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He smiled, damn him. “How so? I won’t tell anyone. Will you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then where lies the problem, Portia?”
He let her go, but only so he could wrap his arms around her and drag her in closer to his body. She wanted to scream. He bent his head and kissed her, hard, taking away her breath. Angrily, she tried to bite him. He laughed, avoiding her teeth.
“Bitch,” he said mildly, and kissed her again.
His mouth was warm and tasted of the same champagne as she had sipped earlier. He was good at kissing—he’d probably had plenty of practice—and it didn’t take him long to gain a response from her. Or maybe she wanted to respond. Maybe this was what she’d wanted all along.
Just like that, the anger inside her switched to desire. Bold, shuddering need that could not be denied. She clung to his neck, her fingers now caressing his hair, his skin. She melded herself to his body despite the restrictions of her stiffened petticoats and wide skirts.
His palm slid over her breast and squeezed her flesh through the lined bodice and tight stays. She barely felt him but her body knew his touch and craved more.
That was when, dizzy and breathless, she lifted her head and remembered where they were. “No, don’t,” she gasped, trying to evade his grasp.
“Why not? It’s what we both want.”
“Not here,” she said, her voice regaining some of its strength.
He looked around him and seemed to realize for the first time what sort of room it was. His handsome brow wrinkled with distaste. “Good Lord,” he muttered. “A tomb. Was this your idea?”
“Lara’s. She was always trying to please her father while he was alive, and she’s still doing it now that he’s dead.”
“Please, when I die, give me a Viking burial.”
“What is that?”
“Put me in a boat, set it afire, and push me out to sea. I’d rather be food for the fishes than end up in some bloody great mausoleum.”
“Lord Ellerslie is buried in St. Paul’s.”
“Exactly. I want my soul to be free, not locked up in a stone box.”
Dazed, she let him take her hand in his, holding onto her as if he expected her to escape, while he glanced about the room. Apparently he was considering their options. He spied the second door by the bookcase, and pulled her across the room with him to open it. Inside, she saw an anteroom containing a table and chair and a daybed without mattress or bedding.
Hardly welcoming, but at least there was nothing in here she recognized. This was neutral ground.
“Well?” He was watching her, waiting for her decision.
Portia nodded.
He drew her into the cramped space and closed the door, just as the outer door opened and Lara Gillingham called out, “Portia? Are you here?”
It wasn’t completely dark; there was a high window and light enough to see his face. She stared up at him with wide eyes. Smiling, he put his finger against her lips and then traced the shape of her mouth. He bent again and kissed her, slowly this time, drawing her back into the sensual world he had so recently opened for her.
“Where has she gone?” Lara’s voice, closer now, her muffled footsteps crossing the rug before the fireplace. “There are people asking for her. What am I to tell them?”
“I was sure she came in here. I must have be
en mistaken.” It was Arnold Gillingham, sounding as if he couldn’t care less. “Forget her. Come and have some supper, Lara, before those swine eat it all.”
The footsteps retreated. “I should have asked Portia to invite Her Majesty.”
“Come now, Lara! Even Portia couldn’t ensure an appearance at your soiree by the queen.”
“Why not? I’m sure she has the queen under her thumb, just as she had my father. Do you know, I don’t think she has been in this room more than once or twice since he died?”
