Chapter 9

Early on a drizzly April morning, riders in Hyde Park were thinly spread. A thick mist emphasized the atmosphere of isolation and mystery.

That suited Portia fine. She was out for a morning canter with Rankin in the hope that she'd run into the Duke of Granville, who always rode in the park before settling down to the hard work of governing his estates and the nation. She told herself that she wanted to find out how Jupiter had fared overnight. But she knew at heart that while she cared about the dog's welfare, for once her interests were much more selfish.

She wanted to see Granville. She wanted to learn whether he planned more kisses. And if he did, when and where.

Oh, those kisses…

She usually slept like a log. She was a healthy, active woman with a clear conscience. Last night, she'd stared into the darkness for hours. Strange feelings kept her awake and restless. Those extraordinary kisses had turned her whole life upside down. She'd never experienced anything to match them.

The memory of Granville's lips on hers stirred a pleasurable tightening in the place between her legs. She shifted in the sidesaddle to ease the sensation.

No longer did she marvel at her sisters going dotty when they fell in love. She'd always been puzzled that proper Juliet and shy Viola threw wisdom to the winds when they met the men they'd since married. Although it still left her reeling that the man who sent her demented was that supercilious prude, the Duke of Granville. Who turned out to be the sort of man she'd dreamed of, before she'd matured enough to understand that no husband would allow her to pursue her crusade.

So far, there was no sign of the duke. Could he be having second thoughts about an entanglement with another Frain woman? Yesterday he'd spoken of Juliet without resentment, and Portia believed him when he said that he hadn't loved her. But his unhappy history with her family remained an obstacle.

She wasn't subject to nerve storms, yet this morning she felt as jumpy as a scalded cat. Her horse, Cleo, a mare as even-tempered as her mistress, picked up on Portia's edginess and shied at every shadow.

"Cleo, settle down," Portia murmured, as the mare jumped at a harmless bush poking out of the murk.

"She's in a state, that's for sure," Rankin said from behind her.

Her groom criticized the rider rather than the horse. Rankin never blamed an animal, only the humans around it. With her rescues, Portia had taken that lesson to heart.

She told herself to calm down, but that was easier said than done. Although she had a grim presentiment that she'd put Rankin, Cleo and herself through this chilly torture for no purpose.

The duke might have decided that he preferred to keep Portia at a distance. Heaven knew it would be easier. In less than a day, her life had become vilely complicated. He must feel the same.

The idea that those knee-shaking kisses might be her quota left her in such a funk, she didn't notice the tall man on the path ahead. Only when Jupiter barked a welcome did she realize that she'd stumbled upon His Grace of Granville at last. Not on horseback as expected. Instead he was on foot, walking his plebeian dog on a leash.

Unfortunately, a barking dog placed the seal on Cleo's woes, although if any horse in England was used to dogs, it was her. She reared on her hind legs and neighed. Which only set Jupiter barking anew.

"Cleo, stop!" Portia said breathlessly, struggling to keep her seat. "It's fine, darling. Nothing to worry about."

Rather than presenting a cool and elegant image to the duke, she found herself clinging to Cleo's neck and praying that she didn't end up flat on her face.

Before Cleo could bolt, Granville caught her bridle. "It's all right, my beauty. No need to worry. Only a dog. Only a dog."

The singsong tone brought Cleo back onto four legs. Portia felt her trembling, but at least she wasn't about to bolt. Jupiter, bless him, now sat in silence.

Alaric's croon had an incendiary effect on Portia. With difficulty, she forced herself to stay in the saddle, when all she wanted to do was spring to the ground and fling herself into his arms.

To hide her reaction, she collected the reins in one gloved hand and straightened the black high-crowned hat that finished off her riding habit. This morning, she'd taken a ridiculously long time dressing. She'd never been someone who preened and primped, but she'd definitely primped today.

"Thank you, Your Grace." She hoped Rankin wouldn't hear the unnatural note. The duke, she was sure, did. After yesterday, she'd never again dismiss Alaric Dempster as less perceptive than the average block of wood. Not much escaped those gleaming green eyes.

