Chapter 3

Across the maroon leather interior of the coach, Portia watched the Duke of Granville stare out the window with a pensive expression. Like a perfect gentleman, he sat with his back to the horses. He was a perfect gentleman. He'd even taken Juliet's rejection with notable gallantry.

She wished to heaven that she knew why his refined manners irked her so much.

They still drove through the East End. They'd stumbled on the duke's carriage soon after she'd obtained his reluctant agreement to take Jupiter in. From there, they traveled to the rendezvous point that Portia had set with Rankin, her coachman, so he knew she was safe.

Portia had a lot of respect for a good coachman. She couldn't manage her rescues without Rankin, and he took charge of her menagerie if she was absent. The duke's coachman was clearly another paragon. Phipps hadn't raised an eyebrow when his passengers included a disheveled lady and a dog of doubtful breed.

The dog of doubtful breed now perched on the seat beside Granville. The duke had tried to put him on the floor, but Jupiter was having none of that.

Portia, after a lifetime of dealing with animals, had observed the silent battle between dog and nobleman. So far, she'd put her money on Jupiter emerging triumphant. Just as she'd lay good money on Jupiter now having a home. She should be ashamed of herself for that blatant manipulation of the duke's finer feelings, but the cause was good and he'd benefit from having a dog. He just didn't know it yet.

Granville hadn't spoken since they'd entered the carriage. Nor had he looked at her. That should suit her down to the ground. It wasn't as if she liked him. She was probably the only person who cheered when Juliet jilted that plaster saint, the Duke of Granville.

Nor did Granville like her. Although she had to admit that he'd proven a useful accomplice through today's adventures. Or at least he had when he wasn't staring down that imperial nose at her, as if she was something nasty stuck to his shoe.

She tried to ignore him as successfully as he ignored her. But in such close confines, that was more difficult than it should be.

If only he wasn't a pleasure to behold. Even when she'd dismissed him as a self-important bore, she'd acknowledged his good looks. One of the reasons that people treated him with such deference – aside from the ancient title and impressive fortune – was that he looked like the Angel Gabriel in an old painting. Nature had gilded him with golden hair and golden skin. Chiseled features. A lean, athletic body. Commanding height.

Today's events left him more disordered than usual. His once-pristine green coat bore stains from brushing too close to clammy brick walls, and his gray kidskin gloves were grubby. Scuff marks dulled his usually gleaming boots.

He'd removed his stylish beaver hat. His thick blond waves of hair were untidy. One lock even had the temerity to tumble across that noble brow.

Portia had observed the Duke of Granville across a plethora of ballrooms. He always dressed comme il faut, not a hair out of place. He'd probably shoot his valet, if the man failed to do up every button and straighten every hem.

Granville was famous for setting feminine hearts aflutter. Debutantes had been known to swoon if His Grace requested a dance. When Juliet attracted his notice, society applauded her on a major coup.

Until now, the sight of the Duke of Granville had never roused a moment's discomfort in Portia. Which, given he intended to marry her sister, was a good thing.

She didn't like self-satisfied men. She didn't like men who set themselves up as arbiter of all decisions. She didn't like men who treated the world like a toy created for their private pleasure.

Unfortunately, that description fitted most males in the beau monde. Her dislike for dominant men partly explained why she'd refused the numerous proposals she'd received.

So it seemed absurd that studying Granville now, she should feel an unaccustomed shortness of breath and a warmth on her skin.

She tried to blame both on running away from Jim and Alf. But she'd been sitting in this coach for a good half hour and her heartbeat hadn't regained its normal rate.

Perfectly presented Granville left her cold. Granville the worse for wear appealed to a part of her that she didn't like to acknowledge. Today, for the first time, he looked almost human, not like a visitor from heavenly realms, unaffected by mucky emotion.

This man looked like flesh and blood. He looked touchable.

Curse her, she wanted to touch him. She very much feared that if she wasn't careful, she'd start staring at His Grace the way Jupiter did. All starry-eyed devotion. Ugh!

Wouldn't that make Granville laugh? Even worse, it might make him feel sorry for her.

