She saw she was right. The light humor that had marked him throughout their encounter was shadowed now by something else, and the way he was looking at the papers in his hand was disquieting. Surprisingly, she felt a kind of tenderness, a desire to comfort one who suffered.
Suffered?
“Are those not the papers you came for?” she asked.
His gaze flicked up to hers. “Do you think there is a collection of perfumed love-letters behind the fireplace? What an entrancing thought. I suppose I should check this….” He made no move to do so, however, but turned the papers contemplatively in his long fingers. “It would be a shame to leave with merely a laundry list pushed back there to seal a gap, wouldn’t it?”
Portia folded her arms primly. “That, my lord, is no laundry list.”
“Recognize the type, do you? Tut, tut, Hippolyta. Yes, I do indeed expect it to be a searing love letter, and one that is part of an illicit, rather than a holy love.” He was speaking lightly, but he was not composed of light. He was dark and coiled dangerously tight. Even though she didn’t feel he posed any direct threat to her, Portia shivered.
They stood there, frozen in the silvered silence for what seemed an age, but then he unfolded the paper and angled it into the moonlight.
She saw his face change.
He could not be otherwise than pale in the moonlight, but now his features tightened as if he read bad news. Portia put aside antagonism and went forward to place a gentle hand on his sleeve. “My lord, what is it?”
He seized her by the front of her gown. “Time for your secrets, Hippolyta. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“I’m the earl’s guest.” Her voice came out as a squeak, finally strangled by pure terror.
He pressed her back, back until she was flat against the wall. “No servants. No lights. A pistol, and an unholy interest in these papers. Try again.”
“There’s a candle in my bedroom.”
“And the pistol?” he queried in caustic disbelief.
“I heard someone break in!”
“And immediately came down to confront the burglar? What well-bred lady would behave that way?” But the terrifying surge of rage was leashed. “Your name, Hippolyta.”
She would give anything to be free of him. “Portia St. Claire.”
It didn’t help. He stared at her, new passion blossoming behind his eyes. “St. Claire?” he repeated quietly like a curse. “No wonder you’re so anxious to get hold of this letter.” His sudden smile was as pleasant as a rank sewer. “What, I wonder, are you willing to trade for it?”
She tried to press back into the solid plaster of the wall, away from his malice. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“No? But it is very damaging. Do you want proof?” Restraining her with one hand, he flicked open the letter. “It is addressed to Hercules from Desire. See what she writes. ‘Ithink of your mighty rod in my satin pocket and Weak Tea thinks I moan for him. When we met last week at the theatre, I was wearing your handkerchief between my legs—’”
She tore at his restraining hand. “Stop it!”
He stopped. “I think Desiree would expect you to try harder to get this back from me, Portia St. Claire.”
“I know no Desiree.”
“Come, come. We know it’s not her real name.”
“Real or not, I do not know her.” She struggled against his grip. “Let me go. Please!” Portia hated the plea in her voice, but she would grovel to get away. She was choking from fear, and her heart was racing fit to burst. She had never before encountered someone so filled with violent anger. “Just take your letter and go,” she whispered.
With his back to the long windows, his face was shadowed. “You are willing to let me leave with it without a fight?”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Then why did you try to steal it?”
When she did not answer, he shook her.“Why? ”
“Just to thwart you,” she gasped.