Gleaming green eyes that focused on her. When she met his intent gaze, color rushed into her cheeks. He looked concerned, not bent on seduction. But seeing him again revived last night's fevered fantasies.

His smile asked so many questions, most of them inappropriate for casual acquaintances meeting in Hyde Park. "Are you all right, Lady Portia?"

No, I've turned into a complete wanton, and I don't know what to do about it.

"Yes, thank you, Your Grace." She was conscious of Rankin behind her, listening to every word. She settled on a less fraught topic than her unsuitable desires. "How is Jupiter this morning?"

"In fine fettle. I'm not sure I can say the same for myself."

"Oh?" She was pleased to note that he sounded amused, almost fond. Any fears that Jupiter might wear out his welcome faded.

"There was something of a battle last night over who would occupy my bed."

Portia laughed, although she really didn't want to think about Granville in bed. Thinking about Granville in bed made her think about joining him there. "Who won?"

"I did, but it was a close-run thing."

"I commend your grasp of strategy. My money would have been on Jupiter."

The dog stood beside his new master, wagging his tail. He knew that they were talking about him. "Would you like to come down and say hello and perhaps walk a little way with us?"

"I would." She struggled to keep her voice even, almost impossible when she felt like she contained a sky full of fireworks. "Rankin, will you please hold Cleo?"

"Aye, my lady," her groom said in an uninflected tone. He must guess that this rendezvous wasn't accidental, but he'd cooperate as he always did.

"Let me help you." Granville stepped forward, regarding her from under the brim of his stylish gray hat.

The moment that she looked into his eyes, her insecurity vanished. They were warm and interested and alight with admiration. She hadn't imagined the rapport she shared with him.

Portia noted, now that she wasn't likely to end up on her bottom in the mud, that all of him looked stylish in a silvery gray coat and darker gray breeches. Had he taken similar trouble over his appearance? She'd like to think that he had.

Her heart giving a happy skip, she smiled down at him with a sunniness that shamed the gloomy weather. "Thank you."

When he caught her waist, his eyes widened. For a blazing instant, the social mask slipped. She saw that he hungered like she did.

The breath jammed in her lungs. His hands tightened, and she automatically reached for those impressive shoulders.

After a charged instant, he lifted her to the ground. Thank heavens, he kept hold of her a fraction too long. Her legs were too wobbly to support her.

She still stared into Granville's face when Rankin cleared his throat. "Shall I take Cleo, my lady?"

The real world rushed in with painful force. Portia stepped back, bumping into Cleo's warm flank. "Yes. Yes, please."

She sounded flustered. She couldn't help it.

"Very good, ma'am," Rankin said in a stoical voice, coming forward and taking Cleo's reins.

The horse had settled. Most creatures felt safe in Granville's company. Dear Lord, even Portia did, when safety was the last thing that His Grace offered.

"Shall we proceed?" While the duke did a better job of hiding his agitation, she was close enough to hear unaccustomed huskiness in his voice and see a muscle dancing in his lean cheek.

"Yes." When he extended his arm, she clung as if she was drowning and he'd flung her a rope. Except she feared that they were both lost in a strange ocean and likely to sink beneath the waves.

Granville let Jupiter off the lead before they began to stroll along the path. Behind them, she heard the horses' hooves clopping on the gravel. Rankin, bless him, hung back to grant her and the duke a moment's privacy. It might make her groom a terrible chaperone, but it did make him a dear friend.

"Did you have any trouble getting back into the house last night?" the duke asked in a low voice. The question wasn't suggestive, yet a ripple of forbidden awareness warmed Portia. The murmur was a powerful reminder of how he'd sounded when she was in his arms.

"Portia?"

By now, she should be used to blushing. She'd drifted off into enthralling memories of his kisses. "No. It was fine in the end. Rankin smuggled me into the stables, where I keep a few dresses in case I need to change. Rescuing dogs can be dirty work."