Jupiter smelled like a dog who had been on the streets too long. Despite the open windows, the reek of unwashed canine was overpowering. How was it possible that across the several feet separating her from His Grace, Portia was aware of another scent? Something clean and fresh and spicy.

She'd often danced with Granville – they'd both put a good face on their animosity for Juliet's sake. Never before had she noticed anything particular about his scent. Yet right now, if there were ten men in a room and she closed her eyes, she could pick Granville out within seconds.

It was jolly irritating.

Without warning, he turned his head and met her eyes.

Awareness jolted her, made her sit up straight. Good heavens. She needed to be careful. She prayed that he didn't detect her unwilling interest.

"May I close the blinds? We'll soon be back into the part of Town where we may be recognized."

"Yes," she said, then continued in a tart voice that didn't sound like her. "It would be a disaster if anybody saw us together."

A proposal grounded in scandal would be the end of enough, even if in the family tradition. Both Juliet and Viola had been caught in improper circumstances with the men they later married.

But Juliet and Viola had been in love with the gentlemen in question. Portia might suffer temporary insanity in finding the Duke of Granville appealing. That didn't mean signing up to a lifetime with the pompous idiot.

Her tone made his elegant golden eyebrows arch. "If you agree to take Jupiter, I'll arrange for your discreet return home, with nobody the wiser about our encounter."

She rolled her eyes. "We've been through this. If you think that dog intends to leave you this side of doomsday, you're cracked in the head."

To her surprise, he laughed. "You know, nobody else talks to me like you do. In fact, even you didn't talk to me like this until today."

She hadn't spoken to him since those fraught days last year at Afton Court, the family estate, where Juliet had rejected him. "I don't feel like I've got anything to lose with you anymore. I'm sorry if you don't like it."

Which was a lie. She wasn't sorry at all.

A frown, more puzzlement than annoyance, creased his brow. Portia wanted to grind her teeth in frustration. Could he look any more picturesque? The Archangel Gabriel sorrowing over humanity's foibles. The awful truth was that his beauty made her stupid stomach tie itself up in knots of longing.

"I wouldn't say I don't like it," he said thoughtfully. "Compared to all the fawning toadies, it's refreshing to know where I stand with you."

What a relief. That sounded like she'd managed to hide her sudden and inconvenient penchant for him. "I appreciated your help today," she said on a less belligerent note.

He laughed again, a grunt of wry amusement that she would have assumed was outside his repertoire. On the strength of earlier encounters, she'd judged him to be totally humorless, too wrapped up in his own grandeur to laugh at anything. She couldn't remember them sharing so much as a wry smile. Then, as he pointed out, she'd been punctiliously polite to him in return. Not at all her outspoken self.

"I'm sure it hurt to say that." Like her, he must recall their chilly interactions.

He, too, was franker than he'd been in their previous acquaintance. Perhaps they might have found common ground, if they'd ever moved beyond banalities. "I'll survive," she said with a hint of grimness.

"Pleased to hear it." He pulled down the blinds. "I've got enough problems with this hound of humble parentage. I don't need an expiring noblewoman on my plate as well."

Darkness surrounded them. Warm, intimate darkness. She bit back a dismayed protest. Her heart lodged in her throat and threatened to stop her breath.

Not seeing the duke should make her less aware of his proximity. It didn't work like that. He hadn't shifted closer or hinted that she was anything except a nuisance. But with the blinds down, the space shrank. If she stretched out her legs, they'd tangle with his.

Portia wanted to ask him to raise the blinds. Except that was dangerous. Now that they approached the fashionable part of town, they were back in traffic. If just one person saw her sharing a closed carriage with Granville, her goose was cooked.

"My God, that dog stinks," Granville said.

His disgusted exclamation should destroy the suggestive atmosphere. Portia swallowed to moisten an unaccountably dry mouth and struggled to sound matter-of-fact. "He can't help it."

"Perhaps not."

Now that her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she watched Jupiter lie down and set his head on Granville's lap. She waited for the duke to shove the animal away, but to her surprise, he rested one gloved hand on his neck.

For pity's sake, she didn't want to like Alaric Dempster. She much preferred to think of him as a one-dimensional stuffed shirt with no care for anyone but himself. If it turned out that he had a kind heart, she was doomed.

