Arrows of Desire: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 3

by Lynne Connolly

  Relief swept through her and she had to prevent herself breathing too deeply. When his attention dipped to her bosom she realised she hadn’t been quite as circumspect as she’d wanted. Although modestly covered, he would still have seen the movement—if he’d been watching closely enough.

  The china bowl, decorated with flowers, looked tiny in his hand as he lifted it to his lips. Incongruous, but for his innate grace that drew her to watch his every move.

  The clock on the mantel chimed three. He glanced up and put his dish carefully back in its saucer. “That was the best tea I’ve had for a long time, ma’am.” Did he know the tea had come from a run last month? No, how could he? Would he mind? If he objected, that would put him in grave danger. He must not, she had to warn him.

  He’d have a perfect view of everything that happened in the bay below. Her father would kill Edmund without a second’s hesitation if he decided Edmund knew too much.

  She would have to tell Edmund, and for that she needed to speak to him alone.

  Edmund got to his feet. “I have enjoyed my time with you immensely, but I fear I must take my leave. I have no wish to outstay any welcome I find here. Once more I apologise for inflicting myself upon you.”

  “Not at all.” Her mother was at her most gracious. “You may visit anytime, sir.”

  Edmund straightened his sleeves. “I would ask a favour of your daughters, ma’am, but I fear they wouldn’t consider it.”

  “You may ask,” her mother said. A tingle of nerves affected Portia once more. Favour?

  “The house is in good shape, but it is distressingly bare inside. I have but a few sticks of furniture there at present. My belongings, including a great deal of furniture, are arriving tomorrow. Advice on the arrangements would greatly benefit from a woman’s touch, and I know none hereabouts except for your good selves. I would value your opinion.” He bowed to them. “Ladies.”

  “Would Friday be too soon?” Millicent asked hastily, before their mother could forbid them. Now she’d asked it would be ill-mannered to refuse his offer.

  “It would be ideal.” His smile could melt butter. He didn’t look at her, but at her widowed sister who, after all, would make an excellent chaperone.

  Portia hardly dared think straight. Delight filled her at the thought that this man wanted her company, to speak with her, valued her opinion. She would not allow anyone to tell her otherwise.

  Before anyone could precede her, she stepped forward. “Allow me to escort you to the door, sir. Did you come in a carriage?”

  “No indeed. I rode over. It is scarce five miles and my horse needed the exercise.” His warm smile turned fully on to her and she melted. She must recall what her father said. No flirtation could come before that. It was just—this was the first time someone with real address had shown an interest in her rather than her sisters, and the first time she could practice what she’d long rehearsed in private. Flirtation, using her fan to effect, leading a man to his doom, as Anthea rather dramatically put it. But then, Anthea had a turn for dramatics.

  When Edmund held his arm out for her to take, she placed her hand on it lightly, as good manners dictated, and led him out of the room. He’d stayed for half an hour. In the country a longer visit was permitted but considering the unheralded nature of his arrival, he was wise not to push that requirement, too.

  “Thank you for asking us,” she said. She wanted to say so much more, but servants had big ears.

  “You’re doing me a great favour,” he answered, and moved his arm so she felt the muscles beneath. Last Thursday she’d felt them closer. “A very great favour. I would appreciate your opinion on—many things.”

  “Sir, I thought—” She broke off.

  They went down to where a servant waited with his hat and gloves. He clapped the hat on his head without glancing in the mirror and pulled on his gloves without taking his attention from her face. “You thought what?”

  Helplessly, she shook her head.

  “Come. See if you like the look of my horse.” Where they might snatch a private word.

  The air punched hard through her today, the wind a sharp one. When she shivered, he saw at once and moved closer to her. “Perhaps you’d better go in after all.”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “I’ll warm myself by the fire when I go back.”

  No servant stood within sight although one held the reins of the roan horse stamping its feet on the driveway. Portia eyed it doubtfully. “It’s very—big.”

  “He’s a gentle as a kitten,” Edmund said. “Now tell me, what do you think of him?”

  She laughed, but even to her ears it sounded shrill and unnatural. “Just that our flirtation last Thursday—”

  “It was more than a flirtation,” he said, his voice low and thrilling. “At least it was for me. Do you mean to tell me you make a habit of accompanying men to their rooms?” He made it sound amusing rather than shocking.

  “No, of course not!” Her indignation made him smile. She wished he would not, she found the sight too disturbing. “You know I do not.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I should not tease.”

  “You’ve really bought the Grange?”

  He nodded. “It’s a beautiful house and I would have bought it regardless. Someone punched that hole in the roof from the inside. Did you know?”

  Yes, she did. She shook her head. “Why would they do such a thing?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “I have no idea. You’ll have to tell me someday. However, the attempt to ruin the house failed. It’s a well-built structure and only a couple of rooms were badly affected. The men are mending it now and I’ll have those rooms properly renovated. The rest of the house was dirty, but intact. I put an army of maids to it, and they cleaned it.”

  She blinked. “I didn’t hear of any maids being employed.” And since, when they weren’t undertaking their regular jobs, they were working for her father, she’d have heard for sure.

