Chapter 6

She'd kissed a man. More than once. She'd liked it. Very much. She'd promised to kiss the man again.

How astonishing.

Yet the most astonishing element of the day wasn't that Portia discovered a pastime to vie with her interest in stray animals. It was that the man she'd kissed was the almighty bore and self-righteous prig, the Duke of Granville.

Except it turned out, he wasn't boring at all. Nor was he the slightest bit self-righteous. He was kind and sweet and funny. And endearingly shy.

Which might explain his haughty manner in public.

She couldn't wait to kiss him again. His lips had been soft and warm. And they'd provided the most exciting experience that she'd ever had in all her twenty-five years. She probably should hold it against him that he'd kissed Juliet, but she believed him when he said he'd done that purely to seal the contract between them.

For the first time, she understood why Juliet and Viola had abandoned common sense and thrown themselves into the arms of unsuitable men. What did propriety matter compared to passion? Portia struggled to hide a shiver of anticipation and look as if she and the duke had been discussing the weather instead of lessons in kissing.

Phipps put down the two large buckets he carried. A tall, rather cadaverous-looking man followed him inside, also carrying two steaming buckets. "Your Grace, I'm at your service."

Granville's smile conveyed affection. "I knew you'd help us, Sheriff. This is Lady Portia Frain, who is making sure that we treat our guest right."

Sheriff set down his buckets and bowed with an impassive expression, as if finding unchaperoned young ladies in his employer's stable was an everyday occurrence. "My lady."

Granville gestured to Jupiter, who as usual pressed as close as he could get. "This is Jupiter, who's in dire need of a wash."

"Yes, sir." More impassivity, but she couldn't imagine the man approving of a mongrel dog in the household.

"Did you find a tub, Your Grace?" Phipps asked.

The tub? That was right. She and Granville were meant to search for one while Phipps fetched Sheriff.

Portia was completely charmed when Granville looked as if he'd been caught raiding the larder. Before today, she'd never imagined the duke as a boy. If anyone had asked her, she'd have said he was born middle-aged. But the hunted expression on features that she'd once found magisterial made her want to hug him.

"I couldn't see it," he said with such obvious discomfort that it was difficult not to roll her eyes again. It turned out that he was competent with most things, except lying.

"I'll have a look." Phipps disappeared into the room where Granville had found her apron. Within seconds, he returned bearing a tin bathtub.

Heat prickled her cheeks, although neither by word nor gesture did Phipps indicate any criticism of his employer's eyesight. To hide her fluster, Portia fell to her knees beside Jupiter and ran her hands over his dirty, matted coat. "It's all right, boy."

By the time she stood to unclip his collar, she'd recovered her composure. The men had filled the tub and fetched soap and brushes and towels. She stepped forward to lift Jupiter, when the duke brushed past. "Let me."

Once Jupiter hit the water, he made his displeasure felt – and heard. They'd hear that howl of outrage in Birmingham.

She rushed forward to hold him down, noting that even offended, he didn't snap. That was a good sign. Sometimes her rescues were so affected by their experiences, they turned savage.

Portia fell to her knees on the wet slate floor. "Shh, boy. It's fine. You're safe." She struggled to sound authoritative above all the splashing.

He howled again. Equine disapproval resounded from the stalls and hooves kicked against wood. On the other side of the tub, Sheriff stepped beyond the range of flying water.

"Stop it," Granville said.

To Portia's astonishment, the dog went still, although he quivered under her hands. Granville kneeled beside her, and she thrilled to the rub of his hip against hers.

"You'll get wet, Your Grace," Phipps protested, barely able to suppress his horror at the sight of his aristocratic employer performing such a humble task.

The smile that had such an intoxicating effect on Portia's pulse appeared. "I'm not made of icing sugar. I won't melt."

"Your Grace, I'll take the liberty of returning to the kitchens for more towels," Sheriff said, picking up two empty buckets.

"Grand idea." Granville stroked Jupiter's head with a notably calming effect. "We need more hot water, too."

