Chapter 20

The Duke of Granville's early departure from the ball would rouse little curiosity. A man of his rank often called on several different events over any night to lend his consequence to more than one hostess.

But if the duke followed Portia too quickly, some sharp-eyed observer might note the coincidence. Despite his blood rushing at the thought of seeing Portia alone, he lingered to chat to a few political cronies, he partnered an incandescently happy Lily Bilson in a contredanse, and he made sure to appear in no particular hurry when he strolled out of the Bilsons' house half an hour after Portia's exit.

Behind him, the ball continued, a triumph for Mrs. Bilson and a memorable celebration for the engaged couple. Ahead was a rendezvous with the woman who occupied his every thought. He knew that he'd got the better end of the deal.

It wouldn't do for anyone to see the dignified Duke of Granville running through the streets of Mayfair. Once he was outside, and only with difficulty, he restrained himself to a swift, purposeful walk, even as his heart thundered like a whole battalion of drummers.

When he reached Dempster House, he even realized that he had the perfect excuse for staying out as long as he liked.

"Your…Your Grace," Matty said in shock, as Granville loomed out of the lamplit gloom. Jupiter let out a joyful yip and strained at the leash clutched in the lad's hand.

"Good evening, Matty." Two streetlamps stood near the front door, so it was easy to read the expressions on both the boy's and the dog's faces.

The boy performed a shaky bow. He wasn't quite as overawed in his employer's presence as he used to be, but he wasn't yet at ease. "Sir."

Granville gestured to Jupiter. "Sit."

Jupiter sat, his attention riveted on Granville. He'd been in alt ever since Granville's return to London this afternoon. He put up with Matty because he had to, but his heart was set on his master. Despite that master not taking any nonsense. Granville remained surprised at how fast he and his unconventional pet had established a perfect understanding.

"I'll walk him tonight. I feel like a stroll." Granville extended a gloved hand. "You get off to bed."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Matty passed the lead across. "It's a fine evening."

It was more than fine when it offered Granville a chance to meet Portia away from prying eyes. His smile was probably inappropriately bright when he responded. "It is, at that. Good night, Matty."

The boy cast him a startled glance before bowing again and making his way up to the front door.

"Shall we go and find our Portia?" Granville asked Jupiter, who was on his feet and wagging his tail.

Another surprise for Granville was how quickly he'd taken to conversing with the hound. It wasn't much use regretting the lack, but he wished his stiff-rumped grandfather had let him have a dog when he was a boy. He'd been a lonely child, and even these short days with Jupiter had proven what good company a dog was.

With Jupiter trotting at his side, he crossed the empty street to the garden in the center of the square. As he slipped through the black iron gate, he heard the chimes for eleven o'clock. Most society events wouldn't finish until around two, so with a bit of luck, he'd enjoy a couple of hours with Portia.

She wasn't waiting in the copse, which he supposed was a good thing, even if every second without her seemed wasted. Lorimer Square was among the safest places in London, but an unescorted woman shouldn't be out on her own in the dark.

Although knowing Portia, Granville wouldn't be surprised if she carried her pistol. She stood on her own two feet, and he admired her all the more for it.

He removed his gloves and unclipped Jupiter's lead so the dog could snuffle around in the bushes. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he strove to rein in his impatience. He took a deep breath and told himself to enjoy the anticipation. It was difficult, but he should look at it as the sauce that added extra spice to his need.

Until he'd met Portia, his life had – most of the time – been full of undeserved pleasures, if not precisely exciting. Meeting Portia had catapulted him out of a black-and-white etching and into all the drama of a Caravaggio oil painting. His days had color and flavor and impetus in a way that they never had before.

He hoped to hell that she never changed her mind about wanting him. The idea of reverting to that dull, gray man sent a chill down his spine.

In the quiet night, he heard the gate on the other side of the garden click and the scuff of her boots on the path. He straightened and every cell in his body tingled with exhilaration.

He was so attuned to her, he caught her hand without seeing it. She wasn't wearing gloves either, although she had at the ball. The warm slide of skin on skin smacked the breath from his lungs.

"You came," he murmured.

"Of course I did." Her fingers laced through his with gratifying eagerness. "It's been so long since you kissed me."

With a muffled laugh, he drew her closer, close enough to catch her floral perfume. When they'd danced together, that scent had tempted him to do things that had no place in a ballroom. Now they were alone in the dark, and he didn't have to act the gentleman. "Let's fix that."

His lips descended for a kiss clumsy with need, evoking poignant memories of the first time that he'd kissed her in his stables. Could that only be a week ago? He'd been through a lifetime since then.

With a broken moan, she plastered herself to his body. He stroked her derriere. Even through her skirts, he felt the luxuriant curves. She'd worn silk at the ball, but she'd changed into something in a heavier material that presented more of a barrier.

By God, he wanted her naked. He wanted her in his bed. He wanted her with him for the rest of the night. He wanted to wake up with her and spend the day at her side.

He just wanted.

Portia wanted, too. She never made any secret of that. Good intentions fled the moment that she stepped into his arms. She was so warm and ardent. So perfect and passionate. How could he go on without her?

