Seven Wicked Nights (45 page)

“I was foolish. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience and your worry.”

“I do hope you’ve learned your lesson about acting impetuously.”

“I have, thank you.”

Eleanor pushed her toward the stairs. “Go on, now. We can’t have you catching your death either.”

Bridget, the maid she shared with Eleanor, was waiting for her when she entered her bedroom. The young woman clucked at her bedraggled state.

Portia stood where she was, her thoughts no place in particular. She was glad to be ministered to with no need to do anything but move as required to get her wet clothes off. The cold penetrated to her bones. Had that second rain washed away the smell of sex? Lord, she didn’t even know if Crispin had come on her clothes or his.

The maid unhooked the last of the fastenings of Portia’s gown. “You poor thing. You’re soaked to the skin. What happened?”

“Lord Northword and I were caught in the rain.” She pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her gown and was immediately caught up in another shiver. “We took refuge under a tree.” She fixed an image of the stream in her head, as if doing so would make it true. “By the stream. Near where my brother likes to fish.”

“So far from the house, Miss?”

“It rained so hard we were drenched. There was sleet, too.” That was true. There would have been sleet by the stream as well.

“And here you went out without a cloak. Goodness, why? Come closer to the fire, Miss.”

“Thank you.” She shivered again when Bridget stripped her of her petticoats and undergarments. The places where Crispin’s early beard had rasped against her skin were livid against her bone-cold skin. The bruise his mouth had left on her throat, the scrape left by his clothes against the inside of her thigh. She’d not felt any of that at the time, but she did now. Her skin contained the residue of his mouth, his hands and his cock, the sigh of his breath. Bridget would surely put the evidence of her deception before Eleanor. Ten years since her fall from grace, and she’d given up body and soul without a thought. She’d tried to love elsewhere. She truly had.

Wiped down, dried off, hair combed out, and her in dry undergarments, she came out of her dumb state when Bridget picked up the pink gown. “I’ll be up half the night with this.”

“Don’t bother.” She sank onto an armchair. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Crispin had done when he came to passion, other than she was sure he’d not come inside her. “It can wait.”

“If I don’t launder this right away, it will be ruined for certain.”

“If it can’t be saved, burn it.”

“Oh, it’s too pretty for that.”

“Keep it, if you like. Whether it can be saved or not.” She met the maid’s astonished gaze head on and managed a smile. “The color suits you better than it does me.”

“That’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss.” She scooped up the rest of the wet clothes and undergarments then whisked away the gown before leaving Portia alone.

With no one to distract her, her heart crumbled. Part of her soul had vanished when she and Crispin proved unable to make a future together. Today, she’d had him in her arms again, and she wasn’t sorry for that. She wasn’t. But she’d been left with a newer and more painful reminder of exactly what she’d given up ten years ago.

Chapter Seven

T
HE BLOODY RAIN HAD STOPPED AGAIN
. In Northword’s room, with its rear-facing windows, the light shifted with the constant change in the gaps of sky between the clouds. He held the note Hob had just delivered to him. He itched to toss it onto the fire. “No answer, Hob. Thank you.”

He left it to his valet to give Hob a coin, which was quickly and discreetly done. The moment the door closed, he crumpled the note—predictably, the sheet was scented—and threw it on the dressing table. It landed half on the portable secretary he’d brought with him and half on the abandoned leather strop.
Meet at his earliest convenience
. The devil he’d be summoned like he was a misbehaving son. Not again.

He yanked on his shirt sleeve. “Are we finished with this nonsense yet?”

“No, milord.” His valet was even tempered, thank goodness, since at the moment, Northword wore nothing but a shirt and clean breeches.

“Get on with it.”

After that display of impatience and having to endure the arrangement of the rest of his clothes, he fussed more than usual with his appearance. He wanted to strike just the right note of lordly perfection before he went downstairs to face the wife of his closest friend. He was prepared to answer any and all charges laid at his feet. He would not give honor short shrift. Not ten years ago, and not now. He studied his reflection and decided, just this once, that his resemblance to his father was acceptable. His father had been a ruthless, heartless specimen of manhood.

He went downstairs to the parlor, reminding himself that he could not blame the woman for being concerned about Portia. The truth was, he
had
done precisely what one imagined happened when a man ended up alone with a woman. He half expected Magnus to be there waiting to accuse him, too, but he wasn’t.

Mrs. Temple was just lifting a dish of tea to her lips when he walked in. She raised her eyes and smiled, and there was no anger in that smile, not the least sign of disapproval. He lifted a hand when she rose. He remembered the expression on his father’s face when he had been called to account. His father had not smiled. “Please, don’t stand on my account.”

“Lord Northword. Thank you for coming downstairs so quickly.” Mrs. Temple stood and curtseyed, unnecessarily deep if you asked him. He wasn’t the damned Prince Regent. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” There was a tray of chevron-shaped shortbread on the table and two plates. The one before her had one of the familiar chevrons on it. The shortbread at Northword House had always been shaped thus.

She poured for him without asking his preference and moments later handed him a cup of tea adulterated with more milk than tea, for God’s sake. She gazed at him with that guileless, ravishing smile of hers, and it did absolutely nothing for him.

He took the cup and set it down. He did not care for milk in his tea. Sugar only for him. “Thank you.”

“Tea is so much more healthful when one drinks it with milk.”

He helped himself to the sugar only to have her tap the table by his tea cup. “My father’s physician instructed him to take a cup every morning, prepared just so. Without sugar.”

“Indeed?” She meant well. She did. A wisp of steam curled from the surface of his tea cup. He dropped in three lumps and then, in a moment of childish rebellion that was far too satisfying, added two more just to watch her horror. “It’s not my habit to take milk with my tea.”

