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Marcus stroked her cheek. “You are very pensive, my lady.”
She shifted her head so she could look into his eyes. He was watching her from beneath half-closed lids, as if he had a secret. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Sometimes it isn’t wise to think too much. Act on your instincts, that’s my advice.”
“Is that what you do?” She shifted in order to see him better, but couldn’t read his face.
“Of course.” He smiled, then bent to kiss her in the sensitive area beside her ear, and she lifted her shoulder to try and protect herself from his teasing.
“I thought God gave men and women the ability to think and reason to lift them above the animals. Isn’t that what we’re taught in Sunday school?”
He widened his eyes. “Are you calling me an animal, Portia?”
She giggled—she couldn’t help it. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to make her laugh when she least wanted to.
“If I am a beast, then it is you who turn me into one.”
She gasped as he flung himself on top of her, subduing her with his strength. Gentle strength. As if it was his desire to show her how much stronger he was, and at the same time to teach her that he would never use his superior strength to harm her.
“Ask me,” he murmured, nuzzling her temple, her hair.
“Ask you what?” she said breathlessly, as if she couldn’t feel him hard against her thigh.
He kissed her, drawing out her soul. “Ask me,” he said again.
“No.” Her lashes fluttered.
“Portia,” he whispered, his mouth hot against her breasts, his body heavy and desirable upon her.
“Marcus—” she began, then stopped. What was the use in fighting it? This was their last time together, and she wanted him, needed him. She might very well love him.
“Marcus?” he prompted her.
“Please, please, Marcus, make love to me.”
With a growl, he complied.
Afterward, she felt him watching her intently from the shadows of the bed as she began to dress. She turned to smile at him as she slipped on her petticoats, tying the ribbons about her waist. She felt weary, emotionally exhausted as well as physically, and did not want to think about tomorrow, or the next day, when he would be gone. Forever gone.
“Marry me,” he said.
She froze, not sure she’d heard him correctly. It was so ridiculous, so preposterous and unexpected. They were saying good-bye. He couldn’t have asked her to—
“Marry me, Portia.”
She tried to tie the ribbons, but her fingers were shaking so much that she gave up and reached for her scarlet dress. “You know that’s not possible,” she said, her throat tight, her voice husky.
“Why not?” he demanded arrogantly. “I need a wife. It’s time I married and had an heir.”
Portia shot him a look. “Oh, you need a wife, do you?”
“Of course it wouldn’t be the same as it is now. We’d be able to sleep in the same bed without having to get up and go our separate ways. That would be a novelty.”
“Marcus, we made an arrangement. You knew at the beginning it was impossible to have more than this. We can’t suddenly change things just because you decide you need a wife.”
“I told you about Duval Hall,” he went on, sounding more pompous with every moment. “I own it. We can live there. It’s in Norfolk, of course, but it’s surprising how fond I am of it already. At least you’d be able to live your own life without having to ask the queen every time you want to change your bonnet. Damn it, you could even go bare-headed if the mood took you.”
“No, I’d be asking you instead.”
