Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(19)

“Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

“Oh yes. That was an incident I’ll never forget. Their faces will be etched in my memory forever.” She held out her glass again. “You owe me more given everything you’ve put me through.”

“Portia, you are astounding. You’ve had—” He broke off.

How odd. The room was tilting to the right.

Then she was looking at the ceiling. It was revolving slowly. Blech. That was the only way to describe the horrible sensation that suddenly gripped her. The room was moving and she wanted it to stop. She closed her eyes.

No, not seeing the room move didn’t stop it, didn’t make her feel one jot better—

Oh no! Her stomach was attempting to escape. She clapped her hands to her mouth—

“Hell,” Sinclair growled.

He hauled out the porcelain chamber pot and held it in front of her. She stared at him helplessly. She wasn’t going to be sick.

Oh wait, she was.





5

Sin drew the counterpane over Portia. Bending over her, he brushed back her hair, damp from when he’d bathed her with water from his ewer. Admittedly he’d poured her a generous glass of brandy. It had never occurred to him it would be enough to knock her senseless.

“Sorry, love.”

She didn’t protest the endearment. She couldn’t—she was unconscious. Carefully, he tucked the cover around her. That meant leaning over her. With his lips mere inches from hers. She had rinsed her mouth and had kept her hand over it, before she’d passed out.

He wanted to kiss her anyway. On her lips. Her soft cheeks. Her cute nose. Her fluttering lashes.

And he had no right.

At least she was in no fit shape to go questioning people at the orgy. He suspected it wasn’t just the brandy. She must be exhausted from the fear and shock of her ordeal. By the time she woke up, he intended to have found out what in hell was going on.

Heading to the door, Sin jumped when he found the butler standing on the other side. What was the man’s name? Humphries.

Humphries held a silver salver on which was a thick, folded note, sealed with scarlet wax. The butler bowed. “These messages were instructed to be delivered to each guest at precisely six o’clock, Your Grace.”

Sin grabbed the message but didn’t open it. He’d been preoccupied with Portia and hadn’t thought about the mystery of this party. Now that he’d heard her story, he was damned interested in their host. “It’s not just that I haven’t met the host, Humphries. I’ve never heard of a Lord Genvere.”

Why would Genvere sign a letter with a W? If it was the man’s Christian name, the familiarity was lost on him, because he didn’t know the man.

The butler took on a worried look. “Nor had I, Your Grace, before I was offered employment. His lordship’s secretary contacted me while I was still with the Marquis of Barrow-Ffinch. Lord Genvere made a most astoundingly generous offer for my services, one I could not refuse. My first action was to peruse DeBrett’s for further information on his lordship. According to that revered tome, Genvere was a line that had died out. When I was hired, I was told that the new Lord Genvere had resided in the West Indies and had only lately been discovered as the heir to the earldom. I believe he owned several lucrative plantations on the islands.”

“And he’s supposed to arrive tomorrow?”

“Yes, Your Grace. In the morning, via the dory from the mainland. I was given precise written instructions on how to proceed this evening, in the absence of Lord Genvere. At exactly this time, I was to deliver these messages.”

“Lord Genvere tends to be eccentric?”

“I really could not say, Your Grace. Though this arrangement is not the sort to which I am accustomed. I find it quite odd.”

Sin was surprised the butler had revealed so much. Humphries had dropped the perfect servant expression and looked uneasy. But then, as if he’d remembered his place, he became expressionless once more and bowed with stiff correctness. “I must deliver the remaining missives, Your Grace.” He moved down the corridor, on to the next room.

Sin wanted to talk to the other guests. Doing that without Portia made the most sense.

He had to admit Portia’s strength and courage impressed him. Those attributes had drawn him to her ten years ago. She hadn’t changed at all.

And hell . . . ten years had only made her more beautiful. She’d matured from a pretty girl with large eyes and flame-colored curls into a voluptuous woman. Her hair was still rich and red. Her large, uptilted eyes, full lips, and spray of freckles gave her a startling beauty—a combination of sweet and sensual.