“Oh yes. Absolutely.”
At the tone of his voice, Portia shivered. “Why?” she demanded faintly.
“Still so innocent? In the natural desire that it will go as it did the other night, and that Rothgar will not return for an hour or so. Why else?”
She raised a hand to her heaving chest. “You are still trying to ruin me?”
His eyes snapped open, sparking anger. “It appears you are still trying to insult me.” Then his tone softened. “I have every expectation of marrying you, Portia, and I have no objection to anticipating the ceremony.”
“But you don’t have to marry me,” she protested, feeling as if she were trying to explain matters to a simpleton. “You say there will be no duel, and I realize now that what happened at Lady Willoughby’s was not so terrible. Even if my reputation is tarnished, I’m headed for a life of obscurity where no one will care a fig.”
He stood and came toward her. “I, however, am not. I must continue to move in Society. I have no intention of being dogged by rumors that I raped a woman and abandoned her to a life of dismal shame in the provinces.”
She backed away. “I will tell the world it is not true.”
“From Dorset? And half the world will not believe you, no matter what you say.”
He was only feet away now. She was reminded of Maidenhead where his size and purpose had defeated her opposition.
“Are you saying I must marry you to saveyourreputation?” she asked faintly.
His eyes twinkled. “Precisely. And our subsequent delight and happiness will kill any shreds of doubt.” He pulled her into his arms.
She braced her hands against his chest. “There must be another way.”
“Can you see it?”
Her arms lost strength and she was against him. “No.”
His fingers moved into her hair.
“What…?”
“I am completing the disintegration of your hair arrangement. I’ve had a driving desire to see it long and loose since our first meeting.”
The pins were gone and his hands threaded gently through her hair and spread it. “It is fire in the firelight….”
“My lord,” said Portia faintly, “this is madness….”
“Then let us be mad.” And he kissed her.
The power of it almost buckled her knees, but she struggled for sanity and wrenched her mouth away. “My lord, this is wrong.”
He captured her hair and looked into her eyes. “We will marry on Wednesday. Do not deny me now.”
Something she saw there—a need, a wanting—almost melted Portia’s resistance, but she tried one more time. “We need not marry. We need not. There must be a way.”
“There is not. You are my wife. Surrender to me.”
Desire—a raw need created in her by this man—hovered, ready to strike, but still Portia resisted. “It would bind us….”
“We are already bound.” He swept her into his arms and carried her toward the fire to lay her on the carpet there. She felt sudden heat along her body, but she was no hotter there than inside, where wild passion flickered.
She was a wanton. Decent, proper Portia St. Claire had fallen away like a shell to reveal the creature beneath, a creature of desires, a lover of sensation, a woman who lusted after this man and the pleasure he could bring.
He stripped off his shirt and tugged the ribbon from his hair so he looked just as he had at Mirabelle’s. Portia just lay there, hair loose, skirts disordered, drinking in the sight of him.
He knelt by her and cradled her cheek. “Firelight becomes you. You are a creature of flame, Hippolyta, and very beautiful.”
