Chapter 7

Without speaking, Granville led her through a garden lit with charcoal braziers. They climbed stone steps to a terrace extending the length of the house. Torches at either end of the terrace and candlelight from inside outlined Granville's profile, as finely cut as a face on a new-minted coin.

Portia had always thought that he was handsome, but it had seemed a cold beauty. Now that aristocratic face stirred a tidal wave of longing. And she had no idea what to do about it.

He unlatched a glass door and sneaked her into a morning room. She took a moment to appreciate her elegant surroundings, before he opened a door to reveal a black-and-white tiled hallway and a staircase leading upwards.

His destination turned out to be his rooms on the upper floor. "Granville…" she whispered.

He lifted a finger to his lips, as he opened the door to a luxurious sitting room decorated in shades of green and cream. Jupiter trotted inside before Granville shut the door.

"You're safe here," he said in a low voice, ushering her into the bedroom and passing her the pelisse. "But my valet will listen for my return. Go behind the screen and I'll send him on his way."

Without speaking, Portia obeyed. Granville appeared accustomed to romantic intrigue. Was it possible that the famously virtuous duke wasn't quite the pattern card of duty and respectability that he presented to the world?

As she subsided onto a wooden chair behind the screen, the suspicion that Alaric Dempster could be wicked presented fascinating possibilities. Which was mad when she was at his mercy. If ever she needed His perfectly behaved Grace to remember his principles, it was when she was in his bedroom.

A door clicked open. "Shall I help you to…" The unknown speaker faltered to a stop. "Is that a…dog, Your Grace?"

The horror in the man's voice made Portia want to laugh.

"It is indeed." Granville's airiness contrasted with his original reaction to Jupiter, when he'd sounded as put out as his valet did.

"In your apartments?"

"This is Jupiter, Hobbs. I hope you'll be great friends, now he's joined the household."

Portia didn't want to like Granville any more than she already did. But her heart softened when he claimed Jupiter as his own.

"Your Grace, I must protest."

"Please don't make me choose between London's finest valet and my new best friend."

The tone was pleasant, the flattery overt, and the threat clear. Astonishment flooded Portia. Granville preferring Jupiter over his valet left her floundering.

"Very good, sir." Hobbs didn't sound happy.

Portia hoped Jupiter's charm would prevail. It had with Granville. She couldn't imagine London's best valet having difficulty finding another position, but she hated to think of a faithful servant losing his place because she'd given his employer a pet.

Granville's laugh made forbidden awareness streak along her backbone. Now that she couldn't see him, that beautiful baritone worked its magic on her unruly senses. Good heavens, if he spoke seduction, how could she resist?

"I'm in rather a mess," he said ruefully. "I doubt you'll get these rags back into a wearable state."

"Your Grace, you must be frozen. Let me help you." The man sounded overcome. When she'd hidden behind the screen, Portia hadn't expected that stifling her giggles would present the greatest danger.

"I'll look after myself tonight."

"But, Your Grace…"

"I assume there's hot water in the bedroom."

"Of course, sir."

The man sounded almost as scandalized at the idea that there mightn't be as he was at Granville's rumpled appearance. Not to mention Jupiter's presence. "But you'll require my assistance. Had you forgotten that you planned to attend Lady Plunkett's musicale?"

So had Portia, she realized with a start. When she'd set out this afternoon, she'd imagined that she'd rescue Jupiter with ease, then hide him in the stables before she left for the party.

"To the devil with that. I feel like a night in."

"In that case, shall I bring Your Grace's dressing gown?"

"No, I'll shift for myself. I have some parliamentary papers to check. You may take the evening off."

"But, Your Grace…" The man sounded as if he was strangling. "I'll arrange a bath at the very least."

"That will be all, Hobbs. I'll see you in the morning." The tone remained polite, but the command was unmistakable.

A soft knock announced another arrival, she guessed a footman. "Mr. Sheriff suggested Your Grace might appreciate some more hot water."

"Capital," Granville said. "Place it over there."

"I'll take it through to the washstand," Hobbs said.

"No, I don't wish to be disturbed."

"As you wish, sir," Hobbs said with reluctance.

Portia only took a full breath after she heard both doors shut. When Hobbs offered to bring in the hot water, she'd almost had an attack of the vapors. All urge to laugh had vanished. Granville said his staff was loyal, but she feared that the tale of grimy, wet Portia Frain hiding in the Duke of Granville's apartments was too juicy not to spread.

