The intense look in his eyes, the way they blazed down at her, no longer gray but a dark, gleaming blue, had her staggering back, distancing herself as if she suddenly found herself in the paws of a wild jungle cat intent on devouring her.
He dropped his hand, holding it before him, staring at it for a moment, turning it over as if he had never seen it before, as if he searched for some answer, some greater truth, carved on the flesh of his hand.
When he looked up, his eyes were the cool gray of before, impassive as stone. Just a stranger.
“Stay warm, Miss Mud Pie,” he murmured.
Then he was gone.
The door slammed behind him, wind rattling the crude wood length for several seconds, struggling to gain entrance. Gone with the same suddenness as his entrance into her life. His touch, his pervasive scent, the temptingly wicked man that made her tremble like a fall leaf. Gone. She couldn’t help feel a pang of regret. As if she had somehow lost an opportunity. For what she could not say—or dared not.
“Miss Mud Pie,” she muttered, gazing at the door for a long moment. Oddly, the nickname failed to annoy her anymore. Not in the almost tender way he had uttered it. Not after the way he had addressed her, looked at her, touched her.
She hugged herself, feeling bereft and troubled by his departure. Cold. Which was absurd. Why should she regret the departure of a stranger? A rough-mannered squire at best? For all his help, he was coarse and ill mannered…and made her heart slam against her breast.
Dropping her arms, she headed back to the fire, searching out a heat totally unlike the burn that he had stoked within her. Settling herself on the hard bench, she clasped her knees and waited for the fire’s blaze to warm her, doing her best to forget his name, to forget him and the hot invitation in his gaze. She waited for the familiar apathy to settle over her, vowing that by tomorrow he would not even cross her mind.
Heath. Fitting. As wild and out of control as the plant teeming the undulating moorland.
Chapter 4
Heath strode outside, his body cutting through wind and rain as he attempted to block the image of pure blue eyes and long, coal black lashes. Of sweet innocence wrapped in saucy packaging. He walked faster, fleeing the inn and the acute reminder of all he could not have.
Cursing, he jerked to a stop and looked back at the inn’s shadowed outline, battling the overwhelming urge to return, to see that she stayed put where it was safe and warm—to hammer at the walls of her ladylike reserve and settle her on his lap for a thorough kiss.
Good God, what was she doing about without a proper chaperone? She didn’t have to say anything for him to know that she was a lady. As blue-blooded as they came. A female as headstrong as that needed constant supervision. The little fool actually insisted on venturing out on a night like this. He only feared she might find someone willing to aid her.
Heath gave his head a violent shake. She wasn’t his responsibility. And a proper lady like her damn well never would be.
He spun around and entered the blacksmith’s, resisting the invisible string that seemed to connect him to the inn—to her. A few words with the blacksmith and he had a mount. Swinging atop the horse, he stared at the inn again, still feeling the infernal pull to go back inside. She hadn’t wanted him to go. She hadn’t said the words, but he had seen them in her eyes. He could return. Could see just how strong the walls of her reserve were built. If he were different, perhaps he would.
The old, gnawing bleakness skated through him with the slow insidiousness of a stalking predator. A bleakness he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he had learned acceptance. Not since he had trained himself in forbearance. Not since he had ceased wishing for what could never be.
Della. Like a life raft in a tossing sea, her face emerged in his mind. Della would help him forget. Forget the girl that brought forth aching reminders of what could never be his. She would banish the bleakness gripping him. He would make use of her body, sink into her familiar heat and tell himself it was enough.
He urged his mount into a gallop, splashing through the village without a care for his own safety. A man like him had given up concern for his well-being long ago.
Some days he contemplated an abrupt end to it all. Not to mistake that he considered suicide. His mother chose the coward’s route and he would not do the same. Yet a random accident, the result of one of his foolhardy risks, would be far kinder than the fate that awaited him.
He pushed his mount harder, determined to get far, far from the inn. And the wisp of girl inside who made him wish things were different, that he was different—not a man bound by duty, responsibility, and a curse that he could never outrun.
