Well, she certainly would not act the fool with a man she hardly knew, especially when most of what she knew about him was bad. He was a rake, and if he had any honorable intentions toward a lady, it was toward a walking fortune called Mrs. Findlayson. Worse still, he was an unrepentant gamester, the one thing above all she detested. And he thought the mere idea of fidelity and evenings by the fire amusing.
What, then, did she see in him?
Sex.
Her cheeks heated at the thought, but it was true. She was twenty-five years old and knew enough of such matters to understand that naked lust could strike the most sensible person. She would like to deny it, but the fact was that she was attracted to Bryght Malloren in a strictly physical way.
But powerfully.
Her body reacted to his body, and in her dreams last night…
She hastily returned to prying out some more coins.
If Oliver was mad about gaming, she was running mad in another direction. Her whole family was clearly unbalanced.
But it wasn’t just lust, she thought wistfully. He could be charming and had a clever tongue. She did admire a man with an agile mind and a sense of humor. Were he of a station closer to hers and not a gamester…
“Devil take you,” she muttered to a particularly uncooperative coin, though the words were intended for another target. “You’re a man, no more, no less. And not the sort of man for me.”
She counted up their money, both the coins still hidden and those in the pouch, and found they had just over a hundred guineas left. It was a great deal of money, but not if Oliver lost seventy a day!
Having done the best she could with their financial affairs, Portia turned to other matters. She settled to writing a letter home in case they had to stay here much longer. Hannah Upcott must assume her son and daughter were still in Maidenhead, but she would expect either their return or news.
Instead of writing, however, Portia’s pen began to sketch Bryght Malloren. Portia had some artistic skill and thought she caught part of the lean elegance of his features, but she could not catch the magic.
“There is no magic,” she muttered, and put some extra lines in his lashes, trying to convey the drama of his eyes.
It didn’t work. She doubted anyone would recognize him.
Which was as well.
She crumpled the paper and threw it on the fire.
Let that exorcise him from her mind.
Chapter 7
Portia ate a lonely meal brought in from the chop house by the landlady’s son. When Mrs. Pinney invited her downstairs for tea, Portia went because she was bored, but found she had to deflect a series of nosy questions.
Oliver didn’t come home until midnight. He said a brusque, “Good night,” and disappeared into his room. It was nearly noon when he emerged demanding breakfast.
Portia served him the bread and butter, and made tea with a kettle on the hob, trying to judge what he had been up to the night before. In his current mood he was a stranger. Just for something to say, she passed on Mrs. Pinney’s warning about the locks.
“I suppose we should be watchful for thieves,” he said and rose from the table. “In fact, I think I should take charge of our money.”
Portia stared at him. “Why?”
“It’s hardly a task for a woman.”
“I don’t mind.”
He fixed her with an alarming look. “Portia. Give me the money.”
Portia had never been afraid of Oliver before, but she knew there was a real risk of violence now. She bit back her arguments and went to get the pouch.
He weighed it with a frown, and spilled the coins to count them. “Hell and the devil, there’s scarce sixty here! Where’s the rest?”
Portia met his eyes calmly. “I used it to pay our rent well into the future.”
