Suddenly, a scrabbling noise sounded nearby.

She stiffened. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t sound very convinced. The sound grew closer, until she was quite certain she knew it for what it was—nails scurrying over ground.

“Rats,” she cried, flinging herself against him. He grunted from the force of her body.

Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Still, she was not about to disentangle herself from his protective bulk with rats lurking nearby. She didn’t care how cowardly she looked.

His hands flexed on her arms, burning through his jacket and the capped sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close. That disembodied voice floated over her, a broken whisper that added to the unreality of the moment. “Portia.”

She wet her lips and opened her mouth. No sound emerged. Instead, she snuggled deeper against him, her hand snaking around his broad shoulder, brushing his hair. She no longer knew or cared what had sent her vaulting into his arms. Unable to resist, she stroked the gossamer strands. In her mind she saw the dark hair sifting through her pale fingers.

With a muttered curse, he gripped her waist and lifted her so that she straddled him. Her skirts pooled around her knees. Shocked at the intimate position, she dropped her hands to his hard chest, ready to push away.

Then he said her name. “Portia.” A hoarse plea—a benediction she couldn’t deny. Didn’t want to.

Her hands ceased pushing.

Darkness beguiled her, tempting her to forget what was real. Who he was. Who she was. And why they had no business sitting together touching each other like this. It had to be the darkness.

It couldn’t be the man himself who held such power over her.

Swallowing, she flexed her fingers against the soft lawn of his shirt, her hands overflowing with the hard sensation of him. His chest muscles danced beneath her palms and her belly fluttered.

She gasped when his hands came down on her thighs, sliding her skirts to her hips. With a rough yank, he untied her garters and pushed her stockings below her knees. Cool air rushed over her knees.

She fought to control her breathing. Impossible when his large hands covered her bare thighs, squeezing, fondling, his calluses rasping her tender flesh. His thumbs descended, inching closer and closer to the center of her that ached.

His hard chest pushed against her br**sts and the peaks tightened, pebbled. Mortified, she prayed he did not notice, did not feel the evidence of her desire.

He dragged his coat from her shoulders; it dropped behind her in a whisper of sound. His breath fanned her ear a moment before his lips closed on the lobe, biting gently, sending her pulse into a fury.

Releasing her lobe, he shifted his head so that the warmth of his cheek scratched hers.

Meanwhile, his big hands roamed. Over her shoulders. Down her back. His fingers skimmed her spine, and she squirmed, detesting the thin barrier of muslin.

The suffocating darkness magnified his touch. The anticipation of where he would touch next tightening every nerve into singing alertness. She felt the hot fan of his breath against her lips and leaned forward, hungry for his lips. Ravenous for another taste of last night’s kiss.

His tongue flicked over her bottom lip. Once. Twice. She moaned and parted her mouth even more. He seized her lips, thrusting his tongue inside. His hands gripped her thighs. The dig of his fingers in her soft flesh filled her with a deep, primal thrill and she pressed closer, desperate for more, desperate for him.

As his hands clung to her thighs, his tongue parried with hers. The bulge of his manhood pressed against the burning center of her, prodding her through bunched skirts. She pushed against his hardness, frantic to assuage the ache.

“Heath?” a voice suddenly called, its peevish quality a cold douse of water.

He wrenched free and Portia moaned, bereft from the sudden loss of his lips, his nearness—his hard body rocking against hers.

“Heath?” the voice called again.

A soft glow of light invaded their sanctuary. Reality had arrived, nosing its way into her passion-clouded head. Heath rose, hauling her with him. Portia blinked and looked about, her head fuzzy as wool.

Feet pounded down the steps and she turned to watch Constance halt at the bottom step. Portia’s stockings slipped past her knees and she squeezed her legs together to keep them from sliding to her ankles.

Constance held her candle aloft and surveyed them suspiciously. “Sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête.”

“Constance,” Heath replied, his voice surprisingly steady, all things considered. “Good of you to unlock the door for us.”

His sister snorted. “Grandmother is furious with me.”

“I’ll deal with her,” Heath vowed with quiet assurance.

Portia slid him an uneasy glance. The hard set of his mouth almost had her feeling sorry for Lady Moreton.

“Come along, then,” Constance said, turning on the step.

“We need a moment,” he stated, holding out his hand. “The candle, if you will.”

Constance frowned. “Heath—”

“Thank you. That will be all, Constance.” His voice rang flat, final. Not to be contested.

Still frowning, Constance stepped down and handed him the candle. With a quick glare for Portia, she turned on her heels. Her lavender skirts swished noisily as she took the steps forcefully, each jarring step reverberating on the air.

Portia faced Heath. “She doesn’t much care for me.”

Without a response, he dropped, squatting at her feet.

“What—aaaah,” she squealed as he shoved up her skirts. She staggered, grabbing his broad shoulders for support.

“Hold your skirts,” he commanded, his muscles bunching beneath his fingers.

Finding her balance, she released him to grab fistfuls of skirt. She dipped her head to watch him.