He swung her around until her back collided with the tree. She gave a faint gasp against his lips, then snarled her hands in his hair to drag him closer. He hitched up her skirt and caught her under the buttocks, hauling her up until her quim was level with his aching prick.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, crooking her legs around him. She hooked her hands over his shoulders. He staggered as he took her weight, then braced her against the tree.

"I didn't…I didn't mean us to fuck," he grated out, pressing his cheek to hers and breathing air that smelled like Portia.

"Don't stop," she whispered and scraped her teeth along his jaw in an unmistakable invitation. "Please don't stop. I've missed you so much."

He'd missed her, too. Mad as that was, after less than a day apart. Only now that she was here did his world seem right. "Hold on to me."

She grasped his shoulders, as he shifted one hand from her glorious arse and ripped at his pantaloons. He was panting as if he climbed a mountain. During those heady days in Surrey, they'd come together like this several times. She knew what to do. Resting her thighs on his hips, she arched forward.

He released his cock and holding it, leaned in to find the slit in her drawers. His nostrils flared to take in more of her rich scent. The whole world became Portia.

She tilted her hips and took the tip of his dick inside her. The sensation became even more compelling when she clenched around the sensitive head. She was already hot and wet, and he fought the urge to lose himself before she climaxed.

"Stop teasing me," she rasped into his ear, then bit the lobe.

"Very well," he grated out and thrust hard. A blast of heat threatened to blow the top of his head off. When she nipped his ear more sharply, his balls contracted in pleasurable agony.

He began to move in heavy plunges that sheathed him to the hilt. The world exploded into a storm of bliss. Her rhythmic little moans spurred him on.

Her moans emerged more quickly as she approached her release. Her battle to muffle her cries stoked his arousal. He loved her ardent surrender. He lifted her higher to change the angle. With a muted cry, she succumbed to rapture.

His balls tightened, his blood turned to flame. With a mighty groan, he filled her with his seed. For a measureless interval of delight, he pumped into her, giving her everything he had, everything he was.

Struggling for air, he collapsed against her. His bones had turned to syrup. Thank God for the tree. He wasn't sure his legs would support him, let alone her as well. She quivered with the aftereffects, and her breath emerged in sobs.

For a long time, Granville remained where he was. He struggled to breathe. He struggled to think. Hell, he struggled to stay standing after that titanic release. He basked in having her in his arms. Just where he wanted her.

Through his exhaustion, he felt her bring her legs down. He slipped free, but didn't shift away. Now that he wasn't carrying her, he twined his arms around her. He loved fucking her. But he also loved these luminous moments once the crisis had passed. He fumbled between them to fasten his pantaloons.

After a long while, she pressed her lips to his neck above his high collar. Yet again, they'd set the heavens alight, yet remained fully dressed. He turned his head and caught her mouth for a kiss that expressed his joy in her.

She kissed him back, embracing him so he sank into those voluptuous curves. He surrendered to a dark paradise where he and Portia stayed together like this forever.

Portia drew away first. "Alaric?"

"Mmm?" He wasn't sure that he was capable of conversation. In such a perfect moment, reality was an unwelcome intruder.

"That was spectacular."

"Yes," he said on a long exhalation. "Yes, it was."

She stroked his cheek with a tenderness that he felt to his toes. "Spectacular. But you didn't pull out."

All Granville's glorious peace, the peace that was Portia's greatest gift to him, evaporated. He jerked upright and stepped back, heart clanging like a badly-tuned bell.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"Hell, Portia, I'm so sorry."

He reached for her, but she couldn't see him in the stygian gloom. She didn't take his hand. She didn't speak.

For fuck's sake, don't let her hate him. She'd hated him once. How would he survive if she went back to despising him?

Her silence had him rushing into speech in a way that the august Duke of Granville never did. "It's no excuse to say I want you so damned much that I can't put two thoughts together. I promised to look after you and I failed."

Still she didn't speak. By God, he wished that he could see her face. She had such expressive features. They always betrayed her thoughts, right back to her disapproval of her beloved sister marrying the man who she dismissed as the driest of dry sticks.

His heart lodged in his aching throat, while his stomach dived to his boots. He went on in a frantic gabble. "I beg you to forgive me. I beg you to give me another chance."

She wore a dark dress and it was black as the lowest pit of hell in the copse, but he sensed that she shifted. He braced for anger, but her voice was even. "I know you didn't do it on purpose."

He sucked in a relieved breath, his first full breath since he'd realized the vast extent of his sin against her. "You don't hate me?"

A faint huff expressed her scorn for that question. "As if I could."

Granville didn't speak. He was clever enough to know that more was coming. What would he do if she said that she'd never risk tupping him again? Until he seduced Portia, he'd merely existed. Only with her had he truly lived.

Her voice remained calm but stern. "I know this isn't what you want, Alaric. But if it turns out I'm carrying a baby, you'll have to marry me."

Shock had him speaking before he considered strategy. When strategy had guided him ever since he'd first kissed her. "I'll marry you tomorrow, if you like. I've had a special license in the top drawer of my desk since the day after we rescued Jupiter. If you say you'll become my wife, I'll be the happiest man in England."