The children were coming at a run.
The smiling nurse opened the gate, and they spilled out. The children ignored the man and lunged at the dog. It dodged. Portia gasped, thinking it must turn on the innocent tormentors, but she soon saw that this was a familiar game of tag.
The dog weaved and danced, and the children chased after.
“You like children?”
Portia swung back and found Bryght Malloren had crossed to her side.
“Of course I like children.” Her heart was pounding and she was sure her cheeks had turned brick red.
“There’s no of course about it. Little monsters, every one.”
“Your dog does not seem to feel so.”
“He considers these exercises a noble sacrifice in the cause of educating the young.” His tone was perfectly serious, but there was a devastating twinkle in his eyes.
Portia could not help but smile back. “He looks to me to be having a wonderful time, my lord.”
“Hush! He thinks he has us all fooled.”
Portia’s smile widened. He echoed it, and she wished he had not done that. It seemed so genuine, as if he, too, were delighted by this chance encounter.
It was all facade, she told herself sternly, but his expression was so warm that it could melt the coolest common sense into soggy idiocy.
He was dressed plainly today in a dark jacket, brown leather breeches, and black boots. His dark hair was simply tied back and a trifle wind-blown. He carried a tricorn and crop so he must just have returned from riding.
Unlike his satin and powder of the park, there was nothing about these everyday clothes designed to attract or impress. The effect, however, was even more perilous. Such simple clothes made him seem more ordinary, more the sort of man Miss Portia St. Claire of Overstead, Dorset, could be expected to know.
To like.
To love, even.
Good heavens, no. Never that!
“You live here, my lord?” This was to remind herself that no one who lived in Marlborough Square was ordinary.
“Yes, over there.” He gestured to the most magnificent house on this side of the square. “Don’t be too impressed, though. It belongs to my brother.”
“The Marquess of Rothgar?” High aristocracy, Portia. Remember that.
He raised a brow. “Have you been studying my family tree, Miss St. Claire?”
Portia turned away to watch the play—and to hide her reddening cheeks. “Certainly not, my lord. All the world knows such things.”
He must have moved closer, for his deep voice came from just behind her. “What else does all the world know?”
Portia swallowed, but kept her voice brisk. “Begging for compliments, my lord?”
He laughed, and moved round into her line of sight so she had to look up at him or be pointedly impolite.
Oh dear. If Bryght Malloren was handsome solemn, he was devastating when lit by laughter. He had placed himself so that they were too close, intimately close….
“I doubt,” he said softly, “that much the world has to say about my family could be construed as complimentary.”
“They say you are rich.”
“But what do they say of how we make our money?”