"I know," Granville said with such feeling that she laughed.

"Papa ended up dining at his club and has no idea how late I was out."

"Rankin was the only one to see you in trousers?"

"Yes." She paused. "And you."

"The world missed a treat. The sight of you dressed as a man was rather…piquant."

She was back to thinking about kisses. Her voice shook when she replied. "I need to return your clothes. At the moment, they're bundled up under the window seat in my bedroom."

"Yours are in the bottom drawer of the desk in the library. And there's a very pretty little pistol in there as well. You left it in the pocket of your pelisse."

"Oh, I forgot my gun. Shall I send Rankin over?"

"I'd rather you came yourself."

She stumbled slightly, and it was nothing to do with the mist. "For Jupiter?"

"For me."

"Granville…"

"Alaric."

Stupid to feel that using his Christian name was a step too far, when he'd already kissed her as if he wanted to devour her. Nevertheless her voice stumbled as her feet did when she answered. "Alaric, are we…are we going to pursue this?"

His expression turned somber. "I'd like to, but the decision must be yours. I swear on my life I'll do everything in my power to protect your good name, but I don't need to tell you the risks."

"No, you don't," she said soberly. Her heart lurched like a drunkard after a Saturday night spree. "I've taken risks before."

"To save your animals."

"Yes."

"This goes beyond your previous adventures." His voice was a low rumble. "When you hear my proposition, you'll be within your rights to slap my face."

Her heart began to race. "You want me to visit your house?"

Alaric shook his head. "Worse than that."

"Worse?" Although she could already guess, and what she guessed filled her with a roiling mixture of terror and excitement.

"Much, much worse." Urgency darkened his tone. "I don't want to see you for a few hours here and there. I don't want to worry about interruptions. I want you to myself. I want you in my bed. I want us to go away together and see where this attraction takes us."

Dear Lord, she should slap his face. He was talking sin, the sort of sin that any decently-raised girl would run a mile from contemplating. If Portia said yes to what he suggested, her life would change forever. She'd change forever. So far, they'd skirted the edges of wickedness, but if she became Alaric's mistress, she violated society's every code. If she was found out, she'd be a pariah.

Nervously she glanced behind, but Rankin had fallen further back. At least he wouldn't overhear this improper conversation. He might be her regular co-conspirator, but he'd never cooperate with what the duke suggested.

She licked parched lips, as herds of elephants performed somersaults in her stomach. "If the world learns we're lovers, the scandal will eclipse anything I've done in my rescues."

"I'm aware of what I'm asking. I'm aware of what it could cost you." He sounded as serious as if he proposed a parliamentary motion. "Do you want to slap my face?"

Her hands curled in her skirts, not because she wanted to hit him, but because she wanted to reach out and touch him. It seemed she wasn't running a mile. "Not…not straightaway."

"I want you, Portia." The strength of his feelings vibrated in his declaration. "I want you more than I've ever wanted another woman. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night for thinking about what I want to do to you."

"I didn't sleep much either," she admitted in a wisp of a voice. Alaric's frankness made her heart flutter like a trapped sparrow. That and fear that she might – she just might – agree to his shocking invitation. She steeled herself to respond with equal candor. "I loved your kisses. I'd like more of them. I'd like…more."

It wasn't surrender, but it put her on the path to surrender. They both knew it.

"So would I." His laugh held the self-mockery that had surprised her yesterday. "I'm as astounded by all this as you are, believe me."

"But how on earth would we manage it?" She tried to tell herself that she asked out of curiosity, not because she really considered doing this rash thing.

"I have a hunting box in Surrey. We could go there."

Was that where he took his other women? "It's easier for you."

"Yes, it is. Although make no mistake. I'd receive my share of disapproval if the beau monde knew I'd seduced my former fiancée's virginal sister." He was right. His engagement to Juliet would add extra spice to any gossip about his entanglement with Portia.

