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“We were exploring the hall,” she said in a cool, unruffled tone. “We saw you from the bell tower and thought we’d come and see what you were doing.”
“I’m trying to clear the channels so I can drain my land,” he said. “But now the fog is coming in,” he took her arm firmly in his, “so we’d better go back to the hall and take shelter. I wouldn‘t want you to wander off and get lost, my lady.”
She looked around her and gave a shiver. “Is it always like this?” she murmured, and his heart sank. She hated it. She would never stay. Not if he made love to her every night and every day for the next ten years.
“No, it isn’t always like this,” he told her evenly, as if he didn’t give a damn. They began to walk back in the direction she’d come, and Hettie fell in behind them. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
Portia didn’t say anything to that.
Marcus glanced down at her dress, which he could see beneath her open cloak. It was old-fashioned, the sort of thing he could remember people wearing in portraits at Worthorne. At least he could see the delici
ous shape of her without all those blasted petticoats.
“Where did you find that? It suits you.”
She brushed the thin cloth rather self-consciously. “Your housekeeper found it for me. It belonged to your uncle’s wife.”
“Hmm.”
“Surely you don’t begrudge me wearing it? It’s your fault I am here with nothing but my chemise!”
“I don’t begrudge you wearing it.” He smiled into her eyes. “Actually, I was thinking that I’d have preferred to keep you without any clothes at all.”
Her gaze narrowed; her mouth pursed. “Marcus—”
“And what did you think of my house?” he went on, before she could roast him. He might as well hear all the bad news at once.
“Your house?”
“Yes. Don’t spare me, I’d like to know.”
“What does it matter what I think?” she said crossly.
He stared at her profile, trying to read her, but she refused to look at him. The misty dampness in the air had caused her hair to curl wildly, springing out of its pins, tickling her neck. He wanted to kiss her until she was willing in his arms, and he might have done so if the maid hadn’t been lurking.
“Are you really going to live here?” she said abruptly, curiously.
“Yes, I really am.”
Now she did look at him, her gaze sliding across his broad, tanned shoulders and lingering on the hair on his chest, trailing down over his flat stomach to the fastening of his breeches. For a moment she seemed to have lost the thread of her thoughts, her fingers tightening where they curved about his arm. She cleared her throat.
“But…what are you going to do?” she asked, sweeping her other hand around her at the marshes and the water and the sky.
She sounded bewildered, but he decided to carry on as if she was genuinely interested. Besides, he was dying to tell her what he planned, so he did. He spoke of reclaiming the land and repairing the walls and channels, of planting crops and bringing in animals, of being a proper farmer and landlord. He spoke of meeting his neighbors and having dinners and parties, and inviting his friends from London to stay—once the house was fixed—of an interest in local issues and even politics, if that was necessary to change things for the better. He could hear the passion in his voice and knew it was in his face, and that Portia probably thought him a first rate bore.
They had reached the wall that enclosed the house, and Hettie went in through the gate, leaving them standing together, alone. It was very still and quiet. The fog was beginning to creep like white fingers over the marsh, making everything eerie, deadening the world to a muted hush.
Portia seemed to be closer to him than she was before, and he wondered if she was nervous. He resisted pulling her to him again. “What is it like in the winter, when there’s a storm?” she asked, as if the weather were her main concern.
“Frightening, so they say, but it would be invigorating, too, don’t you think? I can hardly wait. I have a fancy to stand on the bell tower and let myself be lashed by the wind and rain from a North Sea storm.”
She met his eyes and didn’t look away. “You are the most unusual man,” she murmured. “You kidnap me, and my mother. You bring us here where I’m sure no one will ever find us. And now you tell me you are going to spend the rest of your life here, digging ditches and fighting storms, when you’re not overseeing justice as the local magistrate, or standing for Parliament. Surely you will miss London? What about your friends in the Hussars?”
“I’ll still see them when I come to town, it just won’t be as often. Anyway, I think I’ve grown out of drinking myself blind and ogling dancing girls.” He laughed. “Don’t frown, Portia. I know you find it incomprehensible, but I’m happy with my lot.”
“I’m…I suppose I’m surprised, that’s all. I did not think you were the sort of man to be satisfied with a life like this.”
“A rascal and a waster?” he mocked, watching her.