She blinked several times, and his immediate instinct was to backtrack. She was not the sort of woman to see nuance in word or deed. “You ought to, my lord. After your adventures in our weather today, extra consideration for your health is in order, don’t you agree?”

“I enjoy excellent health.”

“Who’s to say it will stay that way?” Her hand fluttered around her upper chest. “Why, just today you were caught in a storm and soaked to the skin. I shouldn’t be astonished at all if you took ill as a result.”

He blinked, took stock of his state and decided he was mildly offended and feeling decidedly manipulated by that wide-eyed look of incipient distress. “Thank you for considering my longevity.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.” She beamed at him, and such was his irritation over tea with milk, he had almost no regret for his ironic tone. Besides, she gave no sign whatever that she’d heard the edge in his reply. “It was no trouble at all. I think you’ll find you’ll quickly acquire a taste for milk with your tea.”

“I dare say you mean I will learn to like a bit of tea with my milk.” He laughed and smoothed out the emotion that had sparked his pointed response. He failed, for the bite remained. Was he not better than this? This was not a woman of subtlety, and it was not kind of him to behave so with her.

Her eyebrows drew together and she tipped her head to one side. Portia, he thought, would have laughed out loud. But then again, Portia would have known better then to put milk in his tea. He sipped the concoction, and her smile turned incandescent. “Well?”

Undrinkable swill. He forced a smile, because, after all, he would not hurt her feelings for the world.

“I’m glad you like it.” She drank some of her tea. “I don’t know what to make of this weather,” she said. “It’s March, nearly April, yet, goodness. As cold and wet as December.”

“Is it?”

“What plans have you for the remainder of the day, my lord?”

He put off the necessity of speech by taking a bite of shortbread. “This and that.”

She tilted her head and smiled cheerfully. Beautiful woman, sublimely so. But she was married to Magnus Temple, and in so far as his physical tastes went, he’d never been partial to blonds. At the moment he couldn’t conceive of taking any woman besides Portia to bed. If he were to have that choice again. If there were any hope of repairing the break between them. Which there was not.

“I thought I’d walk out with Magnus later. To Up Aubry for a pint.” He glanced out the window where there was now not a sign of a rain cloud. “If the weather holds as it looks to be doing. Improves the health, a good brisk walk.”

“Oh, dear.” She folded her hands on the table. “I’m afraid Mr. Temple is not likely to be back from West Aubry in time for that.”

He selected a piece of shortbread before he responded. “I didn’t know he meant to go.”

“He had parish business to attend to.”

“Nevertheless, he should return in ample time.”

“It’s quite a long ride to West Aubry and back.”

“By the road, yes. But he’ll have walked. With the weather like this, he shan’t be delayed for anything but his business.”

“Oh but he did not walk. He rode.”

“Why would he ride?” By the road under these conditions, West Aubry was at least two hours distant.

“He would have had to walk through your private lands.”

“Yes. And?”

“Enclosed lands. I’ve told him not to presume upon your good graces when that walk takes him within sight of your house.”

He frowned. “He’s always done so. Walked past Wordless—”

“Oh, I cannot approve.”

“Of what? Magnus taking the shortest route to West Aubry?”

“There are a great many things of which one cannot approve.” Her tone of voice gave him an unpleasant shock, for he’d begun to believe he would escape an uncomfortable conversation about him and Portia.

She gave him another ravishing smile. “Forgive me, but your estate, my lord, is Northword Hill. Not Wordless. It’s not respectful of anyone to call it that. I’ve told Mr. Temple he mustn’t. Portia, too, though she hardly listens to a word I say.”

“Why, when I don’t mind?” He put down his half-eaten shortbread. “Call the place what you will, Northword Hill, Wordless, or that ‘moldering pile of stones,’ your husband has always had leave to walk through the property. Even when my father was alive.”

She smiled as if she knew a secret and did not intend to share.

“I’ve no issues with him or anyone from the Grange continuing to do so.”

“It’s a matter of what’s proper, my lord.” She got that lost look again, and it did tug at his heart. He resisted the urge to comfort her. “A man of Mr. Temple’s position and station in life, who has dedicated himself to the work of God, cannot be seen by his parishioners to act in any way that is improper.” She dabbed at her mouth. How did Portia endure this without going stark raving mad? “That holds true for all his family. All we Temples must be above reproach. His wife and his sister included.”

He ate his shortbread without tasting any of it while he marshaled his thoughts and temper. Surely, he thought, she did not mean to be so officiously and stupidly nice about Magnus doing what he had always done, and with his blessing. And surely it was only his guilty conscience that made him think she was working her way toward a condemnation of him being out in the rain with Portia. In the stable block with their clothes undone or tossed up, neither of which facts she could possibly know.

“I think, Mrs. Temple, that your distinction is too fine.”

She plucked another chevron of shortbread from the tray and ate it slowly. “When we fail to observe the niceties we court the danger of failing in our larger responsibilities. To God, to ourselves and to others.” He could practically hear Magnus speaking through her words. “Does not the Bible tell us to respect our elders and those who are in a position superior to us? As those who are our superiors must be mindful of what is best for those beneath them in rank and consequence.”

“I’ll grant the inhabitants of Doyle’s Grange an easement to cross the estate lands.” He shrugged. “I’ll write to my solicitor and have it done.”

“Until then…”

He was so desperate to put off the looming unpleasantness that he changed the subject with an utter lack of tact or finesse. “I’ve known Magnus and Portia since I was a boy. We have always been on the best of terms. I should hope you believe there’s little I would not do for either of them.”