Where the Heart Chooses (9 page)

“Thank you.” He smoked Winstons, I’d
learned, and he took one out, tapped it on the back of his hand,
and lit it. Then he leaned toward me and held the flame to the
Winston I’d put between my lips.

“Thank you.”

“You seem partial to violets.” He ran his
thumb over the enamel violets on the lighter before putting it
down.

“I am.”

“And yet you won’t let me buy them for
you.”

“I don’t buy them for me either.” I drew in
a lungful of smoke and began coughing, grateful for the
distraction. “S-sorry,” I choked as I crushed out the
cigarette.

“It’s odd, isn’t it? How we react to
different brands? I know someone who enjoys Camels very much, and
yet the only time I accepted one from him, I coughed as if my lungs
no longer wanted to stay in my chest, and I had a sore throat for
the rest of the day.” He ran his palm in soothing circles over my
back. “Better now?”

I drew a breath that thankfully didn’t
result in another coughing attack and reached for my napkin,
dabbing at my eyes. “Is my makeup ruined?”

“Not in the least.” He crushed out his own
cigarette.

“In that case, yes, thanks.” I folded my
napkin, set it down on the table, and reached for my coffee
cup.

“You’re quite the cook, Portia.”

“No. I’m quite the hostess.” I smiled into
his eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“You didn’t make all this yourself?” His
eyebrow rose to disappear under the lock of hair that spilled over
his forehead. I always had such a desire to stroke it back.

I burst into laughter. “How did you
know?”

“Your brother made a point of warning me
just before I left for the day.”

“Well, I had every intention of telling you
before you left. Are you disappointed?”

“I’m not. I think your talents lie in other
directions.”

I hoped he’d let me show him.

He glanced at his wristwatch and pushed his
chair back from the table.

“You’re not leaving!”

“I think it might be a good idea if I
did.”

“Why?”

“Shall I be truthful with you?”

“Please.”

“If I don’t leave now, I’m afraid I won’t
leave until morning.”

I rose and went to stand before him, and
rested my palms on his chest. His heart was beating in slow, heavy
thuds, and I could feel the vibrations. He looked down into my
eyes. Usually it irritated me when a man did that, but with Nigel…I
ran a fingertip over his lower lip. “Please stay.”

“Portia, you understand we won’t simply sit
on the couch and…and neck. If I stay, I won’t have any choice but
to make love to you.”

“Yes, please.”

“Portia…”

I went up on my tiptoes and brought our
mouths together. His lips were dry, and he wouldn’t part them for
me, so I ran my tongue over them, making it easier to brush my own
lips over his. He still refused to open his mouth. “So stubborn,” I
murmured and licked at the seam, teasing it. “I want you, Nigel. I
don’t say that casually.”

“Your brothers…”

“You won’t be making love to them.” For all
his objections, I wasn’t worried that perhaps he might like men.
The erection against my abdomen informed me that even if he did, he
liked me as well.

He groaned and finally met my tongue with
his as he scooped me up. “Bedroom!”

“Yes, darling.”

“No.” His laugh was strained. “Where is
it?”

I blindly gestured toward the door, and he
carried me there, kissing me the entire time.

* * * *

Afterward, Nigel groaned. “God, Portia, I’m
so sorry!”

“Why?” It had been the most amazing
experience, and I was still tingling from head to toe as
aftershocks rippled through my body.

“I…I didn’t pull out.”

I had made Nigel Mann, known to all and
sundry as the coldest, most contained man in Washington, lose
control. I wrapped my arms around him and kissed the corner of his
mouth. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Of course I do. If you become
pregnant…”

“I won’t. Before you arrived this evening, I
inserted my diaphragm.”

“You…you use a diaphragm?”

“Shouldn’t I? I don’t believe in being
careless.”

“I…”

“However, even if I should become pregnant,
I wouldn’t use that to entrap you.” All my life I’d seen how
unhappy my parents were, and I’d never subject myself to a loveless
marriage. I’d stay single and raise my child on my own.

“It wouldn’t be entrapment.”

“Excuse me?”

“There are two of us in this bed, Portia.”
He braced himself on his hands and looked down into my eyes. “I
can’t say I blame you for not wanting to marry me—”

“What?”

