Chapter 19

Mrs. Bilson's ball had been a highlight of the season since her daughter, Lily's debut in 1816. Lily's engagement to Alexander Comerford had been announced a week ago, so this year's event celebrated the betrothal. Portia couldn't miss it without her absence being questioned.

Before she'd spent three days in the country with her lover, that had seemed simple. It didn't seem simple tonight as she arrived at the Bilsons' house with Kate and Leighton. She hadn't wanted to return to London. She hadn't wanted to part from Alaric.

The Portia who came back to London was a different person from the Portia who had left. It was a shock to return home to discover that everybody treated her as they'd always done. That easy acceptance irked her, even if it was safe.

Since Juliet's marriage, she'd stayed with Papa because he needed someone to run his household. But now he was back in London, he was busy with his theatrical interests. He was home so rarely that a good housekeeper could manage the house without him noticing much difference.

Perhaps it was time for Portia to set up her own establishment. An establishment that she could fill with stray dogs and nobody to tell her nay. An establishment that offered a little privacy.

She couldn't avoid housing a chaperone, but she could choose one who wouldn't examine her comings and goings too closely. Mary would be ideal. Aunt Mabel would be happy to relinquish her current responsibilities and return to her dower house in Derbyshire. London was too noisy and crowded for her these days.

As Portia stepped out of the Shelburns' carriage, she had a sense that a new life beckoned. A new life where she could live on her own terms at last.

Tonight, she'd see Alaric. And tomorrow morning. They couldn't kiss or touch, but she'd bask in his presence, however briefly. It wasn't enough, but it would have to be until they arranged another tryst. Maybe the next time that she left London for Surrey, she'd depart from a house of her own.

"You're looking very jolly all of a sudden," Kate said with a hint of sourness, when she turned to check on why Portia lagged behind.

Startled, Portia gaped at her friend. "I'm happy for Lily."

She was. Alexander and Lily would go along together very well.

"I'm sure," Kate retorted, taking Leighton's arm and stepping toward the front door.

"Aren't you?"

"Of course I am, but you've been as dismal as a wet Sunday since we collected you."

"I haven't." She dipped her head to avoid the light of the torches blazing on the house's front steps.

"Definitely quieter than usual," Leighton said, tucking his wife's arm in his.

"I'm a little tired," Portia said. Both true and a massive understatement. Alaric's voracious sexual appetite had kept her awake for most of the last few days. During the week before that, nerves and longing had robbed her of sleep.

"You're looking a bit peaky," Kate said thoughtfully.

"How kind," Portia responded. "When I tried so hard to be at my best."

That was also true. She thought her new dress in teal-green satin became her. She'd spent more time than usual titivating, and Betty had put her hair up in a tumbling mass of curls. Portia wasn't too proud to admit that she wanted Alaric to admire her. In fact, she wanted him to take one look and burn to cart her off to bed.

They couldn't do anything about that in Mayfair. But if she had to hunger for him, by heaven, she wanted him hungering for her in return.

Leighton cast his wife an unimpressed glance before he smiled at Portia. "You look lovely."

"Thank you." Portia took his other arm, as they entered the tall, white house and swept up the elaborate staircase.

Luckily, the ballroom was so crammed with the bluest blood in the land – Lily and Alexander were a popular couple and they belonged to influential families – that once inside, Portia could avoid Kate without being too overt. Her friend had sharp eyes, and she was already suspicious of Portia and Alaric.

Portia was thankful that her sisters weren't in London. They'd know immediately that something significant had happened. The moment they saw her with Alaric, they'd guess who to blame.

A quick survey of the room as the dancing started allowed her to locate him partnering Lady Colville. Kate and Leighton danced together, and Portia accepted Ivor Bilson's invitation. He was so excited about his sister's engagement, he only mentioned fishing twice.

The ball went along as most balls did. Usually, Portia enjoyed the social whirl, but tonight her mind was focused on Alaric and how soon they could be together again. The first waltz took forever to arrive. When he crossed the room to claim her as his partner, she was with the Tierneys.

