Not her or any woman. She tormented herself to think otherwise.

She dipped her gaze, determined that he not read her pain—the inexplicable, unreasonable pain that clawed her heart.

Heath rose and walked away. Portia sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, resisting her sudden sense of desolation, fighting the desire to follow him with her eyes, her heart.

“Portia.”

She turned at the sound of her name, a hush on the air. He handed her a damp cloth. She stared at it for a moment, puzzled, and then she winced, understanding.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the cloth. She looked from him to the linen, an awkward flush creeping up her neck. Absurd considering what had transpired between them.

“Do you mind?” she asked in a small voice, careful to keep her eyes on his face and not his nudity. She motioned for him to turn around. He shot her an annoyed look.

Snatching the cloth from her hand, he commanded, “Lay down.”

“W-What?”

“Lay. Down.” He must have read her bewilderment, for he softened his voice. “Let me do this for you, Portia.”

She slowly fell back on the rug. Throwing an arm over her eyes as if she could hide from the intimacy, she spread her legs for him, forcing her muscles to relax as he cleaned her, eliminating the evidence of her rendered maidenhead. She only wished the memory of what she had done could be wiped out as easily.

The linen felt cool and abrasive against her tender flesh, each swipe unhurried—sweet agony to her oversensitized skin. She bit her lip to stop a whimper from escaping.

She heard the linen hit the floor and sighed with relief—glad for an end to the torment—only to gasp when he curled his big body next to hers.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep,” his voice sounded beside her ear, fluttering strands of her hair against her cheek.

He did not intend to return to the bed now that he had taken his plea sure? Her thoughts whirled.

Why had he made love to her? The very woman he suspected intent on trapping him? And why was he still here? Beside her? Pulling her to him as if he had every right, as if she belonged at his side?

“Sleep,” she echoed, her every nerve stretched tight, achingly alive. Sleep. Elusive as smoke circling overhead.

His hand splayed over her hip possessively, as if anchoring her to him.

She wet her lips, searching for her voice, pretending that the slight touch did not affect her.

“Tomorrow,” she began, pausing, relieved that her voice did not quake as her insides did. “Your grandmother will prove difficult.”

“Isn’t she always?” he said against her neck, the moist fan of his breath making her belly flutter.

“We will have been alone together”—her voice tore, twisting into a sharp gasp as his teeth bit down on her earlobe. Desire, hot and savage, spiked through her, melting her bones and burning her blood as she fought to finish her sentence—”all night.”

“Yes,” he breathed in a voice warm as sherry, thick with promise. He raised his head to look at her. “All night.” His hair fell forward, a dark curtain on either side of his face. Light and shadow flickered over his features—sunlight on wind-rippled water, casting his face into sharp lines and hollows.

Her hand wobbled hesitantly on the air before pushing the heavy skein of hair back from his face. His eyes gleamed down at her, those dark fathomless pools, pulling her in, swallowing her whole. “What will we do?” She moistened her lips. “What will we say?”

He tensed and took his time responding. For a moment, she thought he would not answer at all—

or if he did, it would be to heap the familiar abuse on her head.

Then he spoke, and in a voice that bore little resemblance to the intimate huskiness of moments ago. This voice rang with decisiveness, gravity. “Nothing. Nothing has changed. I know why you came here, Portia. What you expect.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he placed a finger against her lips, silencing her with the single feather-soft touch. “And I know what it is we’ve done,” he continued, “but I cannot marry.

You or anyone. Ever.”

Nothing has changed. His proclamation echoed in her heart, her soul. And she had to confess that a secret part of her wished things had changed—wished he had. Yet he would never wed, not as long as he believed his destiny rested in madness…and he closed his heart to love.

“Can you accept that?” His gaze burned into her, demanding she understand. And she did. He need not worry she would turn into a hysterical female, insisting he do the honorable thing and marry her. She would prove to him that she had not set out to trap him. No matter how her heart bled to let him go.

“Of course,” she replied with forced lightness even as her heart tightened into a painful knot beneath her breastbone. “I have no wish to marry.”

His expression turned guarded, uncertain.

I have no wish to marry. True. She hadn’t. Ever. So why did the words stick in her throat?

Spending a night in his arms had not changed her ultimate goal. She wanted independence, craved a life abroad, to stand before the Parthenon and see with her own eyes if it was as magnificent as everything she had read. She longed for the freedom her mother enjoyed. Not nights of passion with a man that reduced her will to ashes.

“No regrets, then?”

“No regrets,” she vowed.

Turning, he pressed a moist kiss to her palm. “This is all we’ll have,” he whispered against the tender flesh. His eyes met hers over her palm. “I’m in no position to offer more than to night.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder, what if. What if he wanted to marry her? Not because his grandmother wanted him to, but because he wanted to. Would she accept? Would she cast aside her dreams, sacrifice her hopes? The delightful weight of his body atop hers was answer enough. For night after night of this? Night after night of him? Her mind shied from answering the question. Instead, she released a chest-shuddering sigh, relieved that she wouldn’t be given a choice—relieved and saddened.

