put you in such good humour?” she asked after he’d bowed over her hand. “And please don’t say it’s your delight to see me.”
“It is, at least partly,” he said, not at all put out by her admonition. “My father is allowing me to ride out and view the fleet when it comes in next week, so I’m in high spirits tonight.”
“He’s no longer afraid you’ll escape to the nearest town and take the King’s shilling?”
“I’ve sworn not to.” Peter was the son of Sir Thomas Knight and would inherit his father’s title in the fullness of time. Sir Thomas was exceedingly proud of his son, although Peter was fired with the desire to join the army, something an older son had no right to consider. His bold features and solid prospects had drawn a great many admirers, but it had never gone to his head. He made the hearts of many of the local gentry’s young ladies skip. Unfortunately, not Portia’s. “I do like to see the fleet. Would you like to come with me?”
“You know my father will not allow
it.” She furled her fan and flicked it open again, enjoying the crispness of the action.
“If Mrs. Wright agrees to accompany us he will.”
What she’d normally consider a treat had no lustre for Portia at the moment, although she had no idea why. At this time of year, when winter was finally receding a little, she looked forward to getting out of doors more. Winter was dreary when it kept them indoors day after day.
“I will ask,” she promised, although she wasn’t very keen on the prospect. She’d speak to Millicent and if her sister really wanted to go, she’d consider it, because Millicent deserved a treat too. “When are you planning this delight?”
“Next Wednesday, weather permitting,” he said. His face shone with pleasure. “Won’t you dance with me, Portia?”
She opened her mouth, but before she could reply, a mellifluously masculine voice came from behind her. “I thought Miss Seaton had promised me the first dance. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Not taking a minute to school her features, Portia spun around, in imminent danger of letting her skirts fly up indecorously. “Why, Mr. Welles, you’re still in town!”
He gave her the graceful bow she enjoyed so much. “As you see, ma’am, I’m still here. Did you think me so fickle?”
The quartet scraped the first bars of the country dance. They always used the same tune, as if no others existed. Portia scarcely noticed, although another time she might have sighed and tried not to roll her eyes. Now it sounded like the finest music possible.
Without hesitation, she put her hand on Mr. Welles’s arm. He wore velvet, and as her palm caressed the fabric she appreciated how rich it was. Silk velvet, closely woven, and not cheap. The crimson shade suited him, but she couldn’t imagine a colour that did not. His waistcoat twinkled merrily, adorned with beautiful embroidery and brilliants. His buttons looked like real diamonds, which probably meant they were well-made cut glass. Very fine, at any rate.
His smile warmed her. “What are you thinking, I wonder?”
Known for her address, it nevertheless abandoned her now. “That your buttons are beautiful, sir, and I’d like to know who made them.”
His laughter rang around the room, and for one startled moment all eyes turned to them. Some remained to peruse the stranger; others looked away immediately.
“Ma’am, you are refreshing in your honesty. The stones are taken from a necklace belonging to my grandmother. Frinton reset them for me.”
Her mouth dropped open. “They’re real?”
“I should hope so, otherwise someone has rooked me badly.”
He had to guide her on to the floor, as she nearly stumbled on the uneven surface. Unfortunately the upstairs room at the King’s Head was used for a variety of purposes. Although well laid, the floor was polished wood, and occasionally the planks rose. Usual in an old building, even if the current owners had employed plasterers and decorators to give it a modern skim. Even more so in towns as close to the sea as Dover. The damp atmosphere could play havoc with the timber.
Skin touched skin when he clasped her forearms and steadied her. His brow creased and concern tinged his eyes. “Are you all right, Miss Seaton?”
She wanted him to call her Portia, as Peter did, but she could hardly admit that. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, it was merely a moment’s abstraction.” Smiling into his eyes, she decided to tell him the truth. “I was astonished by the admission. Real diamonds?”
“Yes,” he said apologetically. “My family had more money than sense, or that was what my father always said.”
Something else shadowed his gaze, something she wasn’t privy to. They had to take their places and she couldn’t ask any more.
In many ways a country dance proved frustrating. The dance meant they spent as much time apart as they did together. When they changed partners she was forced to watch another woman simpering at him and trying to attract his attention. He was possessed of impeccable manners, so his attention didn’t stray for a minute, but she wanted him for herself. She wished every other woman in the room in the fiery pits of hell just for looking at him.
This man was a prize.
She should not have danced with him without a formal introduction. That fact was borne in on her at the end of the measure, when her mother stood with her father at the edge of the dance floor. They were glaring.