Granville came around the screen, Jupiter at his heels. "A man's servants can be too conscientious."

She lowered the trembling hand pressed to her racing heart and mustered a shaky smile. "Goodness, that was close."

"Hobbs wouldn't betray us."

"I can tell he's devoted to you." Like all the servants in this house. It spoke volumes for what sort of master Granville was. Today had been full of surprising discoveries. Rather wonderful discoveries.

Self-preservation insisted that she get out fast. Not just to save her good name. She'd already fallen too far under Alaric Dempster's spell. She needed to break away and pray to heaven that her heart forgot the duke.

As she rose on shaky legs, her voice emerged unnaturally high. "I can't say here."

He made a conciliatory gesture. "You have my word that you're safe."

Portia linked her hands together at her waist. "I still can't stay. Papa lives in his own world most of the time and Aunt Mabel isn't the world's most diligent chaperone, but at some stage, they'll both realize that I haven't come home."

"You need to change into something dry."

"A maid's dress?"

"I'll lend you some clothes, then see you safely across the square. If we stick to the shadows, a coat and trousers and a hat will do the trick. Nobody will look twice to see me out with another man."

Jupiter sat and watched Granville, as if he couldn't imagine him concocting a plan that was less than brilliant. Portia had a suspicion that it would be simple to entrust all decisions to the duke, but it wouldn't do. She'd fought hard to carve some independence for herself. Just because his smile made her knees weak didn't mean she turned into a clinging vine.

"That might work." It was clever, she had to admit. And she was more than ready to get out of the filthy, clammy frock.

"Can you get back into your house without being seen?"

"I'll get Rankin to send for Betty, my maid. We'll manage."

"Let me help with the apron. Then you can wash, while I find you something to wear."

"Thank you." She appreciated him sticking to practicalities.

Nonetheless, the promise of more kisses hovered. Portia was generally even-tempered and unshakable, but her iron nerve failed at the thought of what might happen in this room. A magnificent mahogany bed dominated the chamber. She wouldn't be human if thoughts of sharing that bed with its owner didn't tiptoe across her mind.

She presented her back, struggling not to remember what had happened when he'd helped her to put the apron on. To her relief, he was quicker this time. He slid the apron off and tossed it over the top of the screen.

"I think…I think you may need help with your dress." His voice held a husky note.

She licked dry lips and cursed her choice of gown. She had plenty of dresses that fastened up the front, but this wasn't one of them. She'd been coming home from her old governess's house when she caught sight of Jim and Jupiter disappearing down a side street and she'd set off in pursuit.

She wanted to tell Granville that she'd stay in the wet dress after all. But those weren't the words that emerged. "Do you mind?"

His voice turned even gruffer. "Of course not."

She raised her arms to shift her hair out of the way. The movement lifted her breasts. Breasts that ached for a man's touch. For Granville's touch.

Dear Lord, she didn't recognize herself. Over the years, she'd dealt with hundreds of men. Apart from a brief unrequited penchant for the vicar's son when she was fourteen, none had made her heart race. Today, the merest sight of Alaric Dempster set her heart galloping like a wild horse.

The man who had almost married her sister. The man she'd once called the most boring gentleman in England.

Right now, she was anything but bored. Compared to this turmoil, boredom would be a blessed relief.

"Th…thank you." She hated the betraying break in her voice. She was used to being in control of her feelings. When it came to Granville, feelings took over. Everything was too raw and new for her to know if she could trust what was happening.

The delay must only have lasted a couple of seconds, even if it felt like an eon. Then Granville touched her neck as he released the top hook and eye. At the brush of his fingers, heat flared under her skin. A faint gasp escaped her.

"Are you all right?" He didn't sound too steady himself.

"Yes," she said, although it wasn't true.

As his hand moved to the next fastening, she gulped air into her starved lungs. In twenty-five years, she'd never needed to remind herself to breathe. It always came naturally. Not today. Not when Granville touched her.

He stood so close that his unsteady breath was hot on her nape. It was bad enough when he'd touched her in the stable. Then they'd both known that an interruption was due at any time. In his bedroom, nobody would barge in to shatter the physical awareness between them.