“What woman wants to marry a cold fish?”

I burst into laughter. “And what man wants
to marry an ice princess? Now, stop talking nonsense. You’ll have
to leave before dawn—”

“Yes. If your brothers discover I’ve been in
your bed, they just might see I become this century’s Abelard.”

I reached down, wedged my hand between our
bodies, and caressed his cock with my fingertips. “That would be
such a waste.”

“Portia, I’m serious.”

“I know. And so am I when I say I wouldn’t
allow it. Nigel, this is the middle of the twentieth century. I’m a
grown woman, and my decisions are my own.”

He cupped my cheek, ran his thumb over my
lips, and sighed. “I’d better leave.” He started to roll out of
bed.

“Not yet.” With both Jason and Folana I’d
had no problem leaving when it was time to go, but with
Nigel…”Please stay a while longer. It won’t be dawn for some
time.”

“
It was the nightingale, and not the
lark
?”

“Yes.”

“How can I resist you?”

“Do you want try?”

“Frankly? No. Portia, I…”

“Yes, darling?”

“I promise that I won’t hurt you.” He
settled himself on my body again, his cock nestled between my
thighs, and his weight was a pleasure.

* * * *

I met Nigel’s family at Thanksgiving. His
father was a petty bureaucrat who worked at the CIA as an attorney,
his stepmother aspired to be a society hostess, and his stepbrother
was the sort Father would label a wastrel.

It was an uncomfortable occasion.

“Good afternoon, Peabody,” Nigel said to the
butler as he handed him our coats.

“Good afternoon, sir. Everyone is in the
study.”

“Thank you.”

We walked into Mr. Mann’s study and found
that instead of the intimate family dinner we’d been led to expect,
Mr. Mann had invited a number of my parents’ acquaintances as well
as his business associates and their wives.

Nigel grew tense. “I’m sorry, Portia. I had
no idea.”

I took his hand and threaded my fingers
through his. “It’s all right.”

“Let’s get this over with.” He led me to his
father. “Good afternoon, Father.”

“What took you so long, Nigel?” His father
scowled at him. “Ada had to tell Mrs. Armstrong to put dinner back
until you arrived.”

“I apologize. Traffic.”

“Well, you should have given yourself more
time.”

Nigel didn’t respond to that. “Sir, may I
introduce Portia Sebring?”

“Mr. Mann.”

“My dear.” The scowl was replaced by a
fawning smile. He took my right hand and squeezed it. His grip was
tight and his palm was moist. Once he released my hand, I wiped it
surreptitiously against my skirt. “It’s so good to finally meet
you. I know your father, and I must say you have quite the look of
him. A more feminine version, of course. As you can see, I’ve
invited some familiar faces, so you won’t feel at a loss. Oh, and
this is Ada, my wife, and Addison, her son.”

She didn’t look happy to be an afterthought,
and I couldn’t say that I blamed her. Or perhaps she was annoyed
that he didn’t appear to regard her son as his son.

“How do you do, Mrs. Mann? It’s very kind of
you to invite me to join your family for Thanksgiving.”

“Miss Sebring. Algernon was very pleased
when he learned you and Nigel were keeping company. Although what
you see in him is beyond me.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice.
“You could do so much better with my son.”

Nigel simply looked disinterested. I hated
seeing that expression on his face.

“Indeed? I do very well with Nigel.” I
slipped my arm through his and smiled at her. “He’s a good,
honorable man.” I turned to her son. “Addison.”

“Where have you been all my life, gorgeous?
And now that I’ve found you, why don’t you ditch the iceberg and
let me show you what it can be like with a hot-blooded man?” He
took my hand, but he didn’t simply shake it; he grasped my upper
arm and stroked the bare flesh above my elbow. Pale, watery-blue
eyes that were set too close together crawled over the bronze silk
faille dress I wore, and I had to call upon the social smile Mother
had taught me before I entered school, or I would have curled my
lip at him. He was taller than Nigel, and heavier, and although he
was two years younger, his receding hairline matched his receding
chin.

I peeled his fingers off me despite the
desire to dig my fingernails into his hand.

“Portia, my dear, let me introduce you to
the rest of my guests.” Mr. Mann scowled at Addison, folded my hand
through his arm, and then took me around the room, as if I were a
prize to be exhibited.

