AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She gasped, the color rushing into her cheeks. She opened her fan—an elaborate affair of painted feathers—and used it to good effect, hiding her emotion and cooling herself at the same time. Over the top, her beautiful blue eyes narrowed in fury.
“Not quite the angelic widow now,” he murmured, pleased he’d flushed her out of her cover.
“How did you get an invitation?”
“I used to be a brave Hussar. Your husband’s old company.”
She stared at him, trying to evaluate his words for truth or lies. “Are you saying you served with my husband?”
“I met him once,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” she replied in a low, angry voice. “I don’t believe anything you say. You were never a Hussar, Mr. Worthorne…”
“But I was, Lady Ellerslie, and dashing in my uniform, too…”
“…you do not have the staying power. I cannot imagine you exerting yourself to be anything worthy.”
That stung. He was surprised he cared enough to let it. Was he beginning to want Portia to think well of him? Surely not; he had never cared for others’ opinions.
“You wrong me, my lady,” he said in a lazy drawl. “I’ll have you know I come from a long line of England’s best.”
Her fair brows lifted skeptically. “England’s best soldiers?”
“England’s best lovers.”
Her mouth twitched.
“We Worthornes pride ourselves, I’ll have you know, on our swordsmanship.”
She giggled, and then looked chagrined, as if it was he who had forced the sound from her.
“Portia?” The voice was heavy with disapproval.
She stilled and then glanced toward Lara Gillingham with all the appearance of a child caught out. Marcus decided she was utterly adorable, and he was more than ever determined to enjoy her until they had exhausted whatever was sizzling between them.
“You are holding up our guests, Portia.”
“I apologize, Lara.” When she turned back to Marcus, the vapid smile was once more plastered on her mouth. “Good evening, sir.”
There would be time later, Marcus reminded himself as he strolled away. She was the reason he was here, and she could not hide beside the Gillinghams all night. He would corner her, and then…He smiled in anticipation and reached for a glass of champagne.
Portia realized with despair that she hardly knew what she was saying. Her head was spinning, her hands felt damp inside her French kid gloves—dyed black—and her thoughts were all over the place.
She shivered. He had sought her out and confronted her, and trapped her again. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
He’d made her laugh. Not just laugh, but laugh as she used to laugh when she was seventeen. He’d stripped the years from her just as he intended to strip her clothes. She might think about the lingering effects of his smile, the timbre of his voice, the promises in his gaze. She might consider the warmth of his fingers as they clasped hers, all the more potent because they were both wearing gloves. But it was when he made her laugh that he had won her, because he made her forget that he could so easily bring about her destruction. Despite everything, he made her enjoy herself.
She still didn’t understand why he was pursuing her. Was it really because he wanted her body? Or was it sheer devilment, because he wanted to ruin her for his own amusement? Such an act of random cruelty did not seem in character, but then she reminded herself that she knew only the sketchiest details about him.
Apart from having tasted most of him.
Portia moved restlessly. The elderly duke at her side was talking about her late husband, and she, who prided herself on never allowing her inner concerns to interfere with her duties as the Widow of the Nation’s Hero, felt the urge to turn and walk away. She could even picture the duke staring after her, his mouth hanging open.
Unforgivable!
How could she contemplate such a thing? Somehow she managed to remain at the duke’s side, the smile fixed to her face, until it was possible at last for her to politely excuse herself.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing servant. The room was so stuffy, and the noise of the crowd made her head ache. She looked around, frantically searching.