The urge to turn around and beg him to kiss her again was nigh impossible to deny. But if she went into his arms right now, she'd be in his bed soon after. Everything she'd been taught, everything she'd always believed told her that a girl who gave away her virtue too lightly invited more trouble than she could handle.

Portia curled her hands in her skirts. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, as this torture in the guise of helpfulness continued. Surely it couldn't go on much longer.

Her bodice sagged as he released the lower hooks. Her undergarments would be visible. No man had seen her unclothed. Even as unclothed as she was now, with a corset and a shift concealing her back. The thought turned her legs to water.

Granville released a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over at last. "There," he said in a raspy voice she hardly recognized.

She staggered as she turned. With her bodice clutched to her breasts, her eyes met his. She wasn't sure what she'd see. Salacious interest? But he looked on edge. Feverish color marked those perfect cheekbones.

"For God's sake, don't look at me like that, Portia, or I won't be responsible for my actions. I'm struggling to remember the duty I owe you."

She licked dry lips again, then wished she hadn't when he groaned and closed his eyes in visible agony. "I'll leave you to undress."

The word "undress" thundered through her like cannon fire. She was far too aware of how few steps they needed to take to reach the bed.

Then nothing would stop them until she was a virgin no more.

Right now, she wasn't sure that she cared.

Thank heaven, Granville opened his eyes and moved back. "Can you manage now?"

She bit her lip and told herself to calm down. Not that it worked. She took her own step backward and in her fluster, blundered into the screen. "Oh!"

Granville caught her arm to save her from falling. Behind her, the screen rocked without falling. She was already in a lather of heat. His touch set that heat ablaze.

"God give me strength." He released her as though she scorched him.

Without looking at her, he stumbled past the screen. Through the pounding of blood in her ears, Portia heard a door shut.

***

It took Granville several seconds before he saw clearly enough to make out the clothing stacked on open shelves in the dressing room. Even so, when he reached to choose a couple of shirts and pairs of trousers, his hand shook.

He was renowned for his coolness under pressure. Nobody who saw him now would call him cool. He was burning up.

At his side, Jupiter gave a soft whine. He glanced down and, despite everything, smiled. The dog wouldn't win any prizes for looks, but the animal's sturdy form and wedge-shaped head pleased him. "It's all right, boy."

Except it wasn't.

He needed his head examined. Why the hell had he brought Portia to his private apartments? Apart from the improper but irresistible yen to get her into his bed.

He should have taken her to a guest room to wash and change. Except that would betray her presence to the staff and a bed would still be far too close at hand. He was damned whatever he did.

Jupiter padding beside him, he took the clothing through to his room. "How are you managing?"

"Well, thank you."

He stepped up to the screen and struggled to ignore the blue gown flung over the top. Because if he thought about it, he'd picture Portia wearing nothing. That peachy skin wet and shining as she washed. "I brought you a shirt and some trousers to try on. The shirt should fit. I'm hoping the trousers do, too."

"Thank you." Her voice sounded muffled. Water splashed as she washed. He smelled the soap that he always used. Cedar and sandalwood, transformed into the most alluring scent on earth, now Portia used it.

It was all too bloody intimate for words, damn it.

"I'm going to wash and change in the dressing room. I'll see you in the sitting room when you're ready." Not the bedroom. He desperately needed to get her out of the bedroom.

Granville retreated before the urge to stay overcame him. He picked up the fresh hot water from the sitting room and carried it into the dressing room.

It was a relief to change into something dry. The interval on his own offered a much-needed opportunity to remind himself that he'd promised Portia her safety. He couldn't jump on her and have his wicked way.

His good intentions lasted precisely ten seconds after he entered the sitting room. In male attire, Portia looked completely scandalous and completely desirable. His pulse, which had almost settled back into its usual steady beat, surged into a dizzying rush. Every drop of moisture dried from his mouth, as he took in the delectable sight.

He hadn't expected the loose shirt to spark lascivious thoughts. But when he'd chosen the garment, he'd given no thought to how a generously curved woman might fill out a shirt designed for a man's angular shape.

The soft linen revealed too much of the body beneath. Her breasts were luscious trussed up in a corset and concealed under a modest frock. Now they pressed against the clinging material in unconfined glory.

She turned at an angle to tuck the shirt in, revealing graceful hips and a richly curved rump. By God, he'd been right about her legs. In narrow trousers, her legs were works of art.