"Lady Portia, I believe this is our dance," he said, after acknowledging the others.

He looked like the man who had proposed to Juliet. Composed. Restrained. Elegant. He sounded like that man, too. Cool. Uninvolved. A stranger to passion.

But after three tumultuous days in his arms, Portia knew better. Her body still hummed with the pleasure they'd shared.

Which made it difficult to appear unmoved as she dipped into a curtsy. "Your Grace."

He took her hand and bowed over it. It was even harder to hide her immediate physical reaction to his touch. A wave of sensual memories assailed her, turning her knees to water.

The orchestra played the waltz's opening. Her hand tightened around his, and she dared to meet his eyes. He appeared wary, not like her insatiable lover at all. But the hand at her waist was possessive, and she was close enough to hear his shuddering exhalation at the contact.

The dance floor was crowded and offered no real privacy. But something jagged and restless inside Portia settled, now they were together.

"I thought my time would never come." Despite its quietness, his tone conveyed a fierce longing that had her stomach performing a dizzying swoop. "What do you mean by dancing with all these other buffleheads instead of me?"

Her hand moved in a surreptitious caress on his shoulder. Those aristocratic nostrils flared as if he drew in her scent.

"Those buffleheads are your friends," she protested on a splutter of laughter. Mostly because she was so happy to be in his arms again. She'd been in emotional tatters since she left him.

She didn't want to think about what that meant for her future. Because amidst all the joy and passion and intrigue, one thing remained clear. This was an affair, not a lifetime commitment. At some unspecified time, Granville would choose a wife, a perfect duchess, the kind of woman Portia could never be. And Portia would be left bereft and brokenhearted.

The familiar twitch of his lips. "Not anymore."

"Heaven help your political career." Like him, she kept her voice to a murmur.

"To buggery with my political career. I want you to myself."

For a blazing moment, she stared into his eyes. She realized that while he might joke about his frustrations, he was deadly serious. His urgency made her heart race with forbidden excitement.

Her hand tightened on his shoulder. "When can we go away again?"

"That's up to you."

"It will look strange if it's too soon," she said with a pang of regret. Right now, she was ready to consign society and its notions of propriety to Hades.

"Then meet me in the square after the ball."

"Alaric…"

He whirled her in a reckless turn, but she was already off-kilter with desire. "I have to kiss you."

"Not here," she managed to force out, struggling to look as though she despised the Duke of Granville.

"Damn it, I know." He sounded like he suffered.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered. "People will talk."

His grip on her waist firmed, even as he tried to adopt the blank expression that he always wore dancing with her. He wasn't very successful. She suspected that she made a similar dog's breakfast of hiding her turbulent emotions.

"This is…more difficult than I thought it would be."

"Yes." Desolation weighted the word. Because Portia didn't just mean avoiding the gossips' notice. She meant needing to behave as if she didn't love this man more with every breath.

Before she'd gone to Alaric's bed, the act had been onerous enough. Now after he'd buried himself deep inside her, it was nigh impossible to treat him like a mere acquaintance.

Even worse, she must act as if the duke meant nothing to her for as long as she lived. They moved in the same social circles. Unless she emigrated to France or America or far Cathay, they were fated to encounter each other every season. The idea of the torture ahead left her feeling like she was poised at the mouth of hell.

"Can I take you out onto the terrace?" His voice was stiff with the effort of concealing his feelings.

"People will notice."

"I'm devilish sick of people." He spat out the last word like a curse. Right now, Portia could only agree.

She chanced a quick glance into his eyes, then wished she hadn't. He looked like he wanted to eat her up with a spoon. The humbling truth was that she was more than willing to be devoured.

But not here.

She looked away and licked dry lips. His growl expressed intolerable frustration. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Lick your lips. It always makes me mad to kiss you."

And other things, she knew. In their three days in Surrey, he'd introduced her to so many debauched acts. Carnal memories sent blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Portia, stop it," he hissed.

He knew what she was thinking. Of course he did.

"I can't help it." Her voice vibrated with a frustration that matched his.

"Say you'll meet me tonight, if only to save my sanity."

