Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(115)
Surviving made everything seem so clear.
It made her know she wanted Sin.
How did she make him see they could have a real marriage?
The oarsmen were helping the other survivors off the dory. The Earl of Rutledge, whose expression had been filled with arrogance before, looked pale and fearful. The blustering, muscular Earl of Blute was shaking and trembling.
Saxonby got out of the boat and came over to Sin. His face was stoic. It had been a shock to him to lose Georgiana, but perhaps more of a shock to learn Georgiana’s dark secret, written in a journal kept by Charlotte Lyon and hidden in the secret compartment of her cot. Georgiana had been the Old Madam’s partner in brothels. She had obtained gently bred virgins for their houses of ill repute. That had stunned Saxonby and shaken his heart to the core.
Clutching a shawl around her, the Incognita alighted last. As Clarissa stepped onto the quay, her face went pale and she swayed. Portia understood—it was the delayed reaction of shock. She rushed to the woman’s side, supported her, and Clarissa smiled gratefully.
“I should be jubilant now,” Clarissa said. “But I feel so drained. Suddenly, I feel very scared. Isn’t that mad?”
“Of course not,” Portia answered firmly. “It just means that while you were surviving, your mind would not allow you to take in the horror. That protects us from great pain or fear. Now that you are safe, you are being hit by it all at once. You must take care of yourself.”
“I thought I would want to go home at once. Instead, I want to go to the nearest inn. I want to drink far too much wine, collapse in a bed. I can’t explain it, but I feel I need time before I return to . . . to real life.”
“I understand that.” For Portia didn’t want to rush home either. Her actual life in the foundling home—teaching, carrying out the chores, managing the house—seemed almost unreal.
Clarissa clasped her hand, lowered her voice. “I overheard Sin and Sax speaking. Sin said he asked you to marry him and you turned him down. He is a duke, dear! Why ever did you do something so foolish?”
How did she explain it? Before she would never have revealed anything so personal, but what they’d been through had broken down barriers.
“I’m in love with him,” she admitted. “Sin offered marriage because he ruined me, but not a marriage for love. He told me I could have my freedom. That he wouldn’t bother me.”
“So he can pursue his debauched life?”
“I don’t know. I think it is because of his past—” She stopped. That was not her secret to reveal. “There is something that haunts him. He seems to think it will prevent me from loving him.”
“He’s annoyingly noble.” Clarissa nodded. “So you have refused to marry him—”
“That was a mistake. I want to marry him. But I want love. I want to be with him. Sleep with him at night, wake in his arms in the morning. I have spent my life rescuing children, helping them to defeat their terrible memories and embrace their futures. That is what Sin needs. But if he does want to marry me, then leave me, I can’t accept that. And what if . . . what if the reason really is that he wants wild parties and sexual games?”
“Then give him the wild sex life you think he desires,” Clarissa said softly. “Just because you were raised to be proper doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a little improper fun. I gather you have discovered that.”
Portia admitted that was true.
“You should surprise him. Take him to an inn and spend a very wicked night with him. I suspect you can make him change his mind on marriage. If you follow my advice, and use some of the gifts I will give you.”
“Gifts?” Portia asked.
Someone shouted, “Portia!”
She spun, surprised by the masculine cry. It was the Earl of Rutledge. He staggered toward her, but he was no longer pale. He wrapped his arms around her, startling her.
Around him, she saw Sin standing with Sax, and glaring in surprise at Rutledge’s sudden, perplexing display of emotion.
The remaining guests, the survivors, all had learned her real name, but all had promised their discretion. Sin had insisted they vow not to reveal that she had been on the island, at an orgy.
“I owe my life to you, Portia.” Rutledge released her and he kissed her hand gallantly, while gazing longingly into her eyes.
She was astounded. He was gazing at her as if—
No, that wasn’t possible.
“Also to Sinclair and Saxonby,” she said swiftly. “They stopped the killers.”
“But you were the one who figured out it was the cook. Sinclair said I owe you my thanks.”
“Thank you for them.” She smiled.