Portia raised her chin. “I do not want your attentions, my lord.” Even saying it sounded ridiculous and she thought he might laugh.
Instead, anger flashed in his eyes. “You refuse myattentionswithout even discussing the matter, Miss St. Claire?”
“Yes. There is nothing to discuss.”
“It seems to me that there is a great deal to discuss.”
“No!” she protested, thoroughly alarmed by how little she wanted to repulse him. “There is no price you could offer, my lord, that would persuade me to be your mistress.”
He stared at her and now he looked just like her moonlight marauder—capable of attack. Portia earnestly prayed that a hundred eyeswerewatching this encounter.
But then the anger was leashed. “How very insulting,” he drawled. His cold eyes studied her, from her neat hat to her sturdy shoes, and all the while his crop tapped against his glossy boots. “What if I were to pay all your brother’s debts, Miss St. Claire? Would that weaken the shackles on your virtue?”
Portia felt her eyes widening. “He owes five thousand guineas!”
“Is he worth five thousand guineas?”
“His estate is.”
The light had entirely left him and he was darkly sober. “Everyone has his or her price. Would you be willing to give yourself to me body and soul for five thousand guineas?”
He surely could not mean it, but out of fear she hit back. “Areyouworth five thousand guineas, my lord?”
“Are you doubting my word?” he asked, coldly enough to freeze the pond.
“If I were to enter into such a wicked bargain, I would certainly have to see the money first.”
His breath hissed in. “You are a reckless woman, my Amazon, to insult me so.”
“I am notyouranything, my lord.” She tried to push past him, but he blocked her way with his crop.
“What if I make it ten thousand? Your brother clear of debt, your family safe in their home, a dowry for your sister…” He smiled, and his voice took on a satirical edge. “Would notthatbe worth your precious, too-long-hoarded virtue?”
The insult stabbed at Portia’s heart, but she was frozen. If he were serious, she couldn’t refuse. “You would pay all that?”
“Have I not said so?”
Portia gave a great, shuddering sigh and looked down. “Very well, my lord.”
He slowly lowered his crop and Portia watched, shivering, as it tapped his glossy boot again.
“Joan of Arc indeed. Your family is not worth it.” She could not read his tone at all.
She looked up to meet guarded eyes. “My family is worth any sacrifice, my lord. Is not yours?”
His chin jerked almost as if she had hit him. “I withdraw my offer, Hippolyta. I’m no woman’s sacrificial pyre.” With that he turned and strode away toward the mansion that was his home.
Portia sucked in a deep breath and told herself she was relieved. Of course she was relieved. Her family would never want her to purchase their security with her virtue. She had been raised to believe that death was preferable to dishonor.
But honesty told her there was a touch of regret in her heart. If it hadn’t been for that cruel comment about her long-hoarded virtue, the wicked plan might have been attractive. His words had reminded her, however, that she was past her prime. They had made it clear that his proposal had been a heartless joke springing from disdain not attraction.
He had never been serious.
When the door closed behind him, Portia regained some strength in her legs and could go on her way with dignity. She walked out of Marlborough Square, resisting all temptation to look back, or to think of what might have been.
Bryght stalked into the library and slammed the door so hard he only just avoided Zeno’s tail. The dog gave a reproachful yelp and settled before the fire with a sigh.
“Now that was a fine piece of work.” Bryght splashed some brandy into a glass and downed it. “Such charming behavior would be bound to win the heart of any lady!”