  “I brought some of my own from Dover and sent them back when they’d done their job. All but the few I retained to care for the place on a regular basis. They’re very discreet. I don’t like the servants around when I am, so that is one of my requirements. An unusual one, but everyone has their quirks.”

  Hers seemed to be him. “So you’re really living there?”

  “Do you doubt everything I say?” He said it with a twinkle in his eye that told her he didn’t mean his comments harshly.

  This time she knew better than to rise to his teasing. “No, sir, I do not. I do retain a handful of good sense.” If only that, because he scattered her senses like confetti to the wind.

  He laughed. “And so you should. I’ll send a carriage for you on Friday.”

  “Please don’t concern yourself. We’ll take our own.” Then they could leave when they wanted to. He should have known better than to offer.

  “As you wish. My dear, you enchant me.”

  When she shivered, he frowned. “You must go inside. I had thought to speak to you longer, but this will not do.”

  “I’m fine.” She paused. “I didn’t shiver from the cold.” In truth, she barely felt it. She could withstand the extremes of weather.

  A slow smile curved his perfectly formed lips. He was so handsome it was a sin, but when he looked at her so warmly she could forgive him anything. As if she was the centre of the world.

  “Then I welcome it, and I will endeavour to cause more of the same.” He glanced down at her, his attention lingering on her breasts, but not enough to cause offence. He raised his gaze to her eyes and that, if anything, was more intimate. “In private. I would love to kiss your mouth not once, but many times, until it softened for me, so I could taste you more fully. I’d kiss those lovely breasts, hold them in my hands and caress them until you are mad with wanting me. Then and only then would I
kiss them too. What colour are your nipples, sweet Portia?” She listened, enthralled, and he smiled. “Are they pink as coral, but sweet as strawberries? Or are they the colour of rose-tinted caramel, soft as velvet?”

  The secret place between her legs softened. She had to plant her feet firmly on the stone step they stood on to prevent herself rubbing her thighs together to bring herself some measure of relief. “Edmund, you must not!” Or he must. Could he make her happy by words alone? No man had ever spoken to her in that manner. She wanted more.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, this time planting a kiss firmly on her knuckles. “I will count the hours until I see you next.” With a last smile he ran down the steps and took the reins from the servant discreetly waiting out of earshot.

  When a man said that she knew better than to take him literally. Except for this time, because she would certainly be counting along with him.

  Chapter Four

  The wind buffeted the carriage as it drove up the road to the top of the cliff. The road was curved to avoid the steep direct route, but the three women contained within still had to keep a firm hold on their seats to prevent lurching around. Portia sat with her back to the horses, and several times she had to clutch so hard that she feared for her fingernails. True, the suspension on the carriage wasn’t all it could be. The new style of suspending the body from the frame had only just caught on in Kent, and most families preferred to make their old vehicles do until they fell apart or became too shabby to appear in. A carriage could be refurbished any number of times before that happened.

  While the Seatons had a fine travelling carriage, this wasn’t it. Their father had declared this one quite good enough for the girls, stating that if they didn’t like it they could always walk. His belligerence had only grown worse when he learned whom they planned to visit and only their assurances that they’d discover everything they could served to soothe him and give his permission for the visit.

  Portia heard his pronouncement with relief, but now, hanging on to the strap at the side of the coach for all she was worth, she wasn’t quite so sure it might not have been better to walk.

  The notion of the poor, neglected house did not fill her with enthusiasm either, so she could only attest the fluttering in her belly to the prospect of seeing Edmund again.

  Once acknowledged, the feeling only worsened, until she feared she wouldn’t be able to climb down outside the house.

  The carriage drew to a halt and James the coachman shouted to Frederick the footman to “Catch their heads, you idiot!”

  Frederick didn’t enjoy horses very much, but he tolerated them. Didn’t people notice that kind of thing? Poor Frederick must have caught the heads because the next moment he was letting the steps down for them to get out.

  As she should, being the youngest, Portia waited for her sisters to alight. They stood in front of her, so she saw nothing until she was standing on the ground and moving to one side.

  “Goodness!” Scaffolding covered this side of the house. Was it even habitable?

  “Maybe we should turn around and go home,” Millicent murmured.

  Too late. The man who had haunted her thoughts for the past day was stepping forward, smiling broadly.

  Before she could control her unruly tongue, Portia blurted out, “Is it safe?”

  His smile changed and he laughed, sharp white teeth attesting to his humour. “Indeed it is, Miss Portia!”

  She liked that. Her official title was Miss Portia Seaton. Anthea, as the oldest Miss Seaton, bore that title and of course Millicent, who had been Miss Seaton, was Mrs. Wright. Few people called her Miss Portia.

  He went on, “The house is smothered in this way because I ordered it repainted. Since they had to get up there to mend the roof, I decided to have the work done. Would you care to step inside? I have refreshments served in the small parlour.”

  Millicent cast a doubtful eye at the eaves, where a man was stepping over the tiles as if he was on the ground. “If you’re sure?”