Mr. Welles didn’t appear the least daunted, but offered his arm and led her towards them. When he reached them, he bowed, although he didn’t give it the flourishes that had so enchanted Portia and her sisters. Well judged, although she didn’t know if he did it by design or not.
“I believe the master of ceremonies is involved in a small fracas in the other room,” he said. “I trust you do not object if I make my own introduction.”
The card room. There were frequently disturbances there, although some of them weren’t so small.
“My name is Edmund Welles, and I’m newly arrived in Kent. Your daughters kindly offered me some advice when I saw them in the street the other day.”
He cast her a glance that told her he’d been counting the hours. Or was that just his polished manners, or her vivid imagination? She couldn’t be sure.
Portia rarely tried to contact another’s mind in a situation such as this. She could so easily be caught out, if another immortal was present. Not all immortals were friendly—at least, so her father had told her, but in her whole life she’d only met her parents and her siblings. If it weren’t that her parents had told her so she’d have imagined they were the only family with their peculiar gifts. One of which was the ability to invade another’s mind, at least superficially, and discern their mood, even a few words.
Besides, Portia considered the practice cheating, in a way. Why use an ability nobody else knew about to gain an advantage? Truly, she would prefer to be as honest as possible. She did not dare approach this man’s mind, but the way her father was staring at him told her he had no such scruples. Mr. Welles didn’t waver in his steady retuning gaze.
“We’re pleased to meet you, sir,” her mother said hastily. “This is my husband, Sir Mortimer Seaton. We live barely five miles distant, along the coast road. Do you stay in Kent long?”
“I’m considering buying a house hereabouts, if I find a suitable establishment,” he said. So he wasn’t merely making conversation two days ago. The knowledge pleased Portia to a dangerous level. Her dreams on the journey here might have some solidity, after all. “I’d greatly appreciate the assistance of any local person in putting me in the way of anything suitable.”
Her mother tsked. “Such a shame Thorncroft Grange is in such a poor state.”
That earned her a venomous glare from Portia’s father, but he did the pretty by Mr. Welles and gave him a short bow. “Indeed it is, but the place has been going to rack and ruin this past five years and more. A single gentleman owned it, but he died without issue and they discovered only distant relatives who showed no interest in the place. Shortly after the funeral, a fire destroyed part of the house and the roof fell in.” There! his triumphant expression seemed to say. You can’t possibly want that. He had very particular reasons for keeping that house empty. He had considered buying it himself, but the land was poor.
“Does it have a good view?” Mr. Welles asked blandly. “Rebuilding isn’t out of the question.”
“That would take years.”
“It depends on the state of the place. If it’s basically sound, then I imagine rebuilding would not take long.”
“You speak from experience, sir?” her father asked. His mouth settled into a thin line, and Portia clearly read displeasure in his glare.
“I’m sure people who do are easily located, if necessary.” He sounded determined, but he passed on to other suggestions. “Of course, if the place is uninhabitable, then little can be done, can it not? There are often alternatives. I merely wish to set u
p an establishment in this beautiful part of the world.”
“It’s also dangerous,” her father said. Couples ambled past them, casting curious glances at the stranger in their midst. True, occasionally visitors would attend the monthly assemblies, but few lingered. Dover wasn’t at all backward, near enough to London to take advantage of the new fashions, and the thriving port providing all the luxuries they needed. However, men with real diamond buttons on their coats were rare anywhere.
“Most places can be dangerous,” Mr. Welles’s remark appeared innocuous enough, but the air prickled with tension. Had her father discerned something in the mind of the newcomer? More likely it was the suggestion that Mr. Welles might have an interest in Thorncroft Grange.
“Here we have some dangerous criminals.”
“Smugglers, you mean?” A hush fell over the people standing nearby, just as if they’d been listening. Then frenetic activity replaced the brief silence, people moving on to the dance floor or walking away. Not a popular subject at the local assembly and rarely referred to in polite company. Especially in places like this because the speaker could never know who was listening and who got to hear. Mr. Welles didn’t appear to notice.
Sir Mortimer inclined his head in a stately manner, a bulldog admitting a fault. “Sadly, we have our share of those. The Grange is within sight of the English Channel and people have been spotted there, especially when the sea is calm and the moon dark.”
“Do you live in a house with such a view?” Mr. Welles said, watching Sir Mortimer carefully. Portia still had her fingers resting on his sleeve. His muscles shifted a tiny bit under her hand.
Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3 Page 2