His hand traced the line of her collarbone, the brush of his fingertips chasing away her troubled thoughts. That hand lowered, trailing a fiery path between her br**sts and she trembled.

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle Grandmother,” his low voice reassured her, most likely mistaking her shudder for anxiety over what his grandmother would say when they returned home. “We have to night.” His husky voice rumbled over her, a caress in itself. A slow lick of heat curled in her belly at his promise.

A single night.

She arched beneath his hand, thrusting her breast into his ready palm. Her hand circled his neck, dragging his mouth down to hers.

This would be all they ever had. It had to be enough. She would make it so.

Chapter 21

Portia and Heath had just cleared the threshold of Moreton Hall when Lady Moreton swept down on them like a carrion bird in pursuit of fresh kill. Her darting eyes—quick and hungry—

assessed them, searching, looking for a point of invasion. No doubt she had been watching for their return from one of the upstairs windows.

The feral light gleaming in her eyes spiked unease deep in the well of Portia’s heart. She shrank back, but Heath’s hand on the small of her back stopped her from total retreat. He gave her a reassuring wink, and she melted at the small gesture before gathering herself tightly under control. Tender feelings for him had no place in her heart this morning. Or ever again. Their intimacy ended the moment they crossed the threshold. A one time affair, a brief foray into passion that must be put behind her.

“Where have you been?” Lady Moreton demanded, then waved a hand, granting neither one the chance to answer. “It’s of no account now. You’ve been out all night together. Without a chaperone. The damage is done. You must wed posthaste.”

Portia sighed, suddenly very tired. Tired of Lady Moreton’s scheming and plotting and badgering. So much like her own grandmother with her insufferable expectations.

“Good morning to you, too, Grandmother,” Heath greeted. “And yes, we’re well—we found shelter from the storm, thank you for inquiring.”

“Well, I can see you’re both well,” she snapped, that elegant, blue-veined hand fluttering in the air. “Now, I recommend you leave at once to procure a special license. I shall make the arrangements here while—”

“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted in a controlled voice, smooth as polished marble.

“What?” Lady Moreton blinked rapidly, as if trying to rid some particle from her eye.

“We won’t be getting married,” Heath announced in a voice that brooked no argument.

Lady Moreton turned her twitchy stare on Portia. “You cannot mean to accept this, my dear.”

From the corner of her eye, Portia saw Heath turn to study her, felt his unwavering gaze, his dark judgment as he waited for her answer. After everything, he still thought her a grasping, unscrupulous marriage-minded female. Her heart twisted. Yet if she were honest with herself, perhaps a small part of her did want to marry him.

Yet not like this. Not against his will.

Moistening her lips, she said as firmly as she could, “My lady, it’s really for the best that I leave.”

“For the best?” Lady Moreton’s voice splintered the air of the great foyer. “Where’s your dignity? You’re ruined, you stupid girl!”

Portia flinched and closed her eyes slowly in one long fortifying blink, retreating into that dark cave she resided when her family lashed her with the barbed whips of their tongues.

“That will be enough,” Heath’s voice rumbled beside her, the pressure of his hand at her back warm and comforting, a lifeline drawing her from the shelter of the cave.

“I was afraid of this,” Lady Moreton muttered, her head bobbing up and down like a buoy in tossing waters. “That is why I sent for the vicar.”

“You what?” Heath dropped his hand from her back and stoically faced his grandmother. “So he can wag his tongue to all in the district about affairs that are none of his concern?”

A cold draft swept over Portia. “Why would you send for the vicar?” she heard herself asking.

Heath answered without looking her way. “She means for him to persuade us, isn’t that so, Grandmother.”

“Persuade?” Portia echoed.

“Portia. Dear.” Lady Moreton seized both her hands with her chilled ones. “Mr. Hatley is a man of God. Surely he will help you and Heath see reason, convince you both to wed. For the safety of your souls if nothing else.”

“Oh, let’s be honest,” Heath sneered. “You’ve sent for Hatley to force my hand.”

“Did someone say my name?” a voice pealed through the vast foyer with the clarity of a bell.

Portia turned to watch the vicar descend the stairs. Dressed all in black, with a wide cleric’s collar, she retreated a step as if the devil himself approached and not a man of God.

“Mr. Hatley,” Heath greeted, his voice flat, void of warmth.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” the vicar boomed in a voice bred for the pulpit.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” Heath replied. “My apologies. You made the trip out here for nothing.”

“I told you he would be resistant,” Lady Moreton chimed, moving to stand beside the vicar.

Together they presented an imposing, united front.

Mr. Hatley smiled. A patronizing curve of moist, over-fleshed lips. “Come now, my lord, be obliging. I can’t say I endorse Lady Portia’s methods”—e paused to waggle his brows at Portia in a look that could only be described as a jeer—”but you’ve been well and truly caught, lad.

Time to own up to your responsibilities and marry the lady.” Mr. Hatley winked at her and added in less than discreet tones, “You said you would bring him to heel and right you did, my lady.