  “Perfectly. The damage to the roof was negligible and the rest of the house is sound. Perhaps you will allow me to show you around the house once you’ve rested?”

  “You make us sound like soft city ladies!” Anthea gave him a saucy grin. “We are no such thing, I assure you, sir.”

  “Soft city ladies can sometimes surprise you.” He glanced at Portia as if sharing a secret. “If I have reassured you that the building will not descend around your feet, may I escort you indoors?”

  Although he was obliged to lead Millicent in, Portia felt a pang of envy go through her when he gave her his arm. They went into the main building.

  “Oh!” A delightful modest-sized entrance hall greeted them. At present the walls were bare timbers, but the oak staircase was gleaming with polish, the best she’d ever seen it. “I came here before, and it looks so lovely!”

  He glanced around, smiling. “Thank you. I’ve had most of the rooms stripped down to said bones, and we’re building from there.”

  They used the same parlour she remembered from previous visits when Mr. Thorncroft had been alive, a charming room looking out on to the garden set at the side of the house. She had expected chaos. What she found was a neatly trimmed and tidy area, with what looked like rosebushes freshly planted, together with tilled beds ready for flowers.

  Portia rushed across to the window. “I always thought a rose garden would work to advantage here. Do you mean to keep this room as a parlour?” As she turned back to him, she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I have no right to ask you. Pray forgive me.”

  “Since I asked you here to do that very thing, I am delighted you are forthcoming. I was wondering whether to make this a breakfast parlour or keep it as a sitting room.”

  “You could do both,” Portia replied. “A circular table would look delightful by the window.” The room boasted a bay window, which the previous incumbent had used for seating, but the other rooms on this side of the house also boasted windows that could be used for that purpose. Her mind raced with possibilities.

  “I like that idea. I believe I can put my hands on the very thing.” The warmth in his eyes told her that wasn’t all he wanted to put his hands on. Her heart quickened in pace.

  Millicent, already seated on one of the wide sofas, reached for the silver teapot. “Should I pour, sir?”

  “If you would. I am indebted to you, ma’am.” He said the words by rote, sparing Millicent a brief glance. Because she was currently facing them with her back to the window, she caught the smiling, indulgent look Millicent exchanged with Anthea. His preference had not gone unnoticed.

  All that effort to hide the way he made her feel was for nothing. They would tease her mercilessly once they arrived home.

  Edmund joined her at the window. “Do you like the disposition of the bushes?”

  “It’s hard to tell until they’ve bedded in,” she answered. “I like the informal arrangement. It invites the onlooker to explore, to wander. They won’t flower until June at the earliest.”

  “That is a shame.” He motioned to the rosebush on the left. “I have ordered some early flowering shrubs and plants put in, but my experience of gardening is rudimentary to say the least. I am much more used to enjoying rather than installing.”

  He turned around. “My experience in the rest of the house is somewhat similar, but I’m more than happy with my purchase.”

  “You really mean to settle here.” She could hardly believe it.

  He nodded. “I have another establishment, but my mother lives there. We are better apart, believe me.” He laughed, but the sound had a bitter edge.

  “How sad!” Portia turned her head away. Why was it she felt free to express herself freely with this man? This kind of gaucherie didn’t come naturally to her. In fact, because of their situation, their father insisted on their circu
mspection in public. Neither the smuggling nor the immortality would sit well with many of the people they mixed with socially.

  With him, she said what she thought. She had to stop before she made a serious mistake.

  He didn’t appear upset. On the contrary, he smiled and shrugged. “It makes us both content. I’ll have to visit the other house occasionally, but I like it here.”

  “How can you know, sir?” Anthea demanded. She put down her empty tea-dish with barely a rattle. Anthea was always very neat. “You have barely moved in.”

  He gave her a heart-stopping smile. “Do you believe in intuition? In feeling at home the moment you step into a place?”

  Anthea tilted her head to one side and gazed at him, a slight frown pleating her brows. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t. I have lived here all my life, so I know nothing different.”

  “And I have travelled to many places. Some I love and some I would rather not revisit. Take Versailles, for example.” He grimaced.

  “You’ve been there?” Anthea’s pitched tone only reflected Portia’s interest. She’d always wanted to visit the palace. One day she would, but for now she’d live here and behave properly. Live quietly, as her father wanted, until the current strife between the Titans and Olympians blew over.

  “Yes. I was not impressed. True, it’s a magnificent palace. The Hall of Mirrors is staggering in its artistry. However, there is also a great deal of dust and dirt. The place is too big, even with the army of servants who run it. It doesn’t surprise me that the king prefers to spend his private time elsewhere. Versailles is cavernous and unfriendly.” He smiled and shrugged. “That is merely my opinion. You’ll find many people who say the opposite. So many people live there and it doesn’t have the opportunity for what my old nanny would have called ‘bottoming’. So the quality of cleanliness is—variable.”

  That certainly didn’t sound pleasant. And that phrase—“bottoming”—belonged in the north. So he had a northern estate? It would seem so. Or maybe it was just his nanny who was northern. She’d love to find out.