At least with the blinds down, Jupiter's stench overpowered Granville's evocative scent. Imagination alone must make the duke's intriguing essence linger in her nostrils.

Portia struggled to concentrate on practicalities. She was good at that. She wasn't a girl who melted at the sight of a comely male. Or at least she hadn't been before. "We'll give him a bath when we get to Dempster House."

"You know, I've never taken care of a dog," His Grace said in a musing tone. The twilight inside the carriage made her far too aware of the beauty of that baritone voice. He was renowned for his speeches in parliament. Portia understood why. How on earth could anyone vote against him? "There hasn't been a dog on Dempster property for at least three generations. My grandparents brought me up and didn't want anything to distract me from my training to take over the title."

His words held a hint of sadness. An unbidden image of a lonely little boy forced to concentrate on his studies and denied any chance of a puppy made her heart ache.

Stop it, Portia. You have no idea what his childhood was like. He was probably ecstatic to be a swot. Just because you love animals, it doesn't mean everyone else does.

"He really will be better with someone else," the duke said.

"He doesn't think so."

He sighed. "You're pushing me to keep him."

She was. Jupiter saw none of the flaws in the Duke of Granville that she did. At least until today, when she'd lost her mind. "I'll see if someone can take him tomorrow, if you still don't want him."

That was a weasel answer, she knew. Since her father's ultimatum about no more animals, she'd farmed her rescues off to anyone she could think of. Viola and Toby had taken a whole kennel's worth. She doubted that she'd find a place for Jupiter.

The duke clearly had doubts about her honesty, too. His silence held a skeptical edge.

When he lifted the blind a few inches, a beam of light illuminated those remarkable features. Against her will, her gaze soaked up every detail. The deep-set green eyes, the straight blade of a nose, a mouth that conveyed iron self-control. She'd already seen all this, but today, for the first time, she noticed hints of humor.

His mouth fascinated her. She couldn't remember paying much attention to a man's lips before. The lower lip was surprisingly full. A sign of restrained passion? Plenty of noblemen had bad reputations with women. Granville didn't. But that didn't mean he'd never kissed anyone.

What would it be like to kiss him? The thought prompted a shiver. Not of revulsion. Odd, because when she'd tried to imagine Juliet and Granville kissing, she hadn't succeeded. They both seemed too stiff and proper to engage in anything as messy as a passionate embrace.

Portia had never been kissed. She'd never particularly wanted to be kissed. How bizarre that the first man to stir any curiosity about the activity should be someone she once found of no interest.

If she thought about it – and she thought about it far too much today – she suspected that Granville would be quite a good kisser. He was renowned for his competence. He'd been competent today, dealing with Jim and Alf. That competence had saved her bacon.

In fact, the only time that she'd seen him at a loss was with Jupiter. He'd even taken Juliet's rejection in his stride.

Not that she'd ever kiss the Duke of Granville. She might suffer an unwanted attraction. He didn't. Once she'd set him up as Jupiter's master – he mightn't know it yet, but he'd lost that particular battle – nothing would stop them reverting to their frigid distance.

How ridiculous that the knowledge made her burn with regret.

Because right now, sitting opposite His Grace, she admitted that she'd dearly like to kiss him. Even more shocking, she'd like him to sweep her into those powerful arms and touch her with those elegant long-fingered hands.

At twenty-five, she was late discovering the power of physical attraction. To think that Alaric Dempster was the man to awaken her dormant desires. It was almost inconceivable. Yet the merest sight of him had her hungering for more.

"We're turning into Piccadilly." He let the blind fall back. Outside, it sounded like half of London rattled and shouted and pursued their trade. Inside the carriage, Portia and Granville inhabited a different world.

The gloom's return assuaged Portia's fear that her expression might betray her unacceptable longing. The carnal direction of her thoughts troubled her. Her secret parts thrummed in a most unsettling fashion. Unsettling, if not exactly unpleasant. She shifted on the seat to ease the unaccustomed weight between her legs. It didn't help.

"Not far to Lorimer Square then." She hoped the duke missed the remark's breathiness.

