Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (32 page)

Portia turned to look at it, and was deeply grateful that it was solid. She wanted to know nothing of what went on in there. She turned back to the library which was hardly worthy of the name. There was only one wall of glass-doored bookcases. A large library table held two lecterns, but there was little evidence of study here. A sofa and two easy chairs were probably better used than the books.

The room was lit only by a low fire and one candle, but the dimness suited Portia's despondent thoughts. London did have pleasures to offer—music and fascinating people—but she wanted no more of its danger and wickedness. If only Oliver had taken her back to Dorset.

She heard the click of the door, and spun around. If it was Lord Trelyn would she give the alarm or let him catch his wife?

It was Bryght. He glanced around the room. "I thought you were with Nerissa. You shouldn't be wandering alone."

"It is none of your business, my lord. Please leave me in peace."

Instead, he closed the door. "What's happened?"

"Nothing!"

"Just haunting the library, are we? Checking different Bibles?"

It took Portia a moment to follow his train of thought. That silly wager. "My lord, desist. You sought to fool me and you failed. If you had the honor of a newt, you would leave me be."

He laughed. "Toads, snakes, and now
newts?
What pray do you know of the honor of newts? They may have a strong code of ethics."

"Then what, pray, would
you
know of newts?"

He sighed. "You are a rash woman."

Portia desperately wanted to flee him, but coward that she was, she did not dare leave her post. If Lord Trelyn came and discovered his wife and her lover, she had no doubt that her own shame would be all over London tomorrow.

She waited therefore, senses twitching, for Bryght's next move. He did not come near her. Instead, he lit the candles on the table.

"What are you doing?" she demanded nervously.

He said nothing, but took down a book. With a trickle of unease, Portia saw it was a Bible. He laid it open on one of the lecterns and flipped through the pages until he came to a place. Then he stood back and gestured. "Come, Miss St. Claire, and prepare to admit your fault."

Portia would have dearly liked to refuse, but pride and honor would not permit it. She walked forward.

The Song Of Songs. What on earth was that?

And there were the words he had quoted. And more like them.

Suspiciously, she checked the title of the book, the other sections, and even peered to see if these pages could have been inserted. Then, with a sinking feeling, she turned to face him. "My Bible does not have this."

"I think you will find that the pages have been neatly cut out. I have heard of such barbarous practices."

"Those words do seem unsuited to a Holy Book."

His smile was suspiciously innocent. "It is an allegory of the soul and God."

She glanced at the lectern. "It does not seem so to me."

"Nor to me. It is a lovely representation of God's gift to humanity." In a soft, gentle voice he asked, "Do you admit your fault, Portia?"

He had never used her name before, and instead of undiluted outrage, Portia felt a shock of intimacy. She closed her eyes. Her head told her he was a wicked gamester and philanderer, but he could still weave a spell about her heart.

A hand touched her cheek. Her eyes sprang open and she flinched away.

He caught her in his arms, "You do not learn easily, Hippolyta. Again you tempted Dame Fortune and lost. It is time to pay your forfeit." He smiled at her. "You really can't scream here, you know. Nor would it be fair."

He was right. Not only would the fuss and commotion cast her reputation into doubt, but it could expose Nerissa.

That would lead to her own ruin.

"Please don't," she whispered.

His hand curved softly around her neck, causing a shiver to pass down her spine. "You look as if I'm about to torture you. Was our previous encounter so terrible?"

Portia summoned ice for her voice. "You would do better not to mention that at all, my lord."

Magical fingers played at her nape. "I admit there were some shortcomings, but I was laboring under a considerable handicap. Would you not care to try again in more favorable circumstances?"

Portia fought, then, but he was too strong and willing to use his strength. She stopped at the first touch of pain.

"You're hurting me!"

"You're fighting."

"I have the right to fight."

"Not this time. You lost and must pay."

"You're vile!"

She saw his jaw tighten. "Do you deny that you made a wager and lost?"

Portia met his eyes. "You cheated."

He shook his head. "You really are going to have to learn caution. First I'm a liar. When proved truthful, I'm a cheat. How do you arrive at that conclusion, oh wise one?"

"You
knew
it was true!" she protested. "There's no honesty in laying bets when you know you will win."

He laughed. "What a strange notion of gaming you have. No wonder your brother loses all the time." He swept her into his arms and carried her squirming to the sofa, where he sat with her in his lap.

When she tried to slide off he used his strength again and she had to stop. "This is so unfair," she hissed. "You know I lack the strength to break free."

"If I have an ace, I play it. If you were wise, you would learn not to bet against a certainty."

"I was certain I knew my Bible."

Portia was in despair, not because of her fate here but because her resistance was melting like candle wax. His closeness was sweeter than a fine wine, and in a moment he might even make her laugh. That would signal total defeat.

"If you seek to be a successful gamester," he advised, settling back comfortably as if at ease with the world, "study the players as well as the cards. You need a strong hand indeed to bet against me."

"I have no desire to be a gamester, successful or otherwise." She tested his grip again, and found it unbreakable. "My lord, release me. This is intolerable."

"I find it highly tolerable, and you have the soul of a gamester."

"No!"

"Then why do you leap into wagers with such enthusiasm? I've been making enquiries. Your father was a gamester in his time, and then turned to industrial speculation."

"And ruined himself. I learn by that."