One warm hand closed around her left knee, circling it until his fingers teased the sensitive back.

Her gaze snapped up, staring straight ahead even though the sight of that hand on her knee burned its image on her mind.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed fiercely, trying to open her airway. That hand slid up, taking her stocking with it. He lifted his head and locked gazes with her burning stare, searching into her very soul. His fingers trailed a flaming path along the inside of her thigh. Up, up, up…

Moisture gathered between legs and her face flamed, scandalized, certain that he knew his touch made her throb, ache.

With her heart hammering wildly in her chest, he deftly retied the garter before moving on to her other leg and repeating the same bone-melting process. He took his time, toying with her, torturing her with his tantalizing touch. His dark head dipped, pressing a moist, open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh. A small squeak of plea sure escaped her at the teasing swipe of his tongue.

Then his mouth vanished. Back on his feet, he looked at her with eyes more black than gray. The intimacy of his action, the familiarity, left her shaken, speechless, achingly aroused.

“You can drop your skirts now.”

Gasping, she released her skirts, letting them flutter back to her ankles. She stood frozen, rooted to the ground. Her eyes scanned his face, devouring the sight of him, wondering how he could shut off his emotions like that.

No man ever made her feel this way. No man had tried. Fool that she was, she had thought herself immune, thought herself different, better than all those other debs tittering and batting their eyelashes for every gentleman that cut a fine figure in his evening attire.

Her gaze traveled the length of him, stopping at the hands knotted at his sides.

Her heart loosened. Apparently, he wasn’t unaffected. “Your hands are shaking,” she whispered before she could think better and hold her tongue.

Abruptly, he turned, removing his hands from her view. His voice floated on the air, the command so soft she barely heard it. “Go.”

She eyed the broad expanse of his back.

“Go,” he barked, making her jump.

Without another word she fled up the steps as fast as her legs could move. Wicked man. Making her feel this way—making her want him. Her fingers brushed her tingling lips. Lady Moreton could never know.

“Heath! Where are you going?”

Heath stopped in the foyer at the sound of that shrill voice. He stood frozen as stone, reining in his temper before slowly turning to face the woman responsible for turning his world upside down.

His grandmother approached at a sedate pace, eyeing him with keen, narrowed eyes. He fixed a neutral expression on his face.

She stopped before him and folded her fine, blue-veined hands primly in front of her. A smile played about her lips as she took note of his clenched fists.

He immediately relaxed his fists, letting his hands hang limply at his sides. She would mark that as a sign, an indication that his captivity with Portia affected him. If she had even an inkling of how much he desired the damned chit…

He shook his head, both amazed and horrified. For once, remarkably, his grandmother had gotten it right and managed to thrust an eligible female beneath his nose that he found hard to resist. He could never let her find out.

“Where are you off to?” she asked in clipped tones.

Knowing the one response that would vex her the most—and perhaps convince her of his disinterest in Portia—he replied, “The dower house.”

A colossal lie that. He had not visited Della since the night he turned from her bed, contrary to what his family thought. He couldn’t bring himself to see her again, to face the questions that were sure to rise when he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Lately, he had stayed at the old lodge. He didn’t have to face anyone there.

His grandmother’s nostrils flared as though she smelled something foul. “With your strumpet?”

He smiled coldly. “I have no idea to whom you refer.”

“That Fletcher woman.”

“Della manages the dower house,” he said with mock innocence. “And a better house keeper I’ve never run across. I’ve actually considered bringing her here and retiring Mrs. Crosby to the dower house. She’s getting on in years—”

“That woman will never step foot in this house.” His grandmother’s voice shook.

Heath shook his head. Grandmother had always blamed Della for his bachelor status. As if Della were the reason he never married.

“Fortunately, this house belongs to me,” he replied. “Perhaps you would like to take up residence at the dower house? Mrs. Crosby could accompany you.”

“I’ll move to the dower house when you take a wife. As is proper.” She inhaled deeply through quivering nostrils. “And on that matter.” A pregnant pause filled the air before she accused,

“You were in the cellar with Lady Portia for an unseemly amount of time.”

“And you know why,” he ground out, having a good idea where she was heading and still astounded at her unbelievable gall.

“I only know that you have placed yourself and Lady Portia in an untenable situation.”

“Cease your games. We both know how Portia and I came to be in that cellar, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is no need to post the banns.”

Her controlled features cracked for the barest moment, revealing the frustration that simmered just beneath the surface. “Just the same, a gentleman would do right by her and make an offer.”

Heath laughed, the bitter sound echoing in the cavernous foyer. “Never mistake that I’m a gentleman, Grandmother.”

Angry splotches of color broke out over her face and her voice dropped to an enraged whisper.

“You’re a disgrace to this family.”

Heath laughed more, the hard sound welling up from deep in his chest. “I’m such a blight, am I?” he demanded, thumping his fist to his chest.

His grandmother snorted in disgust. “You’re a reprobate with no consideration for duty, just like your father—”