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He wanted her, he needed her, and if necessary he would fight for her.
One balmy midnight, several weeks after the assassination attempt on the queen, Portia went sleepwalking. At least that was what she told herself; it was too humiliating to admit that she might have done such a thing while she was even fractionally in her right senses.
She’d gone to bed early with a headache and feeling slightly out of sorts—the unveiling of Lord Ellerslie’s statue was to be held in the morning—and then at the stroke of m
idnight she lurched out of bed with only one thought.
I must see him.
Grabbing her cloak, she scrabbled around on the floor for her slippers, finally finding them and pulling them on. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—pale and wild, her loose hair hanging to her waist—and drew the hood of the cloak over her head. Turning quickly, she almost fell over, and had to rest her hand against the door a moment until the room stopped spinning.
Outside it was quiet, the landing light turned down low. She headed down the stairs. She had forgotten how many bolts secured the front door and fumbled with them, making far more noise than she meant. The top one was more difficult than the others, and she pulled a chair over and stood upon it, wrestling with the mechanism until it finally sprang open.
Upstairs there were voices. She thought she heard her mother’s in the aftermath of some dream. Hastily, Portia pushed the chair out of the way. She felt like a prisoner escaping her cell. Her heart was pounding. She flung the door open.
Warm night air rushed in, and she took deep breaths, clinging to the iron railing as she began to descend the steps to the street. She was on her way across the square when she heard Hettie’s frantic cries in pursuit.
“My lady? My lady, where are you going? It is the middle of the night!”
“I’m going for a walk,” Portia replied, but her steps faltered. The square was empty, the flickering gaslights giving the familiar place an eerie feel.
“A walk?” Hettie had reached her, her voice stifled by her attempt to be discreet. “Lieben, you are in your nightgown!”
Portia stopped and looked down at herself. Hettie was wrong. Her cloak hid her night attire, and the hood covered her hair and helped disguise her identity. No one could see who she was. What did it matter whether she was in her nightgown? Marcus certainly wouldn’t care. He’d laugh and take her in his arms and make her forget with kisses from his wonderful mouth…
But it did matter. Of course it mattered. Everything she did mattered to someone.
She heard her own voice, impatient and petulant. “For heaven’s sake, Hettie, can’t I go for a walk? Surely I am allowed that?”
Hettie took her arm firmly but gently. “But where are you walking to, lieben?”
“I…Nowhere.”
Hettie knew at once. She frowned. “You know you cannot go to that man. It is all over. If you turn up at his door in the middle of the night, he will laugh at you. He will send you away and tell all his friends.”
Would he really send her away? Portia knew she had been final in her good-byes. There could be no room for second chances, and she’d given him none. He probably hated her now, or worse, had forgotten her completely and was besotted with someone else.
She shuddered.
Hettie was right. She could not do this. She was no longer Portia Stroud, the vicar’s daughter. She was Lady Ellerslie, with a position to maintain, not to mention her dignity. This was a moment of madness and she must crush it.
Slowly, chin up, she made her way back into the house. Deed had been peering out of the doorway, and now he closed the door behind her. She heard a shuffle from the corridor as several servants spied on her from the kitchen stairs before her faithful butler shooed them away. It was clear that even her own household thought she was losing her mind.
“Hettie…” she whispered, suddenly appalled.
Hettie understood at once and slipped an arm about her waist, murmuring soothingly. “You are not yourself,” she said as they climbed the stairs. “I will fetch the physician.”
“No, please, I don’t want any more fuss.”
“Portia? What is happening? Has there been more bad news?”
Dear Lord, now her mother was awake, a shawl thrown over her nightdress, her graying hair loose about her shoulders, her eyes wide and fearful. She couldn’t deal with her mother just now.
Hettie took charge. “I think I should send for Dr. Bryant, Mrs. Stroud. Lady Ellerslie is not herself.”
“Yes, yes, if you think it best,” her mother said. She came and pressed her palm to Portia’s forehead. “She is very flushed.”
“I want to go back to bed,” Portia protested, turning toward her bedchamber. They followed.
