He hadn’t removed a stitch of his clothing and there was something about the contrast of a softly curved, naked woman and a fully dressed, powerful-looking male that made Portia’s breath catch in her throat.
She felt rather trembly inside.
The woman’s hands slipped beneath frothy petticoats and moved vigorously. Her moans grew louder.
Portia’s heart palpitated.
“Oh yes!” the woman cried, with such breathless agony that Portia felt a jolt of desire and her legs almost buckled beneath her.
Sinclair’s arm went around her chest and she was hauled away yet again.
Out into the corridor. Down the corridor. Her sensible shoes were barely touching the floor, he moved her so hastily.
She had come downstairs feeling rather sore in the head from the brandy. Now she felt a different ache coursing through her. A throb down low in her belly. She’d forgotten all about that slight pounding in her head.
All she could think of was the way that handsome man with unusual hair had thrust into that receptive woman.
Her face flamed. Suddenly she realized what she had done. “I shouldn’t have looked. I invaded their privacy.”
“Don’t worry, Miss La—my dear. That’s the point of an orgy. To look.”
Sinclair dragged her farther away, down the corridor, when someone cleared their throat and the duke just about jumped a foot. She knew, because he almost pulled her with him.
The butler stood there, carrying a large, flat box on his silver salver. “Your Grace? This is the box intended for Miss Lamb.”
6
Portia was whisked back up the stairs by the duke, whose dark brown eyes gleamed. He looked tremendously annoyed and she couldn’t think why.
She tried to dig in her heels at the top, but that was impossible in the carpet runner. Sinclair pulled her down the hall, back into his bedchamber, and slammed the door shut behind them.
His face looked as stormy as the view through his windows.
Sinclair had grasped the mysterious box, which he now held just out her reach as he shut the door to the room.
Portia reached for it, and he lifted it. Without thinking, she launched up on her tiptoes, almost lost her balance, and had to put her hand against his chest.
She felt the hardness of his muscles even through his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. Her breath caught, her heart wobbled.
She remembered how their friendship, their courtship had blossomed slowly. She truly had not believed a young duke was falling in love with her, not when he was surrounded by pretty debutants in fancy gowns. He was so earnest and sweet, helping her rescue children. Then one afternoon, he’d teased her playfully, annoyed her until she had glared at him and he’d burst out laughing. Then he’d kissed her and—oh—it had been heavenly. And hot. So very hot. Suddenly she’d realized why men were rakish, why women fell in love.
The next day, he’d proposed—
Portia pushed those thoughts away. She stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you going to give me the mysterious gift or not?”
He also crossed his arms over his chest. Glowered. “What in the name of sense did you think you were doing? I told you not to go down. Any one of those people could have seen you. Your reputation would have been ruined.”
“I have learned to take charge of my own life. I’ve had to fend on my own for years. I certainly do not believe in cowering and relying on a man to protect me.”
His dark brow arched.
He looked as if he was about to say something, and she could guess what it was. “I wasn’t accustomed to brandy. I’m normally far more sensible.” She was always sensible, unless she was around him. Now she knew to be extra careful. “Anyway, I am now considerably more knowledgeable about intimate relations between men and women—I thought it was simply beds and a woman lying down.”
A flush touched his high cheekbones. That startled her. Was the Duke of Sinclair actually blushing?
“Please give me my box,” she said.
“I’m going to open it,” he insisted.
“Why—do you think a snake will spring out?”
“Someone kidnapped you, Portia, and I intend to keep you safe from now on.”
If only he’d been so protective, so stubborn ten years ago. Why now did he act as if she was responsibility?
“You are not my husband. You don’t dictate to me.”
She saw him wince. “I’m not,” he agreed. “But I’m taller than you, which means I get to decide who opens the box.”
“You are infuriating.”
He tugged the large silk bow and the ribbon fell free. Then he pulled off the top of the box, still holding the wretched thing over her head.
Portia quickly concocted a plan. She moved close to the window. Gasped and peered down.