Portia wasn't paying him any attention as she faced him again. Instead, she was plucking at the buttons on his trousers. "They won't do up. I'm the wrong shape."

"I wouldn't say that," escaped before he could stop himself.

She glanced up and blinked. "Stop it. I'm trying to do the right thing here."

Surprise held him still. Surprise and pleasure. "You're not frightened?"

"I'm nervous. It's not the same." She tugged unhappily at the braces holding the trousers up. The long shirt covered her stomach and protected her modesty. It was his problem that he couldn't help thinking about what lay under the linen. The path to paradise. A path he couldn't follow without a parson's blessing. Not to mention Portia's consent. "I really shouldn't be here."

"Blame Jupiter," Granville said, happier now he learned that he didn't suffer alone.

The dog glanced up at the sound of his name. Then as if realizing that nothing of interest occurred, he stretched out near the fire.

"I hope you don't mind, but I used your hairbrush. I had just about enough pins left to put my hair up."

She'd plaited her golden hair and wrapped it around her head. She looked like a saucy milkmaid. In his clothes.

"You're welcome to anything I have." He meant every word.

When she dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand, her breasts shifted against the linen. "Thank you. But I can't cross the square like this."

Granville's hands curled at his sides as if he shaped that lush flesh. "Come through and choose a coat and hat. That will cover a multitude of sins."

Even if he couldn't stop thinking about sin. In conventional clothing, Portia was a temptation. In masculine attire, he saw far too much of her body. Desire threatened to snap the tight rein that he placed on it.

He held the door open to allow her to precede him into the narrow room. She passed close enough for him to catch her scent. Portia, with a hint of sandalwood and cedar. His soap never smelled that good on him.

Granville gestured to the row of coats hanging on pegs along the wall. "Royal blue will bring out the color of your eyes."

She shot him a questioning glance, as she rolled up her sleeves to uncover slender wrists. Dear God, he really was in a bad way if the sight of a woman's wrists put him into a fever of lust. "You've noticed the color of my eyes?"

His snort was derisive. "Of course I have, Portia. Even before kissing you became my new obsession."

"Oh," she said. He waited for more, but she stared at the coats. "P…perhaps we should finish getting dressed."

"Yes, perhaps we should." At the very least, he needed to get her out of this confined space before he did something he shouldn't.

He dragged down the blue coat and a black one for himself. Then he tugged a couple of hats from the upper shelf.

Stepping back into the sitting room should feel like a relief. But Portia's allure remained just as strong.

"Let me help you into the coat," he said in a thick voice. At least the coat would cover the jiggle of her breasts.

"Thank you." She turned to allow him to slip the garment over her shoulders. Why did everything involve so much touching?

He was built on larger lines than Portia. The shoulder seams sagged down her arms and the cuffs covered her hands. But when she faced him, he felt optimistic. In a ballroom, she'd create an uproar. Crossing Lorimer Square by lamplight, the outfit might just get her home undiscovered.

In the dark and at a distance, the illusion of her being male might hold. Although Granville remained far too aware that she was a woman. A delectable one at that.

"Here." He passed her a hat.

An ornate mirror was set above the sideboard. To his relief, she stepped out of reach and concentrated on setting his low-crowned beaver hat on her head at a convincingly masculine angle.

Unfortunately for his nerves, Portia's dashing appearance went straight to his balls. There was something so racy about a voluptuous female kitted out in severe male clothing. When she wore her bedraggled blue gown, he'd wanted her like the very devil. This was a thousand times worse.

Right now, he was on fire. Who knew trousers on a woman could have this incendiary effect?

She met his gaze in the mirror. "Granville?"

"I was right. The coat brings out the color of your eyes."

She flushed, and her eyelashes fluttered down. He knew that she didn't mean to be flirtatious, but the effect was the same, blast it.

He struggled to settle down. But how could he, when he ached to touch her? It took far too long to put on his coat and not just because it was a snugger fit than Portia's on her.

"Let's go," she said.

He managed to smile at her. "You'll emerge unscathed from your adventure."

"Yes."

That couldn't possibly be disappointment he heard. "You can't have wanted to be discovered?"

"No, of course not."

"You sound downhearted."

"Not about that."

He frowned. "What then?"

She licked her lips and glanced at him. "I'd…hoped for more kisses."

Thunderstruck, he stared back before, ignoring conscience and propriety, he crossed the small distance between them and caught her in his arms.