"Very good, sir."

Portia missed Sheriff's departure because Jupiter began to wriggle, despite his idol's touch. "Let's do this quickly before he loses his temper."

Phipps passed her a brush and some soap. She took a deep breath, sharp with the odor of wet dog, and worked up a lather on Jupiter's coat.

"Shall I help?" Granville asked.

"Just keep talking. Your voice calms him." Hardly surprising. That deep voice stirred all sorts of forbidden longings inside her. Not that she'd describe the result as calming.

"It's all right, old man. Nobody's going to hurt you. You're safe. Good boy. You're such a good boy," Granville crooned over and over.

However the praise worked with the dog, it had a mesmerizing effect on Portia. That was a pest when she needed to concentrate on Jupiter. In her sopping clothes – the apron provided little protection against Jupiter's frantic efforts to escape – she should be cold. Granville's nearness made her feel far too warm.

"He looks clean to me, my lady," Phipps said.

With a sigh, Portia dropped the flannel that she used to wash Jupiter's more delicate areas. The water was black and scummy. "That's the best we'll do for a first bath." She scratched behind Jupiter's ears. "You've been a brick, Jupiter. A real hero."

"Shall I lift him out?" Granville was as wet as she was. His fine white shirt turned transparent, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest. In full evening dress, the Duke of Granville looked superb. But heavens above, how every debutante in Mayfair would swoon if they saw him now.

"Yes, please. I'd like to rinse him off with clean water."

Sheriff arrived with a pile of towels considerably more luxurious than the rough linens that Phipps had found in the storeroom. A gangling youth followed, carrying two buckets of hot water.

"Good man." Granville rose to lift Jupiter out of the tub. The dog whined and his short legs scrabbled in the air. Once Granville placed him on the ground, he released a canine sigh of relief. And had a thorough shake, spreading water everywhere. Dripping wet, he was a sorry sight, even if much cleaner than he had been.

"I hope you don't mind, sir, but I've asked my nephew to help," Sheriff said with commendable dignity, given everyone else was soaked to the skin. "You can trust him to keep Lady Portia's presence a secret."

Granville directed a serious look at the boy. "Matty, you must give me your word that you will never betray our trust. This dog owes his life to Lady Portia. It would be wrong if she suffered for her kindness."

Matty, all knees and elbows, didn't seem to hear. Instead his eyes went as round as saucers. "Cor, you know my name!"

"Matty Gant!" Sheriff bleated in dismay. "That's not how to address your betters."

All day, Portia had been coming round from her dislike for the Duke of Granville. But she fell in love with him when, instead of climbing on his high horse, he laughed and clapped Matty on the back. "Of course I know your name, lad. Sheriff and I have big plans for you. Now come and meet Jupiter. You can hold him while we rinse him off."

Thank goodness, everyone was busy finishing up Jupiter's bath, because her ability to speak deserted her. She'd seen so many examples of Granville's kindness, but his generosity to an awkward boy sliced through the last of her misgivings.

From earliest childhood, Portia had valued kindness above all other qualities. And loathed its opposite. Hatred for cruelty from the strong toward the weak, the attitude that one hurt another creature just because one could, had launched her crusade to save as many animals as she could.

The horrors that she'd seen meant she knew to value a kind heart wherever she found it.

Against all expectations, she'd found one of the kindest hearts she'd ever known in her sister's rejected suitor. A lesson against leaping to conclusions based on superficial impressions.

If this was love, it wasn't very comfortable. She felt like an ax had struck her. How had this happened? Yes, her liking had grown as the day progressed. Yes, it turned out that this man she'd dismissed as a prig and a bore turned out to be everything she admired. Yes, he'd kissed her. Too briefly, but with enough intent to hint at heavenly delights in store.

None of that should scar her heart so deeply that she feared she'd never recover. Because that was how this felt. Like Granville's image was etched on her soul forever.

And it was a disaster.

