She patted her son on the back in a gesture meant to comfort. “It was an accident. One of the maids unintentionally overset it.”
That was a lie, and one that made precious little sense, but she could only hope he would not ask further questions.
Edwin frowned at the wall.
“Go on,” she urged him. “Mr. Leslie will be wondering where you are.”
“Yes, Mama,” he said at last, performing a reasonably elegant bow for a lad of his tender years.
She watched him hasten from the room, taking part of her heart with her, and then allowed herself to drift into her thoughts yet again. Thoughts that were quite unlike the ones which usually occupied her mind. Thoughts of Wolf.
Of his clever lips on hers.
His skillful hands on her body.
Of him, deep inside her, their bodies joined.
She had been the first woman to whom he had made love, and she could not seem to crush the fierce, possessive pride that knowledge sent through her by the cheerful light of the morning. She needed to do something else, to seek diversion by some other means.
A discreet knock at the door distracted her as if on cue. She turned from her listless pacing of the carpets.
“Come,” she called.
It was Riggs, the butler bearing his customary morning salver containing her correspondence. “Your letters, my lady.”
“Thank you. In the ordinary place, if you please.” She moved to the window, gazing unseeing down at the street below while Riggs laid out the morning arrivals. “Riggs, are you certain all the windows and doors are secure here at Blakewell House?”
“Of course, my lady,” he intoned.
She wondered for a brief moment if the butler were the source of Granville’s information. But no, she did not like to think it, for he had been quite loyal and good to her through all the years of her marriage.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to him with as much of a smile as she could muster. “That will be all.”
The butler’s gaze slipped over her shoulder, and she knew he was looking at the stained paper-hanging. But to his credit, he said not a word about it. With a bow, he withdrew from the chamber, leaving her alone yet again.
Thinking that her correspondence ought to at least prove some small manner of distraction, she moved to her writing desk where it awaited her and seated herself. Calmly, Portia began the morning ritual that had always been a source of great satisfaction. A letter from Blakewell’s sister, Lady Jane, an invitation to a musicale from the Countess of Rayne, and a letter from her old friend, the Duchess of Montrose, reminding her about her ball three days hence.
Then a missive in shaky scratch she recognized, for it belonged to Mrs. Courteney, Avery’s mother. Avery needs your help, it read. I beg you, do not forsake him. Her heart gave a pang at the notion her half brother was in some manner of trouble, until her eye chanced to the next paragraph, where Mrs. Courteney requested the sum of one hundred pounds, on behalf of her son, that she might aid him in his difficulties.
Suspicion cut through her, the same suspicion that had led her to The Sinner’s Palace, chasing after her long-lost brother. If Avery was indeed alive and well, and if he were truly in need of assistance, Portia would be more than happy to help him however she could, as long as she was able to keep her efforts from Granville. However, she was beginning to suspect Avery’s mother was lying for her own prospective gain.
Frowning, Portia set aside the note from Mrs. Courteney and reached for the last missive on the bottom of the tidy pile. And it was that letter, far more than the others, which made her heart pound with secret pleasure and her face suffuse with heat.
In a pronounced masculine scrawl, it simply read My offer still stands.
Although it was unsigned, no doubt in an effort to save her from prying eyes or speculation, Portia knew who had written the letter. Wolf. With a trembling hand, she raised the letter to her nose, hoping to inhale a hint of him, however small and brief. Unfortunately, there was not a trace of citrus and musk.
His offer.
What was he implying?
Hadhe made her an offer? Most certainly not to be his mistress, which was out of the question, and nor to be his wife, which was equally impossible, and would have been utterly foolish given they had only known each other for the span of two days. What, then?
She missed him. He had only been gone for hours, and yet the sight of his bold penmanship and the knowledge he had thought about her enough to pen her a note and send it to her so that it would arrive this morning increased her longing for him.
“Oh, Wolf,” she whispered, staring down at the letters until they swirled before her eyes.
What if she could see Wolf one more time? It would not be purely selfish if she sought his help, would it?
No answers came to her save one.
An equally impossible one, it was true. Daring, reckless, and utterly foolish. She could not do it. There was no way.
Or could she?