Portia entered the dingy taproom the following morning, her brow knitted angrily from her exchange with the innkeeper. Horrid man. Not an ounce of kindness.
“At least we can afford breakfast,” Nettie said with far too much cheer, pressing a hand to her stomach as if to stave off hunger. “I’m starved. Can’t believe you didn’t allow us to eat last night.”
Portia briefly closed her eyes and stretched her neck, trying to ease the painful crick, no doubt the result of sharing a too small bed with Nettie in the drafty attic room, the cheapest accommodations to be had.
Heath had been correct. No one could be lured out into the storm last night. Especially since she did not possess coin with which to lure. As a result, Portia and Nettie had spent the night clinging to each other for warmth beneath a scratchy, threadbare blanket. After such a night, Nettie’s complaints did not meet with Portia’s usual tolerance.
“I explained last night—”
“Yes, yes,” Nettie interrupted with a wave of her hand. Her narrowed gaze shot to Portia’s wrist. “Too bad you didn’t think to offer your bracelet up before. We might not have gone to bed hungry.”
Portia clutched her reticule, the weight of coins a painful reminder of what she sacrificed. The idea to barter the bracelet had come to her last night as she stared blindly into the dark, sick with worry over how she would pay the innkeeper come morning.
She rubbed her now bare wrist. Her mother had sent the bauble from Italy three years ago. Portia rarely received correspondence from her mother, let alone gifts. The bracelet had been special. It had been—
Sucking in a breath, she gave her head a small shake, blinking back the sting of tears. She would not cry over something as inconsequential as a bracelet. Mere silver and stones. Not her mother.
Portia gave the dingy taproom, meager and unwelcoming in the light of day, a sweeping glance, refusing to admit that she searched for someone in particular, hoping beyond hope that she would see him again. For some reason Heath had occupied her thoughts long after he left last night. Even when she had managed to fall asleep he had invaded her dreams, his wicked hands and mouth doing to her body all that his hot gaze had promised.
A foolish, disappointed sigh escaped her. No sight of him anywhere. Instead, her gaze landed on a familiar figure. She stiffened.
There, at a corner table, sat her driver, hunkered over a pint of ale.
She stormed across the room, ignoring her sore ankle, paying no heed to the dizziness that swept her from the sudden movement. “John! Where have you been?”
Blinking bleary eyes, he lifted his tankard in mock salute. “Hullo there, my lady. What you doing here?”
“Me? Me?” Portia gave no thought to her raised voice or the pain that lanced her temples, only that John sat before her sipping his ale without a care for the women in his charge—the women he had abandoned. “I ought to horse whip you. You were supposed to fetch help and return for us yesterday!”
“Aye, you bloody louse. Where the hell have you been?” Nettie added as she arrived at Portia’s side, at last showing some dis plea sure over their abandonment.
John lumbered to his feet, jerking his rumpled blue livery into some order. “No need to get your feathers up, my lady. I was on my way to collect you.”
“This morning?” Nettie propped both h
ands on her generous hips. “Right nice of you.”
John puffed out his barrel chest, his furry caterpillar eyebrows dipping together as he glared at Nettie. “Now see here, I’ll not let a bit of baggage like—”
“Enough. Both of you,” Portia commanded, pressing the back of her hand to first one overheated cheek, then the other. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she ignored the way her head spun and said, “I simply want to reach Moreton Hall…as we should have done yesterday.” She glanced at Nettie. “Forget breakfast. I want to be gone from here. Now.”
For once, the two obeyed and fell in step behind her as she marched out of the inn. Clouds hung low in the sky, either remnants of yesterday’s storm or a hint of more rain to come. A cold mist clung to the air and she lifted her chin, glad for it, hoping that it might cool her flushed face.
Once settled in the carriage, she leaned back on the squabs and closed her eyes.
“You feeling all right?” Nettie asked.
“Fine,” Portia answered, eyes still closed. A shiver shook her, belying her words.
“You look awful.”
“Good.” God forbid she should appear attractive to the Earl of Moreton. He might propose.