Because he remained the Duke of Granville. Influential. Elegant. Universally admired. Her sister's former suitor. The man searching for the perfect duchess.

Nobody in their right mind would call Portia a perfect duchess. Portia with her impulsive nature and outspoken manner. Not to mention her menagerie of rescued animals.

The prospect of a lifetime with Alaric Dempster struck her as paradise. Except that he'd never consider her as a potential bride. Even if one overlooked his history with Juliet, Portia could never be a great political hostess or a leader of fashion.

She was just a girl who attracted him. A girl he'd kiss then abandon. A girl he'd forget while he pursued the life that he was born to lead.

The bleak reality of her situation made her want to howl louder than Jupiter in his bath.

***

"He smells better than he did." Granville kneeled beside Jupiter, toweling him dry.

Lady Portia's quietness niggled at him. Nor had she taken an active part in the final steps to make Jupiter presentable.

"I should hope so." Phipps rather than Portia replied to his remark. "He was no bouquet of roses when you found him. I'm not sure the carriage will recover."

"You'll work your magic, I'm sure." He wished that Portia would say something. After their hours together, he knew that silence wasn't her default position.

Was it Matty? While he knew the boy well enough to trust to his discretion, Portia didn't. But she'd taken the entrance of Phipps and Sheriff into their conspiracy in her stride.

Was she worried about getting home undetected? Her gown was wet, and her damp hair hung down her back in a tangle of dark gold. Anyone who saw her would know that she'd been up to no good.

Her silence tied his gut into knots. Dear God, don't let her regret their kisses. She'd seemed to enjoy being in his arms. She'd seemed eager to step into his arms again.

He wasn't used to stewing over female megrims, but something inside him was desperate for Portia to be happy. The devil of it was that he couldn't ask her what was wrong while they had an audience.

Jupiter whined and shifted under a toweling that wasn't as brisk as it had been. Granville realized that he gawked at Portia like a thunderstruck yokel visiting London for the first time.

But by God, she was lovely. Even now when she looked like a drowned rat. During his courtship of her sister, he'd always found Portia too much. Juliet was measured and calm. Portia…wasn't. She was too vivid, too passionate, too alive.

Now that electric quality struck him as perfect. She made a man recognize that he was on this earth just once, and he ought to take advantage of that fact.

She'd said that she liked him. But two fiancées had decided that he wasn't the man for them. Had Portia reconsidered her plan to kiss him again? Denial churned in his belly.

"We should feed Jupiter," she said.

In Granville's ears, her voice sounded strained. She avoided his questioning glance.

Then he wanted to kick himself for being such a dolt. The evening advanced and with it, the evening chill. "By heaven, my lady, you must be freezing. We need to get you out of those wet clothes."

Dear Lord. He wanted to kick himself even harder for being doubly a dolt. He refused to look at the servants.

Rosy color flooded Portia's cheeks. Her hands tangled in front of the wet apron, and her eyelashes fluttered down. She must want to kill him. Despite promising discretion, here he announced his intentions to the world. Or at least three servants, one dog, and the lady he desired.

She plucked at sodden skirts that showed an unfortunate tendency to cling to the sinuous lines of her hips. He struggled not to notice. Unsuccessfully.

"Yes, that would be good," she said in a muffled voice.

Granville cleared his throat and turned to Sheriff. He strove to sound as if he remained in control of circumstances that rapidly unraveled in all directions. By God, the Duke of Granville was always in control. What in Hades was going on? "Do we have any women's clothes in the house?"

"Only those belonging to the female staff, Your Grace." Sheriff's distant stare hinted that he'd caught his employer's faux pas. The man had known him since he was a boy. He'd recognize that Granville's interest in Portia extended beyond the platonic. Good God, how could he not? Granville had never before brought an unaccompanied lady to this house. To any of his houses.

Phipps wouldn't miss much either. He'd served the Dempsters as long as Sheriff had.

"Enough people are aware of my presence already," Portia said.