"He was unlucky. Or perhaps just rash, like you." He compelled her to rest against his chest. "Or are you?" he whispered. "It depends what you want to win...."

This was unbearable. He was too intimate, too disturbing, and too close to the truth. "Just kiss me, my lord, if that is your price, and let us have done with it."

"But I never specified the terms of the wager. You should watch that kind of thing, you know."

She twisted to glare into his eyes. "I will not pay an outlandish price, my lord." She saw that he understood her.

"I would hardly expect that here, my dear. You will pay with a kiss?"

Portia distrusted his tone, but she wanted this settled before she became even more foolish. "Yes."

"Your word on it?"

"Yes."

He let her go. "Then kiss me."

Portia stared at him, then leaned forward to give him a peck on the lips. She was snared before she could escape. "Not fair payment," he whispered. "A proper kiss. A lover's kiss."

"You didn't specify."

His eyes glinted with infuriating amusement. "But I'm setting the terms."

"I
loathe
you. I want you to know that."

"We'll see," he said with infuriating calm. "Are you going to kiss me? If not, I will have to think of some other forfeit..."

She longed to call his bluff, but knew she was mastered here. "You promise? One kiss and it will be over?"

"I promise."

"You will leave me alone? Cease stalking me?"

His eyes widened. "Stalking? Is that what I'm doing? But yes, if that is your wish I will leave you alone after a proper kiss, a lover's kiss."

Portia sensed that this was another wager. He was betting that after a kiss she wouldn't want to be left alone, but would continue into his bed. She was betting that she could resist. It seemed horribly like their wager the night before, one she had lost resoundingly.

But this was different. There was no nakedness, and it was just a kiss.

She swallowed nervously. "I know little of lovers' kisses, my lord. You must excuse me if my effort is feeble."

"If your effort is feeble, I will tutor you until you get it right."

Portia's heart began to pound, and she licked suddenly dry lips. "This is not fair," she whispered.

"Yes it is. Just apply your lips to mine, dear gamester, and follow your instincts...."

She leaned forward tentatively, but he leaned away, sliding sideways until he was against the arm of the chaise and she was along him rather than in his lap. "My lord!"

"Much more comfortable. You are on top. You are in control. I am not even holding you. Just your lips to mine, Portia, but remember we are lovers...."

He made it not a fantasy, but a statement of fact. Her body hummed with agreement, already remembering another time and another place.

"Oh dear."

He smiled into her eyes. "Can you say with truth that you do not want to kiss me, fair one?"

Portia not only wanted to kiss him, she wanted to do—in a small way—what he had done to her. She remembered Nerissa's revenge. Could she kiss Bryght and summon his desire, then send him on his way forbidden to seek her out in future?

"A kiss and you will leave me alone?" she asked again.

"If you still want to be left alone."

So Portia leaned forward, but found she could not balance without resting her arms on his shoulders. His coat was velvet and beautifully soft against her palms.

She eased down closer and his smell reached her—a touch of perfume, and another smell, his smell....

When their lips touched, his moved in greeting but they made no assault. She pressed a little closer and he parted his lips so a moist, intimate heat tickled her. She moved back then, but his hands came around to hold her there.

"You aren't finished yet, I hope."

"I don't know what to do. Truly I don't."

"Try this." He tilted his head slightly so their lips fit together better. His hand slid into her hair and played gently on her scalp. "Your own hair is so much more beautiful," he whispered. "So silky, so alive..."

Her scalp was a place he hadn't been able to explore the night before, and now his touch there was so sweet she gasped.

"That's right," he murmured against her open lips. "A lovers' kiss is intimate, Portia, a lowering of all barriers, a tasting of the heart. We have never had a true lovers' kiss. Relax now and kiss me...."

One hand roamed her back and she could hardly help but relax, but she didn't know what he meant about a tasting of the heart until she tasted him.

Last night he had tasted of that perfumed oil. It had been erotic, but not sweet. Now the flavor was all his own, and delicious. Her body recognized it and moved as it had learned to move, pressing closer despite hoops and stays, stirring a muted, sensuous rustle of silk.

She was vaguely aware of him continuing to touch her—her scalp, her nape, her spine. Drawing her close against him...

"You said no hands," she protested.

He immediately stopped.

That was better. He was affected, she knew it, and she had always been told that men's passions were stronger and wilder than women's. Just a little longer, then, and he would be desperate for her.

As she kissed him again, Portia let her hands explore his skin by feel alone. He was cleaner shaven tonight, and almost smooth. His hair was less silky because of the powder. The muscles of his neck were firm and she felt his blood beating there, fast and strong. Her memory showed her his bare neck, his magnificent naked torso....

Dear lord! Almost too late, she recognized her danger, recognized that she was affected as much as he. She drew back, but immediately he snared her and rolled so she was under him.

She struggled then, and silk ripped.

"Hell," he muttered, ceasing his assault and moving off her to inspect the damage to her gown.

Portia was shocked that he could control his passion so swiftly. For a moment there he had been wild for her, she knew he had. She pulled his head down and kissed him again.

After a startled moment, he laughed and kissed her back. Soon he was kissing her as she wanted to be kissed, as he had kissed her last night, with all his body. She started to laugh too, laughing into his mouth even as they kissed.

Then they rolled again and fell off the narrow sofa, landing in a tangle of silk and velvet with him on top. Wild laughter won, and their mouths roamed, tasting, nipping....