The duke lived across the square from the house that Papa had rented the last two seasons. Portia had expected her father to give up the lease, now Viola and Juliet were married. But these days, he mostly stayed in Town. Perhaps after last summer's mayhem, he couldn't bear to return to Afton Court.

Portia didn't mind living in London. There were more animals in trouble here than in the country. At least the part of the country that she inhabited. Largely thanks to her efforts. She'd wondered whether her father might question where the constant stream of strays came from and curtail her activities but he never had. She supposed he imagined that people gave them to her, if he devoted even that much thought to her in between his dreams of theatrical fame.

Granville knocked on the ceiling, startling Jupiter from his snooze. He sat up and whined in protest.

"It's all right, boy." Portia was impressed at how he'd settled. Often rescued animals were so frightened that they were difficult to transport.

The duke scratched Jupiter's ears. He mightn't have any experience with dogs, but so far his instincts were good. She suspected that his air of quiet authority contributed to Jupiter's easy transition. Nervous animals appreciated a sure hand. So, it turned out, did she. The moment Granville emerged to defend her against Jim, she'd known that she was safe.

The panel above Granville's head slid open. In the gap against the sky, Portia caught a glimpse of the coachman's lined, benevolent face.

"Lady Portia has very kindly agreed to help with the dog, Phipps. But discretion is required."

"Aye, sir. I can manage that. If you'll wait in the carriage once we reach the stables, I'll send off those puddingheaded lads."

"Capital. The other thing is Jupiter needs a bath. We're probably better doing that in the stables, as well. Or perhaps the garden."

"I've got no authority over the gardeners, sir. Let's stick to the stables."

"Good thinking."

Portia had to credit Phipps for not betraying the slightest sign that these requests were unusual. Or that he minded the opulent carriage transporting a filthy mongrel from the London streets. Let alone a virgin of good family.

Although she knew nothing about the duke's private life. Perhaps he often lured women of pristine reputation to his house.

"Would you like me to look after the dog, Your Grace?"

Granville glanced at Portia. The open panel admitted enough light to read his expression. She saw him consider the idea, but to his credit, he didn't leap at the chance to pass Jupiter's care over to a servant.

This afternoon, she was astonished at how much she laid to Alaric Dempster's credit.

"I'll accept your help with pleasure, but I think it's time I learned how to bath a dog, don't you?"

Phipps's expressionless face hinted how bizarre he found this statement. "Very good, Your Grace."

"That will be all for now."

The panel slid into place, plunging them back into twilight. "He's right, you know," Portia said.

"About the gardeners?"

"About it being beneath your dignity to wash Jupiter."

"He didn't say that."

"He didn't need to. And he offered you a chance to wriggle out of a nasty job."

Granville gave a dismissive huff. "As if you'd let me get away with palming Jupiter off on Phipps."

"I might have…expressed disappointment."

She couldn't see the duke roll his eyes. Somehow she knew that he did. This preternatural awareness was new, too. She'd never been interested in his reactions before. Now they loomed far too large in her consciousness.

"Might?"

"You don't have to listen to me." She wondered why, having worked so hard to obtain His Grace's cooperation, she offered him a way to avoid his obligations.

He didn't answer that. "Phipps was hired to drive the horses, not play my kennel keeper. He's a deuced good coachman. I don't want him taking his services elsewhere."

Portia wasn't convinced that care for his servant's sensitivities lay at the root of His Grace's cooperation. It could be mere wishful thinking, but she sensed a bond building between dog and man. She was wise enough to keep that observation to herself.

The hubbub outside faded. They'd left the busy thoroughfare behind and turned into the street leading to Lorimer Square. The carriage rolled to a stop, and she heard Phipps climb down and start shouting, presumably at the grooms.

Portia began to speak, but a quick hand on her knee kept her quiet. No man had ever touched her leg before. The contact shuddered through her like thunder. Waves of heat rippled through her. She went silent, more with shock than discretion.

Once again, she was grateful for the darkness. She doubted she could hide her overwhelming reaction.

When after about a quarter of an hour, Phipps opened the door to the coach, allowing light to flood in, she'd just about regained control of herself.