“Oh my goodness, look out the window! On the terrace, six women are doing things to that naked man—”
Sinclair came at once to the window to look at the shocking sight she had not actually seen. As he did, peering out the window to find people who weren’t there, he lowered the box.
Portia grabbed it. She hurried away from him, looking into the box. She pulled out tissue paper, sending it fluttering behind her.
“Portia, blast, give me back that box.”
She ignored him. Frowning, she picked up a sparkling item that sat within. “It’s a mask.”
In her moment of confusion, he took it right out of her hand. He studied it, then handed it back.
“Indeed, it looks like a mask,” he said. “Hold it up to your face. I’ll tie the strings behind your head.”
She stepped in front of the cheval mirror in its huge gilt frame. Sin was reflected behind her, his long-fingered hands holding the white satin ties of the beautiful white mask. It was made of papier-mâché and white and gold paint, decorated with pearls and ribbons of white satin. It suited her very red hair—most things didn’t.
Sin’s hands moved to her shoulders, but he didn’t quite touch her.
Stop it, Portia. You don’t want his touch. Or his kiss. Or his . . . his anything else.
She’d overheard what that courtesan had said. Shocking things. A huge . . . cock, she’d said. Portia remembered when he’d dropped his trousers in front of her, ten years ago....
She had to stop thinking of things like that!
The duke stepped back without touching her.
It was for the best. She might touch him back. Maybe she was still a little drunk after all.
“Your dress is wrong,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “With the mask, you could pass for a courtesan, but not in that gown. I’d never let any woman of mine wear a dowdy dress like that.”
“Well, I am not your woman. And this is a practical dress for practical and important work. It’s also all I could afford.” Which was true. Of course, her brothers were married and they were always fashionably and respectably dressed, for they had to attend parties and drum up donations for the home. Portia, as an unmarried woman, didn’t make house visits or attend balls and parties, so she had no need for anything but sensible clothing. Which meant drab.
Whenever she felt a little tug of longing over a fashionable dress, she remembered that she did good work. And didn’t need bright plumage.
“I wonder if our bizarre host thought of this,” he said. “If he gave you a mask, it means your ruin is not his intention. I wish I could figure out what in hell his intention is.”
She didn’t reprimand him on his language as she rather agreed.
He left her and walked through a doorway into a second room. She had explored while he was downstairs. That was a dressing room, with several wardrobes and a cushioned bench for one to sit while being dressed by a servant—something she’d never experienced. All of the wardrobes were empty. No servant had arrived to unpack his belongings.
A shiver ran down her back. Suddenly she didn’t want to wear the mask. She wanted to rip it off.
But Sinclair was right. She couldn’t let people know her identity. She would be ruined. And that would ruin the foundling home.
A knock came at the bedroom door. Portia opened it a crack.
“Pardon me, but this was to be delivered to His Grace.” A pretty face was behind the door. A young housemaid. Over her arms was the most beautiful gown Portia had ever seen.
“Thank you.” Portia held out her arms and took it, turning and shutting the door as the duke came out. “A dress was delivered.”
“So Genvere did realize you would need one.” He shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“It’s a beautiful gown. It must have cost a fortune.”
“We’ll put it on you.”
“We? I am not stripping to my undergarments in front of you. I will dress myself.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will,” she said firmly. “I will do so in the dressing room.”
But as she struggled to get into the dress, she understood why he’d said she couldn’t dress herself. She couldn’t reach the fastenings. This was a gown intended for a woman who had a lady’s maid to help her dress.
And she would have to use the duke.
Oh bother.
Pinning her dress against her front with her hands, Portia went back into the bedchamber. Swallowed hard. Sinclair was stretched out on the bed, his booted feet hanging off the edge, a glass of brandy in his hand.
“You were correct,” she conceded. “I need your help to get dressed.”
“Then come over here.” His voice was low and husky.