She remembered those scents. Remembered how delicious they were on the night he proposed, kissed her senseless, then made her climax for her very first time—
“You can’t go out there.” His voice was a low rumble near her ear. His breath stirred the wisps of hair on the nape of her neck. “Your reputation will be ruined.”
He pulled her back a little farther into the room, so they were clear of the door; then he slammed it shut.
Portia couldn’t help it. She couldn’t forget the sight of the eager young man slapping himself with breasts.
She should be shocked.
Instead she started to laugh. She just dissolved into giggles and pushed away from the duke, falling with her side against the wall.
He must have thought she was hysterical, her once fiancé, for he lifted her into his arms, carried her across the room, and deposited her on the settee in front of the fire in his rather spacious room.
Being carried in his arms silenced her wild giggles. She couldn’t giggle with her heart racing so fast.
He left her and went to a small table, on which sat a silver tray and a glass decanter that reflected the light of the lamps and the fire. It was summer, but there was a fire in the grate. No doubt because of the damp of the ocean.
She couldn’t help watching Sinclair’s lean, powerful body as he moved.
Next thing she knew, the duke was pressing an enormous snifter of brandy into her hands. “You’re still in shock, Portia. Drink this.”
She never took spirits. Having spent ten years collecting unwanted children from the stews, she’d seen the evils of alcohol. “I don’t want this.”
“I promise you I didn’t drug it,” he said dryly.
She had been staring suspiciously at the glass with her nose wrinkled, she realized. Portia smoothed out her features. “I did not suspect you had, Your Grace.” She was simply suspicious of brandy as a concept.
He settled in the wing chair opposite. His broad shoulders filled the backrest. His long-fingered hands curved over the ends of the arms. Sitting there, Sinclair exuded the power of a king. Under his scrutiny, she sniffed the drink. And blinked away tears as her eyes watered.
His voice was a soft ripple in the room. “You used to call me by my Christian name.”
“I can’t. Not anymore. And we would never have seen each other again, if I hadn’t been kidnapped and deposited on your bed. For whatever reason—”
And then an idea struck her as she watched him, remembering he was a gentleman. Gentlemen made ridiculous wagers. They would bet thousands of pounds on dice and cards. On bedding a woman. On which cockroach could race across the floor fastest. “What if this was a wager? Perhaps one of your foolish, drunken friends bet the others that he could kidnap me and tie me to your bed?”
“Perhaps.” Frowning, his rubbed his hand across his jaw. “That is possible. But I heard nothing about it.”
“Someone here at this party must be involved. That’s why I went out there—I have to find who.”
“And what will you do when you do find out?”
“I could have that person arrested for kidnapping. Couldn’t I?”
“All the men here will be peers of the realm. You were not hurt. That person would argue it was just a joke.”
“And my word would be powerless against the word of a peer. Who would listen to me or care about what anguish I went through.” She said it bitterly. Frustrated, she took a sip of the brandy. Maybe she did need alcohol—
“It’s like drinking lye!” She stuck out her tongue and almost put her hand up to paw her tongue clean.
He quirked a brow. “You’ve never had brandy before?”
“No, apparently I have not missed a thing.”
“Sip slowly.”
“There is no danger I would do anything else.”
A smile tugged at his lips.
“How can you smile right now?” she demanded.
“You are adorable. I’d almost forgotten that,” he said softly. “But you are right. This is no time for smiling. And I assure you—if one of my friends is responsible for this, he will pay.”
His eyes narrowed and they were so dark suddenly they were points of black. A hard, ruthless look crossed his face. He’d never looked like that, ten years ago, when he was only nineteen and he’d been so young and sweet. That expression made a shudder run down her spine.
“But to find out who did this, I need to know everything that happened to you, Portia. I need to know if you were . . . hurt in any way.”
“Hurt?”
She tried another sip of the brandy. Now that she expected to drink something that she was certain had the same taste as paint, she was prepared. And she just dipped in her tongue. She tried a bigger sip but still shuddered as it went down.