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Their carriage was luxuriously upholstered, with polished brass fittings and looped velvet curtains over the windows, but Portia found she was too wound up to admire the appointments properly.
I will meet you there.
His words echoed in her head. After their wild and deliciously dangerous mating at Lara’s house, Portia hardly dared think what he planned for her next. And yet she did think about it. She thought about it all the time. She was addicted to the touch and taste of him. He was becoming as essential to her as breathing air.
Hettie was fussing with her own bulky woolen skirts and muttering to herself in German. Her faithful maid was not usually so grumpy, and Portia suspected it was because she was worried. She had been willing to support her mistress when she thought it was just one assignation—Hettie was always more than happy to ensure that she was happy—but now the situation had assumed greater proportions, like a child’s lie that grew and grew, and neither of them knew how it would end.
On impulse, Portia reached out and took her maid’s plump hand in her own, squeezing it comfortingly. “You don’t have to approve of what I am doing, Hettie, I wouldn’t expect it of you, but I need to know you are on my side.”
The steam train blew its whistle.
Hettie sighed and returned the pressure of her fingers. “O
f course I am on your side, lieben. I worry, that is all. I am no prude, it is not that. I think if it were simply the urges of the flesh you were feeling, then I would be happy. But this…this man.” She rolled her eyes. “He wants more from you than he has any right to want, and he is careless of your reputation. He takes risks. Perhaps that is because he has nothing to lose, or perhaps he is one of these revolutionaries who does not believe that rules and laws apply to him. He worries me. Such men are dangerous.”
The train shuddered, jerked, and then slowly began to move forward. The whistle blew again, loudly, and there was a loud puff of steam outside the tightly closed windows as the locomotive chugged out of the station.
Portia laughed. “A dangerous revolutionary! You are imagining Marcus at the heart of some terrible plot, Hettie?”
“Could be,” Hettie said stubbornly.
Waterloo Station was receding, and with it London, and all of the noise and dirt and sprawl that was an increasing part of that great city. With it, too, went her life, and the minutia that it was made up of. She felt lighter with each turn of the wheels, the pressures of family and public life lifted from her shoulders.
Suddenly, Portia turned and grinned at Hettie, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl skipping her lessons. “I am having my very own adventure today. Please don’t tell me I mustn’t.”
Hettie smiled back with an effort. “I promise I will not say a word to spoil it, then, lieben. At least…not until we get to Little Tunley.”
Portia settled into her soft leather seat as the outskirts of London gave way to countryside. Marcus Worthorne would be there at the other end of her journey, and despite her outer poise and calm appearance, inside, her emotions were very different. She felt young and carefree and alive. She had to grip her hands together to stop herself from fidgeting with impatience. She had to bite her lips to stop herself from smiling.
She and Hettie disembarked a little over an hour later, when the train made the unscheduled stop at Little Tunley. The noisy, smoky locomotive left them standing on the empty platform and puffed off into the distance.
As the sound of the train faded and the silence grew, Portia felt a sense of peace begin to settle over her. Unlike London, this sky was blue, with hardly a cloud to be seen. Red geraniums spilled over wooden tubs in front of the station house, birds were singing, and the air was tangy with salt. Portia knew the sea must not be too far away; this was meant to be a journey to the seaside, after all.
I’ll be a clerk and you can be a draper’s assistant. No, a petticoat seller!
She smiled at the memory of his nonsense, just as clattering footsteps heralded the arrival of the astonished station master, who was hastily buttoning his uniform.
“M-My lady!” the poor man stammered, recognizing her at once. “No one told me you would be paying us a visit. Not that you’re not welcome and we’re not grateful…I mean…”
“It is a private visit. Please do not concern yourself.” Portia took pity on him. “You have a very pretty little station,” she added with a smile. “I envy you living here; London fogs grow worse every year.”
The man opened and closed his mouth, flushed with pleasure.
“Someone is meeting me. Is this the way to the vehicle yard?”
“Yes, my lady. Through the arched doorway.”
Portia snapped open her parasol of glistening black silk with the daring red fringe, and strolled in the direction he indicated, Hettie trotting along behind her with the Fortnum and Mason’s hamper. To her disappointment, the vehicle yard was empty. Beyond the open gateway a narrow lane ran at a right angle, bordered by flowering thorny hedges. The lane was empty, too.
“He’s not here,” Hettie said unnecessarily.
“He will be.” She supposed she should have felt worried or apprehensive, but she didn’t. The air was warm and scented from the honeysuckle growing up the wall behind them. It was a beautiful day.
“You are very trusting, lieben.” Hettie, the voice of doom.
Just then Portia heard the sound of an approaching horse and the rattle and creak of a vehicle. She could not keep the heady excitement from filling her voice as she turned triumphantly to her maid.
“You see, Hettie, you were wrong. Everything is just as he promised.”