She struggled to hold onto rapidly disintegrating prudence. Once she would have asked herself what Juliet would do. But these days, Juliet provided no example of how to avoid a scandal. "You'd remain a duke and rich and a man of influence. You could still marry."

"The high sticklers wouldn't touch me, and my political career would be in tatters, duke or not. What we do holds dangers for me, too. I don't want you to feel like I'm asking you to make all the sacrifices. I have my own stakes in this game. But yes, I could still marry. The risks weigh heavier on you."

Alaric was tireless in his parliamentary work. He didn't have to tell her how much it meant to him. A sensible woman would wonder why they even discussed such a dangerous step. Discovery promised ruin for both of them.

Portia swallowed to shift the solid lump of trepidation blocking her throat. "You know, I can't see I'll ever marry."

"I wondered if you'd made some such decision. You're too beautiful not to have received a hundred offers. A few of those men must have been eligible."

Her lips turned down with grim humor. "Not quite so many offers as that."

He didn't smile back. "Nonetheless you're in your mid-twenties and unattached. That hints you're unmarried by choice. Juliet was in mourning for her late fiancé, but you've never even flirted with anyone."

"You listen to society tattle?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I had no idea you'd paid such attention to me."

His short laugh was rueful. "Devil take it, neither had I. I'm gladder by the minute that I didn't marry Juliet."

Horrified, she stopped to stare at him. "Dear Lord, what if I developed a passion for you when you were my brother-in-law? It hardly bears thinking about."

He met her eyes. "Have you developed a passion for me?"

Her cheeks heated again. "I…I suppose I must. I wouldn't have kissed you otherwise. For pity's sake, how did this happen?"

Alaric concentrated so hard on her that her nerves spiked, even as her stomach churned with perilous longing. Fear and yearning tore her apart, as she wrestled with what she should do and what she wanted to do.

"By God, you have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now." His voice was low and savage. It made her very bones ache with hunger.

She sucked in an unsteady breath and struggled to recall that they were in a public space, her groom was within calling distance, and the mist supplied inadequate cover for an embrace. "You can't."

"I know," he said in a flat tone. "But that doesn't stop me wanting."

Or her, heaven forgive her. "We should…we should keep walking, or Rankin will catch up."

"Jupiter," Alaric said. The dog had taken advantage of his master's distraction to sniff around the base of the yew hedge lining the path. As he trotted ahead, Alaric returned his attention to her. "Why don't you want to marry?"

"Isn't it obvious? A husband would keep me from my rescue work."

"Did you explain that to any of your suitors?"

"Of course not. But I know how the world works. A man wants a wife at his beck and call. He doesn't want her running around who knows where, taking in mistreated animals. He wants a chatelaine for his house, a smiling, gracious hostess, a mother for his children."

"Don't you find any of that appealing?"

Oh, dear, she thought that she'd long ago come to terms with life as a lone crusader. She had until, plague take him, Alaric decided to show her what she missed out on. But the reasons for refusing her other suitors counted double with Alaric. A duke with political ambitions needed a hostess and a helpmeet. He needed a suitable duchess. That was never going to be Portia Frain.

He must feel the same, because he suggested an affair, not marriage. Just as when he spoke, the topic was desire, not love.

"You can't have everything." She hated the wistfulness weighting her answer.

"You're giving up a lot for your animals."

Portia squared her shoulders and told herself not to be such a wet hen. "My animals have no other advocate, whereas society is full of pretty, biddable chits who would – and do – make perfect wives for conventional gentlemen."

"Perhaps you underestimate the gentlemen. If a man really loved you, he'd want you to be happy. It's clear that helping animals makes you happy."

She wished with all her heart that was true about the Duke of Granville. How easily he spoke of love. It hurt to hear the word on his lips and know that he'd never love her.

"Perhaps," she said, knowing no such tolerant gentleman existed. "But it's a risk I can't take. Single, I have more freedom than most women. I have a fortune of my own, so I needn't wed for security. I'm in a unique position to make a difference."

