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“Some of us have more important things to do than satisfy our own base desires. But you don’t understand that, Marcus. If you want something, then you take it.”
He didn’t answer her.
“Well, don’t you?”
“I want you, Portia. That’s the trouble. I want you, and you can’t see how happy I could make you. You’d rather stay miserable.”
“Arrogant, insufferable—”
“Yes, all that and more. But I can change—I have changed. Give me a chance to show you how happy I can make you.”
She stared at him a moment more and then with a cry of exasperated disgust flung open the door and walked away.
Marcus leaned on the jamb and watched her pass through the salon like a whirlwind in scarlet. He’d upset her; he’d shaken the foundations of her narrow little world.
Well, good.
He wanted to go after her and show her what a real argument sounded like. He wanted to pull off her veil in front of everyone and say: Here she is, and she’s mine! But he didn’t, he couldn’t.
He’d asked her to marry him and somehow it had come out wrong. He hadn’t planned it, but seeing her, touching her, being with her, he hadn’t wanted the moment to end. The words had just come out, and as soon as they were in the air between them, he knew it was a mistake and wanted to take them back. He’d done it all wrong, let his frustration overcome his good sense. For a man who prided himself on his ability as a lover, he had really made a mess of his marriage proposal.
He could see why she was angry and upset, but he had a right to feel that way too. Marcus Worthorne, the man with no direction in his life, with nothing to hold onto, had turned himself around for her. Everything he did now, he did with thoughts of Portia and what it would mean to her. To them. He was working toward them all the time.
He thought women were intuitive. Then why, he asked himself angrily, couldn’t she understand that?
Chapter 19
Portia, weary and heartsore, entered what she thought of as the sanctuary of her home in Grosvenor Square, and found she had stepped into the midst of a maelstrom. Deed’s face, the first thing she saw, and which she used to monitor the level of trouble brewing deeper within her house, was twitching nervously.
“What is it, Deed?”
He gave her a pleading look. “Mrs. Gillingham is here, my lady.”
“Lara? At this time of night? This is becoming a habit. What does she want now?”
“And Mister Gillingham.”
“Good Lord.” She sounded faint. “Both of them?”
“Yes, my lady. They wanted me to convey to you the urgency of their desire to see you as soon as you returned.”
“Urgency?” Portia looked down at herself. She was respectably covered by her cloak, but beneath that she might as well be naked because she was wearing the alluring scarlet silk. She did not for a moment suspect this visit had anything to do with her whereabouts tonight—they probably wanted to ask her another favor—but neither did she want them asking any awkward questions.
“Tell them I’ll be down soon, Deed,” she said over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. “Give them refreshments. Lara particularly likes the macaroon biscuits. That should keep her busy.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when, ominously, she heard the click of the drawing room door opening.
“Ah, Portia, there you are.” It was Arnold, sounding as mild and unruffled as ever. “Do come in here. We wish to speak to you about something rather important.”
Portia turned and forced a smile. “Arnold! What a nice surprise. Deed did mention you were here. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I need to change.”
“But, Portia, we wish to talk to you now.”
Still polite, still mild, but this time Arnold had a chill in his voice that reminded her of a frosty morning.
“Now,” he repeated as she hesitated. He held the door wide and stepped aside, waiting.
It was her house. She knew she could refuse. But refusing would create its own set of problems. Portia decided it was best to acquiesce. She would keep her cloak on and get it over with as quickly as possible, then pleading weariness, would retire to bed.