With a feeling of grim inevitability, she heard the waltz move into the coda. Her time with Alaric had been so short. Now it reached its end. They hadn't even been alone. If they'd been alone, they'd be kissing.

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration." She strove to inject some mundanity into this fraught conversation.

His lips flattened. "It doesn't feel like one."

"If I stay until the end of the ball, I'll have to go home or Papa will lock me out."

"You could stay at my house."

Temptation tugged at her. A night with Alaric would be bliss. Last night, she'd slept alone. Except that she hadn't slept. Even after a few days sharing his bed, Portia had been unable to settle without him by her side.

She maintained enough grip on common sense to see the pitfalls of his suggestion. "Your servants would know. Heavens, my servants would know. The story would soon be all over London."

He was pale and determined, and the grip of his hands conveyed craving. "Then leave now," he said tersely.

Could she? It was easy enough to claim a headache. The Shelburns had already noted her edgy mood.

"Portia, for the love of heaven, say you will."

How could she resist? "Yes."

The tension seeped from his features, and he swung her in a triumphant circle. "Thank you."

"An hour?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes."

The music ended with a clash of cymbals and a harp glissando. She hated seeing him step away, even with the promise of a tryst ahead. "Shall I take you to the Shelburns?"

"Yes, please."

He caught her arm and made his way through the crowd. Portia struggled to maintain a neutral expression. She felt a battery of curious eyes upon her. Or perhaps that was her guilty conscience speaking.

Leighton and Kate waited near the refreshment table. They turned to watch Portia and Alaric approach.

"My lord and lady, Lady Portia is feeling unwell. Perhaps she should go home."

Alaric's voice was smooth, not at all like it was when he'd confessed his hunger. It expressed precisely the amount of concern a man should feel for the sister of his former fiancée.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kate said. "It's very close in here. Would a breath of air help?"

Portia sagged against Alaric in what she hoped was a convincing display of weakness. "I think…I think I'd rather just leave. Will you please make my apologies to Mrs. Bilson?"

"Of course," Leighton said.

"Shall I request your carriage, Lady Portia?" Alaric asked.

Kate came up beside Portia and took her arm. "She came with us, so please ask for our coach."

Alaric released Portia and bowed. "I hope you soon feel more the thing, my lady. I'll call tomorrow afternoon to check on your welfare."

"That's very kind," Portia stammered, performing a shaky curtsy. It might be kind, but it wasn't a good idea. He'd never called on her before. After their dance tonight, it would cause talk. Everything that they did risked unwelcome notice. She hated it. "I'm sure it's nothing serious."

"Nonetheless I'd like to reassure myself." Alaric bowed to the Shelburns. "My lady. My lord."

Portia struggled not to watch him stride away through the crowd. "I'm sorry to be a nuisance," she said to Kate.

Kate put her arm around her and helped her toward the double doors leading to the stairs. People assembled for the next dance, so nobody paid attention to two ladies making for the exit. "You'll be yourself in no time. Send me a note in the morning and tell me how you are."

Alaric waited downstairs. "The coach should be here soon. One of Mrs. Bilson's maids will accompany you, Lady Portia."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Portia said. "You're very thoughtful."

He was. She'd learned to appreciate his attention to detail when he'd spent three glorious days making love to her. He bowed again and left them alone in the foyer, apart from two silent footmen at the door.

"Shall I come home with you?" Kate asked. "You're looking rather flushed."

Without doubt, she was. She was in a flurry of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Alaric. "No need to spoil your evening. It's just across the square. The maid is chaperone enough for such a short trip."

"Very well."

To Portia's relief, Kate only spoke about trivialities before the carriage rolled up. How pretty and happy Lily looked. The extravagant ruby ring that Alexander had given his fiancée. Lady Colville's daring gown. The massed lilies adorning the room, a compliment to the daughter of the house.

Portia had feared that Kate might subject her to another inquisition about the Duke of Granville. Only when she settled into the carriage, a shy Irish maid sitting opposite, did it occur to her that Kate's silence on the subject of Alaric made a stronger statement than a barrage of questions.