He remained silent. And the silence bristled.

"Have I appalled you?" she asked eventually.

"No," he said. "It makes sense."

"But you don't approve?"

"It's not for me to approve or disapprove." He frowned. "But it's a lonely life you're talking about. I know you'll have dogs and cats and horses. But it might be nice having some human love in there as well. Someone to cuddle who isn't covered with fur."

"I have my sisters." Portia wished that she didn't sound defensive. She didn't need to justify herself to Alaric. He had no power over her decisions, except the power that she granted him. Although she had a sinking feeling that in loving him, she granted him more power over her than any man had ever wielded. "I'll be aunt to their children."

"That's something." He didn't sound convinced.

She couldn't blame him. Right now, her plans sounded dismal to her, too. Blast Alaric. Before she'd tumbled into love with him, her independence had always seemed rather dashing. Yet again, she told herself to perk up.

"But my unusual circumstances offer some advantages." She hoped that he didn't hear the false brightness in her tone.

He cast her a wry glance. "That you can do as you like?"

"As you must know, I try not to scandalize society. That would upset Papa. Especially now. He's had a difficult year."

"Very good of you."

She hadn't mistaken his grumpiness. She supposed like most men, he didn't appreciate women striking out on their own and choosing a path that didn't rely on male endorsement. "You're not following me."

"Yes, I am. You've decided on a future without husband or children or company, beyond a menagerie of stray animals."

She couldn't help laughing, when her intentions should have her hanging her head in shame. In fact, any right-thinking woman would get back on Cleo and gallop home to Lorimer Square to scour the library for a book of improving sermons. "You make it sound so eccentric. Plenty of women don't marry. Plenty of women have pets."

He didn't smile. "Not women like you. Not women capable of passion like you."

Portia delayed before answering. Once she set this course, the path that she'd imagined her life taking would diverge into an unfamiliar and precarious wilderness. She waited for conscience or cowardice or even good old common sense to speak up. All maintained a deathly silence. Instead, her imprudent heart cavorted with drunken joy at knowing that she would at least have this much of Alaric.

She licked her lips, straightened her spine, and spoke the fatal words. "I'm hoping you can supply the passion."

He stopped as if he'd slammed into a pane of glass. Which meant that Portia stopped, too. After a charged moment, he stepped in front of her. His eyes blazed in his face, and that muscle danced in his cheek once more. "Are you saying what I think you are, Portia?"

She very much feared that she was. Not sure if she was intrepid or unforgivably rash, she raised her chin and met that intense gaze. "I'm saying that I don't need to be a virginal bride for some unknown gentleman. I'm saying that if we can arrange things, I'd like to be your lover, Alaric."

***

Granville stared at Portia as if she'd appeared out of nowhere. In so many ways, she had. Despite being in plain sight for years.

He caught her gloved hand in a firm grip. Inside his chest, his heart sang with elation – and primitive anticipation. "It's torture not being able to kiss you."

She tugged her hand free. "We have to be careful. More than ever now."

Now that they were about to start an affair, she meant. "I swear you won't be sorry."

"We need to make plans."

"Yes."

Portia looked troubled and ruffled. And glowing, as if someone had lit a candle inside her. Her gaze sought his. "Not now."

Slow hoofbeats approached. Rankin was nearly upon them. Not to mention that the morning advanced. For the moment, they were unobserved. Granville would prefer not to be seen with Portia, despite a walk in the park with a chaperone being acceptable. He was the famous – and famously unattached – Duke of Granville. People were always too quick to speculate about his marriage plans. Portia's connection to Juliet would only add to the interest.

"I'd ask you for a drive, but—"

"But we don't want to attract notice."

"Can you meet me in the square tonight? It needs to be late. I've committed to a box at the opera with the Lumsdens."

"I'm dining with the Tyrrells. Shall we say midnight?"

He caught her hand and squeezed it. "Midnight."

Staring down into her face, he reminded himself once more that he couldn't kiss her. How he longed to get her to himself, somewhere he needn't worry about wagging tongues and curious eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," she said in a tormented tone.