“Welcome, Lady Portia. We’ve been expecting you.” The Dowager Countess of Moreton glided forward, her perfectly coiffed head held high, a fat, black Persian cat tucked in one arm.
Portia blinked, finding it difficult to reconcile the graceful creature in the elegantly appointed parlor as Grandmother’s girlhood friend. Both were of like age, both widows of lofty rank, both determined to see their grandchildren wed. But the similarity ended there. Lady Moreton was slim and elegant, a vision of loveliness in deep blue muslin. Portia’s grandmother stuck solely to her widow’s weeds, as she had for the past twenty-five years. Nothing save black bombazine hung in her wardrobe.
“Apparently you forgot to inform me we were to have company, Grandmother.” The statement came from a woman sitting rigidly on a velvet chaise. She and a younger woman occupied the chaise. The one who spoke nudged yet another Persian away from her skirts, her expression pinched as she surveyed Portia from head to toe.
Lady Moreton tossed the woman a quelling look. “Indeed, I must have forgotten to mention it, Constance.”
A serene smile in place again, the countess faced Portia, keen blue eyes examining her closely. Portia recognized the inspection. Had suffered it time and time again. The critical assessment of her looks, her form, the attempt to determine whether she would satisfy as a bridal candidate.
Portia stifled a sigh, wishing she could put an end to the pretense, wishing she could open her mouth to proclaim that she would never meet the Earl of Moreton’s satisfaction. It would certainly spare all involved a great deal of time. But that would never do. She had to frighten him away as she had the others. Had to appear as if she tried to be suitable. Her family could never know, must never suspect that she deliberately chased away her suitors. After all, she had plans. And they didn’t include matrimony.
“I feel that I already know you from Robbie’s letters.”
Portia started. Robbie? Some of her shock must have shown, for Lady Moreton laughed, a rich, throaty sound so at odds with the very proper picture she made in her high-necked gown. Not a single crease in the heavily starched fabric of her dress. Not a silver blond hair out of place. In her travel-wrinkled dress and mussed hair, Portia felt tattered and untidy in comparison.
“I see that you’ve never heard someone refer to your grandmother as Robbie.”
“No.” Portia had never even heard someone use her grandmother’s Christian name of Roberta.
“Forgive me. I suppose it is rather undignified.” Lady Moreton led her to a brocade-covered settee and gestured for her to sit. “A habit leftover from childhood.”
Portia sank down with a grateful sigh. For some reason, her legs felt weak and trembly. Lady Moreton sat beside her. The cat immediately curled up between them and set to kneading Portia’s thigh with its paws. Even through her skirts, she could feel the tiny daggerlike claws.
“These are my granddaughters.” Lady Moreton nodded to the two young women across from them. “Constance and Wilhelmina.”
“I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you, Lady Portia,” Wilhelmina trilled, fairly bouncing where she sat. “Please call me Mina.”
Lady Moreton stroked the ear of another cat that appeared as if by magic on the arm of the settee. “Do sit still, child. We don’t want Portia to think you ill-mannered.”
“It would seem,” Constance began in a flat voice, still nudging the cat with the toe of her slipper as it wove in and out from under her skirts, “We aren’t all of us surprised by your arrival. That being the case, why not apprise me of a few items, Lady Portia? Where have you traveled from to treat us with this visit? And how long do you intend to stay?”
Treat was uttered with such derision that Portia immediately knew she had already won the disfavor of one Moreton. “From London…and please call me Portia.” Portia left the latter question unanswered.
Constance arched a brow. “But you’ll miss the Season. No doubt you wish to return soon.”
Portia frowned, unsure what she had done to earn such immediate dislike. Usually it required a little time and effort on her part.
Lady Moreton cleared her throat and pinned a hard stare on her granddaughter. In that instant, Portia recognized the similarity between the countess and her grandmother, could well understand how the two had formed a bond that lasted fifty-odd years. The two termagants ran roughshod over everyone in their sphere.
