Worth it.
He banished the inner voice and cleared his throat. “You’ll be wanting to hold tight to the creature so it doesn’t escape and get trampled beneath the wheels of a passing carriage.”
Lily pursed her lips, giving him a look he recognized. “And how do you suppose I have been caring for Sir Bellingham all this time without your intervention, brother?”
The carriage door opened, saving him from having to answer.
Shaking his head, Wolf rose from the bench seat. “You’ve a sharp tongue, sister.”
He descended from the carriage and turned to help her disembark as well. Since her hands were already full of orange fur, he settled his hand on her elbow. He needn’t have bothered. Lily was as light on the old dew beaters as a bird.
And so it was a surprise when she took a few steps, still clutching the cat in her arms, and stumbled to a stop, nearly spilling to the pavements. Wolf was there, catching her, keeping her steady. But her gaze was trained upon another carriage, which had already arrived prior to theirs.
“Tarquin?” she asked, almost to herself.
Wolf’s suspicions, already heightened, were on guard. “What is amiss, Lil?”
Blinking, she shook herself and offered him a smile that was, he thought, falsely bright. “Nothing, of course. Let us go and see to the children, shall we?”
Wolf did not think he was incorrect. Something was indeed wrong. His youngest sister, who had such worldly advice to impart to him concerning love and the heart, was clearly embroiled in some manner of romantic troubles herself.
But how?
And with whom?
It was yet another mystery in a sea of them, for it seemed that the most important women in his life were determined to keep their secrets to themselves rather than confiding in him. And Wolf did not like it. Not one goddamned whit.
“Aye, let’s see to the children,” he said smoothly, guiding Lily toward the entrance of the unassuming foundling hospital. “And to this Tarquin, whomever the devil he may be.”
But as they ascended the front walk, he found himself not just thinking of the mysterious gentleman who appeared to be plaguing his sister, nor solely about the children within, but rather about Portia and her son. About his heart, recognizing itself. And then about how soon he could see her again. There were ways. He would find them.
He was a bloody fool.
The worst sort.
* * *
Portia was a fool.
A reckless, silly, selfish fool.
Because all she could think about was Wolf.
Which was why, when the summons finally arrived from the Duchess of Montrose, Portia bundled herself into her carriage with the haste of a lady who had Cerberus on her heels, and practically ran to see Hattie. It wasn’t Hattie awaiting her in her friend’s salon, however. The man standing at the window, his back to her, was tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably him.
“Wolf,” she said, rushing to him before the door had even closed behind her.
He opened his arms as if it were the most natural reaction in the world, for her to come hurtling toward him as if she were a ball shot from a cannon. And she didn’t falter in her stride until she was where she had longed to be ever since she had last reluctantly left that position: tucked against his chest. His musky, citrus scent enveloped her, at once familiar and alluring. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.
Days had passed since she had last dared to venture to The Sinner’s Palace.
And she had missed him.
“I missed you, Countess,” he murmured, his words an echo of her own feelings.
She tipped her head back to feast on the sight of him, the strong blades of his cheekbones, the finely sculpted mouth, the slash of his nose, his stubborn jaw. “What are you doing here? Hattie’s invitation made no mention of you.”
“Fortunately, your duchess is acquainted with my brother Jasper’s wife. Lady Octavia was able to vouch for me. Her Grace is otherwise occupied for the moment, but she was kind enough to allow us the use of this salon.”
Portia resisted the urge to press her lips to Wolf’s, for she did not suppose her friend intended them to use her salon for wicked purposes. Instead, she cupped his cheek, relishing the reassuring warmth of him.
“It is reckless of us to meet.”
But she was glad he had managed to involve Hattie in his scheming. She would not deny it. Her heart was overjoyed to see him. And her body was overjoyed to have his so temptingly near.
“I trust the Duchess of Montrose is not the scoundrel responsible for the bruise on your cheek,” he said solemnly, his gaze searching her countenance.
She supposed he was looking for further injuries. However, her brother had been too busy with other duties to pay her a call, and she had ventured to a sedate supper with his wife which had been blessedly uneventful, unattended by Granville who had been at his club instead. She had not minded the reprieve. He did not often resort to violence, but knowing he was capable of it did not render his interviews particularly comforting.
“No,” she answered Wolf quietly. “She is not.”
He traced the backs of his fingers over her cheek in a caress that was so tender, her knees trembled.
“Will you tell me who is?” he asked.
She should have anticipated the question, she knew. But speaking of her brother, and the ugly, stinging slap he had delivered to her, was the last thing she wished to do when Wolf was within reach after so many days of agonizing waiting.
“Please do not ask it of me.” She bit her lip to stave off the sting of tears.
He shook his head, his nostrils flaring. “I wish you would allow me to help you. I would give the bastard the thrashing he so richly deserves.”
If only her problems could be solved by Wolf squaring off against Granville. She knew who would emerge the victor; without question, it would be Wolf, whose size and muscled physique would overpower Granville’s claret-induced paunch any day. But all that such a meeting would accomplish was Wolf being sent away to one of London’s vile prisons and Granville taking Edwin from Portia for good.
No, her position was untenable at best and hopeless at worst. Nothing could be changed.