CHAPTER3
“His lordship, the Marquess of Granville, is calling, my lady.”
Portia bit her inner lip to keep from wincing in dread at the butler’s announcement that her odious brother had chosen to pay a call. She had known Granville would. Indeed, she had spent much of the night before sick with dread after she had been too flustered from her visit to The Sinner’s Palace to attend the ball as he had expected of her.
However, she had not supposed he would arrive at this early hour, and the very next day, instead of merely sending a strongly worded missive expressing his displeasure. Apparently, her lack of obedience had heralded the need for a vicious upbraiding face-to-face. Her hands trembled as she pulled the needle through her embroidery and set it aside in a basket.
She pinned what she hoped was a serene smile to her face as she rose to her feet. “Please see his lordship in, Riggs.”
With a bow, the butler took his leave, allowing Portia a few frantic moments to prepare herself for the distasteful interview which was bound to follow. The cheerful sun slanting through the windows of the sitting room where she preferred to spend her mornings provided no comfort. The care she had taken in decorating the chamber was lost on her now.
After Blakewell’s death, she had, for the first time, begun to make her mark upon the town house. She had spent her marriage being made to feel a guest, forever reminded of the good fortune which had fallen into her lap, saving her from ruin. Her life in exchange for her son’s. Despite the cold, unhappy marriage she had shared with Blakewell, Portia did not regret her decision. Given the chance, she would do the same, if it meant giving Edwin the life he deserved.
And now, here was her turn, with her period of mourning at an end, to live a bit of the life she deserved. At least, as much as the rigid strictures placed on her would allow. She had chosen to express herself in the decoration of her home. Elegant paper-hangings, pictures painted by artists of her choice rather than the staid representations of generations of earls and countesses long gone. A writing desk situated by the window, where she happily conducted her correspondence in the glow of the natural light. Books on a small shelf that were of interest to her alone…
“Sister.”
Granville’s presence at the threshold, coupled with the frigid disapproval in his voice, was enough to chase her from her brief, fanciful enjoyment of her surroundings.
She dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Granville.”
Formality was of the utmost import to her brother, and since he was the guardian Blakewell had appointed for her son, Portia had no choice other than to live her life according to Granville’s expectations.
“I understand you were ill yesterday evening,” he said, venturing into the room just near enough that he would not be forced to conduct their conversation with the chance of servants overhearing.
A sliver of relief slid through her. If he was not close, and if the door to the sitting room remained open, then perhaps she would be spared the punishment he often chose to inflict in his moments of rage.
“Yes,” she said calmly, agreeing with the lie she had sent as her excuse, hoping he did not hear the tremor in her voice.
Prevarication was a sin Granville did not tolerate. Along with fornication without the bonds of marriage. And ruining herself by allowing a lord to steal her virtue. Naturally, Landringham, as Granville’s friend, had never been made to suffer for his sins as Portia had. The woman always bore the burden in such matters, as Mother had fretfully explained when she had discovered Portia’s courses had failed to arrive.
Clasping his hands behind his back, her brother stalked deeper into the room, though not before discreetly toeing the door closed. “What manner of illness?”
Her hope that this interview would proceed in a civilized fashion vanished.
She swallowed, trying not to think about the unexpectedly heated, entirely forbidden moments she had shared the evening before with the man she knew only as Wolf. “I was feverish.”
That much was true, but not because of any sickness.
Rather, she had been brought to life for the first time in years.
All because of an East End rogue with a tinge of the rookeries in his speech and callused hands that had felt far too good on her bare skin. As if they belonged there.
“Feverish,” Granville repeated coldly, his countenance implacable.
It was impossible to determine whether or not he was disappointed or furious with her. Neither boded well.
“Yes.” She held her brother’s gaze, unflinching, hoping he would not read the lie in her eyes or the guilty warmth she could not help but to feel creeping into her cheeks.
Her mind was filled with sinful remembrances. Wolf’s mouth on hers, his tongue sweeping past her lips, his hand, sliding unerringly between her legs. Dear heavens, if Granville knew she had been playing the wanton at an East End gaming hell, he would take Edwin from her forever. And that, she could not bear. That, she could not allow.
“Why was I not informed that you were ill until the last possible moment?” His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into the harshness of his voice.
Because I was not ill at all. Indeed, to the contrary, I have never felt better than I did yesterday evening.
She could not say that. Telling the truth was dangerous. And reckless. As reckless as she had been, years ago. And then again last night.
Portia swallowed. “I did not wish to burden you or Lady Granville.”
Her brother’s lip curled. “You are dissembling.”
Icy tendrils of fear crept into her heart. There was no way he could know she was not telling him the truth. No means by which he could be certain she was being deceptive.
Her chin went up, and it required all the calm she possessed to maintain a placid countenance. “Why should I lie to you, brother? You must forgive me, I pray. I had every intention of attending your ball as you had requested. However, I became so ill that I was concerned I would bring shame upon you. I had no wish to swoon or otherwise act in an untoward manner.”
Granville stalked nearer, stopping at her writing desk, trailing an idle finger over the polished surface. “Shame such as that which you brought upon our family when you chose to lie with Landringham outside the bonds of marriage?”
Her jaw clenched, for she hated the old wounds, so easily torn open even after so much time had passed. “Hardly that manner of shame, my lord.”
“You went to a den of thieves and whores last night.”
His voice was soft. Deceptively so.
The accusation hung in the air.
Everything inside her froze. “No.”