Oh, the damage that could be done, should any of the servants learn there was a strange man beneath her roof at midnight. She had made some discreet inquiries with her butler, lady’s maid, and housekeeper this evening. However, she had still yet to discover who was the source of Granville’s information. She would not be spied upon in her own home, that she had vowed.
“You are my most unexpected guest,” she told Wolf through gritted teeth.
Part of her was thrilled he had come to her, finding his way inside through means she was certain had been positively criminal. However, the rest of her, the motherly instincts that had driven her steadily through all the unhappy choices she had been forced to make in her life, told her she must not allow herself to bask in his presence. She would need to send him on his way with all haste.
First, though, came the matter of Edwin. She had no wish for her son to become involved in her brother’s machinations. And she had no doubt that Edwin may, in his unknowing eagerness to impress the uncle he did not know was so dastardly, reveal Wolf’s nighttime presence here to Granville. She would need to proceed with caution. They both would.
Wolf sent her a knowing half grin that sent another unwanted rush of heat over her. “Ain’t unexpected guests the most interesting sort?”
When they looked and kissed as he did, yes. However, she could not very well give such an imprudent response, and not with her son as innocent witness.
“May I still have honey cakes tomorrow for breakfast, Mama?” interjected Edwin in a pleading tone that never failed to pierce her heart. “I only came to the library to find the Latin treatise Mr. Leslie spoke of during today’s lessons.”
She knew her son. He was intelligent and clever, but he most certainly did not enjoy reading Latin, and nor was he particularly adept at motivating himself to purse his studies. The latest report from his tutor, Mr. Leslie, had been a rather grim assessment of Edwin’s knowledge of Latin declension.
“Edwin,” she began gently, “are you telling me one of your tales?”
Her son shook his head, eyes wide. “Never, Mama.”
“Tales,” Wolf muttered. “That a lady’s way of saying a lad is telling a fib?”
She shot him a quelling glance. “It is none of your concern, sir.”
“Suppose not.” He shrugged, then crossed his arms over his not inconsiderable chest.
The man could have been hewn from granite. Indeed, in the flickering shadows, he appeared to possess the stature of a Greek god rather than a mere mortal man. He was all strength and lean muscle, tall and wide and overwhelming.
And handsome, too.
Cease thinking about how beautiful Wolf is, she cautioned herself, jerking her gaze back to her son.
“Edwin,” she tried again, “were you truly looking for a volume of Latin, or did you sneak into the library to work on your drawing again?”
Her son, while not naturally adept at the studies expected of him and other young lords, was a particularly gifted artist. Portia kept his pastel crayons and paper supply in the library, and she had already caught him on a separate occasion sneaking out of the nursery after he should have long since been to bed for the night. An unexpected advancement in one of his pictures had led her to believe he had been stealing away when he was not supervised by his tutor or herself. Ever since, she had taken to making one last pass of the library and halls before retiring in truth for the evening.
Her son bit his lip, and she could almost hear his mind frantically working to form a suitable excuse that would allow him his morning allotment of honey cakes.
“Edwin,” she prodded, uncomfortably aware of Wolf’s gaze on her.
It was like the heat from a fire, the effect of his stare. Like the touch of a lover on her skin. Her cheeks went hot. But still, her son did not save her by offering up a response. Instead, he shuffled his small feet on the carpets, looking torn between admitting the truth or attempting a lie to see if he might achieve the reward of his sweet breakfast treat after all.
“Lad,” Wolf intoned. “Are you certain you are telling your mother the truth?”
Her astonished gaze flew to him. He shrugged, then offered her a small smile. The words were on her tongue, crowding it, the admonishment he so rightly deserved. How dare he presume to interfere in the dialogue between herself and her son? He did not belong here, in this room, beneath this roof, in her life. And yet he believed that his intervention in the matter would inspire Edwin to admit he was lying?
It was absurd.
It was maddening!
It was—
“No, sir,” Edwin conceded, head hanging. “I am not telling Mama the truth.” His head shot up, his expression wary, looking as if he were about to burst into tears. “Have I disappointed you, Mama? I am sorry. I only wanted to complete my dragon’s tail, and then I would have gone to bed as you asked.”
Portia stared dumbly at her son. He had confessed the truth to a stranger, when he had been reluctant to admit it to her, his mother. She was at once pleased Wolf had been able to gently and easily coerce her son into the admission and resentful she had not been the one to do so herself. Yet another of her failings.
One in a litany of them.
“Edwin,” she managed to scold, giving him her most disappointed expression. “Lying is wrong, and so is leaving the nursery when are you to be abed for the night, getting your rest.”
“I am sorry, Mama,” he said, and promptly dissolved into a fit of weeping.
But it was the sort of sobbing where he valiantly tried to suppress his tears like the somber little lord he had been told he ought to be. Her heart ached. She gathered him in her arms and held him tight, relishing the feeling of his small, vibrant body next to hers, and buried her face in his hair, inhaling the familiar, beloved scent.
“Do not cry, darling,” she told him. “I am not angry with you. However, I will have your promise you shall not wander about so late in the night again.”
“I promise,” he sniffled.
Ever aware of Wolf’s gaze on her, watching, she lifted her head to meet the intensity of his hazel stare. The unguarded expression on his handsome face took her by surprise.
Tenderness, or so she thought. And longing too. Her heart gave an answering pang, and she knew that she was wading into dangerous waters indeed.
“Come then,” she told her son, “let us get you back to bed where you belong. Sir, if you would kindly escort yourself to where you belong as well?”
The last, she directed to Wolf.
He nodded. “Aye. I’ll do that, then.”
She licked her lips, wishing she could say more, wishing she could reach for him. Touch him one more time. But knowing she did not dare.
“Good evening,” she told him, and then turned with her arm around her son’s thin shoulders, guiding him from the library.
She swore she felt the heat of Wolf’s hungry stare on her as she went. But she did not turn back, not even for one last glance.
It was for the best.