"I can't help it. You're just so damned beautiful."

Rankin emerged from the thinning mist. He dismounted and led the horses up to Granville and Portia. Hopefully the fellow thought that they'd been talking about Jupiter. Which reminded him…

"Jupiter!"

In an ebullient mood, the dog bounded out of the shrubbery. Grenville gagged, as he clipped the lead to his collar. "Good God! What have you been rolling in?"

Portia laughed. "You'll need to give him another bath when you get him home, Your Grace."

"Without your help this time." He turned to the dog. "Sit, you troublesome hound."

While Jupiter obeyed, Granville advanced on Portia. "Let me help you into the saddle."

It was a chance to touch her again. He didn't want to let her go, just as he hadn't wanted to let her go last night. It seemed wrong that she should be anywhere but at his side.

She nodded. "Thank you."

Granville caught her by the waist, taking a moment to appreciate her vivid presence. Soon all that spirit and vitality would tumble into his arms and he'd be in heaven. Intoxicated with the untold joy that extended before him, he tossed her onto the gray mare's back. She gathered the reins and settled in the saddle with a wriggle that beggared his good intentions.

Impatience came close to overmastering him. He wanted her now. He hated to wait.

But he must play the game. The stakes were too high now to abandon strategy. So he kept his voice light, while his desire for her coiled tight as a spring.

Her lips twitched, as she regarded him. "I've enjoyed our conversation, Your Grace," she said with a theatrical formality that made him want to laugh.

He wanted to laugh anyway, he was so bloody happy. She was a minx, and he loved it. Nobody ever teased him. Except Portia. "As have I. I wish you good morning, my lady."

Granville stood on the path with Jupiter beside him and watched Portia canter away. Now the mist dissipated, he realized that the park was jammed with riders.

"Shall we continue our walk, old man?" he asked Jupiter.

A twitch of a tail expressed approval. Yesterday Granville's life had changed. Forever. Not just because he'd finally recognized Portia for who she was. He'd also gained a canine friend who, in the space of less than twenty-four hours, had claimed a place in his heart.

"By Jove, Granville, what have you got there?"

The mocking voice emerged from another universe. Granville raised his head to give Lord Colville a jaunty smile. "Come and meet my new friend, Jupiter."

Colville rode with his wife, the once-scandalous Lady Verena Gerard. The couple had been married for two years and remained inseparable. The union of the wild duke's daughter and the punctiliously correct viscount had society predicting disaster. So far, Lord and Lady Colville had proven society wrong. Good heavens, the Colvilles were almost as ill-suited as he and Portia.

"I've never seen you with a dog before." Verena dismounted and approached Jupiter with her gloved hand outstretched.

"Are you sure that's a dog?" Colville asked.

"A very fine one, I'll have you know. Looks aren't everything."

"Don't listen to him, boy," Verena said, as Jupiter sniffed her hand. "I think you're very handsome."

"What do you know?" Granville asked. "You think that your husband is handsome."

He liked the Colvilles. Eliot Ridley's pristine reputation rivaled his own. Or at least it had until he'd married Verena. Looking at a couple so obviously relishing each other's company, Granville couldn't help thinking that Colville had made the right choice.

Verena laughed and sent her husband a sultry glance. "Colville's handsome enough for me. And so is this excellent fellow." She scratched Jupiter behind the ears until he closed his eyes in ecstasy.

"He's a bit smelly." Granville's understatement bordered on an outright lie.

"He's not too bad," Verena said. "Where did you get him?"

"A friend gave him to me."

Colville's searching look made Granville's cheeks heat. He braced for questions about the friend's identity. When they didn't come, it was almost more worrying.

"You'll be caricatured in the papers," Colville said in a neutral voice. "You know how the press love to point out eccentricities in the great and the good."

Granville supposed he was right. He just hoped to hell that nobody linked Jupiter's arrival to Portia Frain and her penchant for strays.