He grinned. Smugly.
Portia slowly put together the words he’d said. Prick. Endowment. Thirteen inches. Suddenly she knew what he meant.
Her gaze went down. She couldn’t help it. She was utterly shocked. She used an inch ruler for school lessons and she knew how long one foot was. His was even longer . . . ?
Heavens, what must such a thing look like, sticking out from him and swinging about—?
“You have the most stunning eyes,” he murmured. “What do you really look like under that mask, Miss Love?”
“Like myself,” she hedged.
The man’s black brow lifted. She saw he had scars on his cheeks and down his jawline. From battle with Napoleon? Duels with rapiers? Fisticuffs? Or perhaps not so romantic—perhaps his valet was clumsy when he shaved.
The man leaned closer. “I am an earl. I can be generous. Having found coal on my estate, I can be a damn sight more generous than Sinclair. I’m not afraid to fight for you, my dear. If I decide I want you.”
If he decided—? Despite leaning close and trying to look down her bodice, he was also looking down his aquiline nose at her. Arrogant nuisance.
“Perhaps you should not trouble yourself to decide.” She said it with complete sweetness. “The Duke of Sinclair is the most wonderful protector a girl could ever want. He is the perfect man. Generous and handsome. And he’s a duke. What girl would say no to a duke?”
His eyes narrowed, and she felt a tiny triumph at pricking his arrogance a bit.
“Most women do not say no to me,” he stated imperiously. “I can fuck you better than he can, I promise you. Meet me tonight. After you’ve been filled by my thick staff, you’ll never want any other man again.”
Oh goodness. What in heaven’s name did she say? “I . . . I assure you that the Duke of Sinclair is like a stallion. An absolute stallion.”
Thank heavens for the mask. Her face was so hot from blushing, she was actually perspiring.
Portia was used to herding children, thus she was able to line up the guests in her mind. There were thirteen guests altogether—including her.
Seven of the guests were gentlemen, all titled, ranging from dukes to viscounts. The eldest was a marquis who had to be over sixty. He bore a haughty expression and was still rather handsome, with a lean, straight form and thick white hair. He used a gold-topped stick for walking.
There was another earl, a brawny middle-aged man with barrel chest and huge shoulders. He looked like a pugilist, a boxer, but dressed like a gentleman. He was handsome, but more grizzled with auburn-brown hair. Then the Earl of Rutledge, with his coal-black hair and emerald green eyes—and his colossal arrogance. The Viscount Sandhurst, obviously the youngest gentleman, who wore a wide-eyed expression and was thoroughly beautiful with his full lips and long, curling lashes. Sinclair and Saxonby, of course. There was another man with dark gold hair—darker than Sandhurst’s tresses—but she couldn’t see his face.
And then there were the women. Portia was awfully curious about them—what kind of women attended orgies? Could a woman be behind her kidnapping?
Five other women sat at the table. Five women, each completely different from the others. Portia watched all the women, straining to listen to their conversations.
One of the women appeared to be a real lady of the ton. She had entered the dining room on Saxonby’s arm. Portia tried not to stare as she recognized the woman—the one who had cried out in ecstasy as she was made love to from behind by Saxonby. The lady possessed golden blond hair, large blue eyes, and a slender, but lovely figure clad in white silk. Portia felt a stab of jealousy as the woman leaned close to Sinclair and he turned at once to speak to her, their heads close together.
Why should she care? It was all in the past, everything between her and Sinclair.
Sandhurst leaned toward her. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? You’d never guess she was a widow. She’s barely twenty-three. She is Countess Linley.”
Wonderful. A woman of Sinclair’s world exactly—titled, beautiful, and wanton.
“The man she’s talking to now is the Duke of Saxonby. He’s one of the Wicked Dukes. But of course you know that—so is the Duke of Sinclair.”
Portia looked up to realize Lady Linley had turned her attention to Saxonby. She felt foolishly relieved.
She did know about the nickname, the Wicked Dukes. She’d read it in gossip columns. She would sneak peeks to see mention of Sinclair. Not that she would ever admit she did so. She did not want anyone to think she still cared.
Because she did not still care, of course. She had just been curious.
“Who are the others?” she asked. “I haven’t been introduced.”