Granville, who was having inappropriate visions of Lady Portia in a neat white apron and a mobcap, spread his hands in apology. "Mine is a bachelor household, my lady."

"I should go. I'm sure you'll find something to keep Jupiter satisfied." She regained her poise after his gaffe about taking off her clothes. "Phipps and Sheriff, are you familiar with dogs?"

"Not really, my lady," Sheriff said. "His Grace's grandfather couldn't abide them. Called them filthy brutes. Wouldn't even let the local hunting pack cross his land."

"Exactly so, my lady," Phipps said.

"We had dogs growing up, my lady," Matty piped up.

His uncle shot him a stern glance. "Matty Gant, keep your lip buttoned until you're spoken to."

Matty's mortified flush made his spotty skin look even angrier. "Your pardon, my lady, Your Grace."

Portia looked interested. "Perhaps His Grace might make you Jupiter's guardian?"

Granville liked the idea. "Kennel master?"

Matty's chagrin vanished in a broad smile. "Cor blimey. Too right, Your Grace."

Sheriff looked like he was about to have a fit. Before he could splutter out another stinging rebuke, Granville spoke. "Then that's settled. Do you want to start by taking him for a walk in the garden while your uncle puts his dinner together?"

Before Matty could utter another "cor blimey," his uncle spoke with the voice of authority. "That's an excellent suggestion, Your Grace."

"And I should go," Portia said again, as Matty fastened the rope to Jupiter's collar.

"Not looking like that, you won't," Granville said. "I've got an idea, if you'll come across to the house."

"But I'll be seen."

"Borrow my greatcoat and hat. We need to get you out of the stables, in case my grooms remember they have duties beyond spending their employer's coin at the King's Head."

He collected his coat and draped it across her shoulders. Wrapping her in a garment that belonged to him filled him with deep masculine satisfaction. This close, he noticed her shivering. It would be nice if she reacted to his presence, but he suspected that she was just cold in her wet dress.

An impression confirmed when she clutched the voluminous folds around her. He passed her his hat. "Pull this down over your face. It should do to get us across the garden. The house's public areas should be empty at this hour."

"Thank you."

He waited for her to put the hat on, before he dared to tuck the long tail of wet blond hair under her collar. He collected her pelisse from the stall gate. "Let's go."

Taking her arm, he steered her out of the stables and across the cobbled yard to the gate in the garden wall. Granville liked escorting Lady Portia even more than he liked her wearing his coat. He didn't like that she returned to her father's house. Something primitive inside him insisted that she belonged at his side, that they should always walk together like this.

He heard a howl of protest behind him, a shout from Matty, and Phipps using language that he'd never permit in front of his employer. A scrabble of paws on cobblestones, and a black-and-white shape came barreling in their direction.

Granville felt Portia's low chuckle in his balls. Despite his wet clothes, heat rushed through him and his hand tightened on her arm.

"I'm not sure how much work your new kennel master will have to do. Jupiter wants to be with you."

As the dog skittered through the open gate, Granville gave a long-suffering sigh. "I told you he's fallen victim to my fatal charm."

"He's not the only one," Portia muttered.

"What…" Before he could respond to that astonishing remark, Matty appeared at the gate. "Your Grace, I couldn't hold him."

"He can come inside. I'll bring him back, once I've got her ladyship sorted out."

"Very good, sir."

Portia studied the stocky dog. "If you imagine he's sleeping anywhere but in your bedroom, you're very much mistaken."

Granville shut the garden gate behind them. "Are you sure?"

Her short laugh was answer enough.

He drew Portia toward the terrace along the back of the house. The idea of kissing her, now that he finally had some privacy, struck him. Or at least shifted to the forefront of his mind. The regrettable truth was that kisses had occupied his thoughts for most of the afternoon and evening.

But he was freezing and she must be, too. He'd kiss her after she was warm and dry.

On that highly satisfactory conclusion, Granville brought Lady Portia Frain inside his house for the first time.