Nigel was about to join us, when a young
woman caught his arm. He sent an apologetic look my way, and I
smiled back at him.

“You do seem to be taken with my son,” Mr.
Mann observed. I liked neither the sardonic way Mr. Mann regarded
his son nor his proprietary manner toward me.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” His jaw
dropped, and I turned to the couple who were standing to the side.
“Mr. Roberts, how nice to see you again. And Mrs. Roberts.” I knew
the couple from the visits they’d pay to Shadow Brook. “Mother was
saying just the other day that she hadn’t seen you in too
long!”

“Ah. I must give her a call. And how are
you, Portia? I understand you’re actually working.”

“Yes, Tony’s letting me help out at the
office. Father thought it would be a good idea until I was ready to
settle down. And how are your two boys? I believe Hamilton said
something about applying to Harvard?”

After chatting with the Roberts for a short
time, I went on to greet the Yorks, and then the van Burens.

Nigel’s father seemed surprised to see me in
action. Did he think I was a shy debutante who didn’t know my way
around society? Even when I’d been a deb, I’d never been shy.

I smiled up at him. “Why don’t you introduce
me to the woman who’s got a death grip on Nigel’s arm?” I walked
toward them, and he had no option but to accompany me.

He snorted. “Don’t like that, do you?”

“The fact that other women find Nigel
attractive? That simply compliments my choice in men.”

“Hmm. You’re as cool as he is.”

I just smiled at him again, and he gave a
braying laugh, which had everyone in the room staring at him,
something he ignored.

“Laura, this is Portia Sebring. Portia, Mrs.
Laura Garfield.”

“Mrs. Garfield.”

“Miss Sebring.” She studied my dress. “I
believe I have something similar in my closet. Of course I’d never
wear last year’s fashions.”

“I understand completely. However, you must
be mistaken. Yves designed this especially for me for my birthday
this year.”
Oh, no, you don’t want to trade barbs with
me!

“Yves?”

“Saint-Laurent, darling. Of course you know
he took over the House of Dior after Christian passed away. Lady
Portia and I were so saddened by his death, and of course we
attended his funeral. His designs were classic.”

“You knew Dior well enough to call him by
his first name?”

“Of course. He designed for me from the time
of my first cotillion.”

“Cotillion?” Her eyes seemed about to pop
out of her head.

“Oh, yes,” I said brightly. “And he did my
wardrobe when I was in London, and took special pains for the gown
I wore when I was presented at court.”

“Court?” Her voice was faint.

Nigel’s expression became mildly bored,
although I noticed the faint flush of red on his cheekbones. He
brought his hand to his mouth to muffle a cough.

“I was fortunate enough to make my curtsy
the year before Her Majesty abolished presentations.”

“Her Majesty?” Her complexion became
sickly.

Mrs. Mann stalked toward us and announced,
“We’ll dine now, Algernon. If we wait much longer, dinner will be
ruined.”

“Of course, my dear. Nigel, escort your
lovely companion into the dining room.”

“It will be my pleasure, Father.” Apparently
the blonde thought Mr. Mann meant her, but Nigel came to my side.
“Portia?” He smiled into my eyes, and I took his arm. As we entered
the dining room, he leaned down and whispered, “I hope you never
call me ‘darling’ in that manner!”

* * * *

I was seated at Mr. Mann’s right, and Nigel
was at the bottom of the table between his stepmother and Mrs.
Garfield. Addison, I was sorry to see, was seated to my right.

Throughout the soup and fish courses, Mr.
Mann persisted in talking politics, something Father would never
do, simply because Mother wouldn’t tolerate it at the dinner
table.

“The Democratic party must be desperate if
they’re touting that young senator from Massachusetts as their
candidate. The last thing this country needs is a Catholic in the
White House, and the people won’t stand for it! Nixon is sure to
get in.”

Not only politics, but religion as well.

Having had Mother as an example, I wasn’t
inclined to think much of Mrs. Mann’s hostessing skills. I would
have been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt if it hadn’t
been for her treatment of Nigel—she ignored him to the point of
rudeness. I disliked seeing that expression of cool indifference on
his face.