“She has just arrived, Constance. Don’t run our guest off so soon with your prying questions.” Snapping her gaze away, she dismissed her granddaughter as she poured a cup of tea from the impeccably polished ser vice before them. “Come, Portia, this will fortify you. What a ghastly day for travel. You wouldn’t believe it’s spring.”
Lady Moreton’s words rang inside her head, reminding her of her exchange with a certain dark-haired stranger and his quick refutation that it was not yet spring. A small smile curved her lips. She wondered if she lingered in his mind the way he lingered in hers, then gave her head a swift shake. Such thoughts were nonsense. Romantic claptrap that had no place in her life.
“Thank you, Lady Moreton.” She accepted the cup and took a long sip, telling herself that the warm liquid sliding down her scratchy throat made her feel better. Wrapping her chilled fingers around the warm teacup, she tried to ignore the cat sharpening its talons on her thigh.
A crackling fire burned nearby in a hearth so large Portia could stand in it. At home, they could afford to burn no more than coals. Just the same, the luxury of those fire-burning logs did little to warm her blood.
“You must tell me all about Town,” Mina encouraged, her blue eyes shining brightly.
Portia managed a weak smile. “What would you like to know?” she asked, pretending not to notice Constance’s glower.
“Everything. Leave nothing out.” Mina clapped her hands in delight. “Almack’s, Vauxhall, the theaters…are the balls really splendid? Have you met our young queen? What is she like?” She scowled. “My brother won’t so much as permit me to attend a local assembly. He’s an absolute tyrant.”
Portia raised a brow as she set her teacup down with a hand that annoyingly shook. The earl sounded like a stodgy old boor. She’d have to reevaluate her plan for chasing him off. Diatribes on the innovations of ancient Roman road construction may not bore such a profound prig. She may need to rattle on about fashion and the latest on dit. Or perhaps current philosophies on female empowerment. That ought to chase off any gentleman averse to society, tonnish ways and freethinking females.
“And don’t think I’ve had a come-out.” Mina went on to say, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Can you imagine? Twenty-one and never a Season. Why, it’s barbaric.”
Portia could think of countless things more barbaric than that—the poor sanitary conditions in London slums that
bred cholera, yellow fever, influenza, and typhus epidemics; women selling their bodies in order to feed their starving families; children working long, exhaustive hours in unsafe foundries for miserly wages—but she held her tongue. This was neither the time nor place to air her many views on societal reform.
“That’s enough, Mina,” her sister said through tight lips, setting her cup down on its saucer with a sharp clink. Without looking down, Constance gave the cat at her ankles a swift kick. With a moaning meow, the ball of fur darted across the room in a streak of gray.
“Constance, stop tormenting Cleo,” Lady Moreton reprimanded, turning an aggrieved look on Portia. “That one is always antagonizing my poor pets.”
“My brother is a tyrant,” Mina repeated, her pretty face scrunched in a scowl.
“We may yet sway your brother into giving you a Season. Your youth has not completely passed.” Sighing, Lady Moreton looked to Portia in entreaty. “It’s tragic, but my grandson has…set notions that have prevented him from granting his sisters their come-outs. How old were you when you made your curtsey?”
Portia wet her lips, hating to be used as an example. “Seventeen.”
“And still unwed,” Constance leapt to point out, her voice ringing with smug satisfaction. “See, Grandmother, a Season does not guarantee matrimony.”
“I have no doubt that you are firmly on the shelf, Constance. But Mina?” Lady Moreton gave a swift shake of her head, her shiny sapphire-and-diamond earbobs swinging. “She still has prospects.”
Color flooded Constance’s face and Portia felt a stab of empathy. She had grown well accustomed to the veiled insult—and not so veiled. She knew firsthand how it felt to be scorned by one’s family.
Lady Moreton clucked her tongue. “Don’t scowl so, Constance. It ages you.”
With a rueful smile at Portia, Lady Moreton selected a biscuit from the ser vice, seemingly oblivious to having offended her granddaughter as she began tearing off pieces to feed the cat clawing Portia’s thigh. Instantly, cats of all colors and size descended upon the settee. Portia swallowed back her startled cry at the invasion. How many bloody cats did Lady Moreton possess?