Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(43)

She kissed him back, moving her mouth and moaning softly. Devouring him like he was devouring her.

He’d kissed her like this on the night they became engaged. Kissed her senseless. Until she ached and was so scorching hot, she was surprised she hadn’t set the sofa on fire.

Her fingers trailed along his shoulders, sliding along the exquisite fabric of his tailcoat. His mouth teased and tormented hers, making her throb deep inside. Throb with need.

He lifted her suddenly, his hands under her bottom. She loved the sensation of his large hands there. He carried her and she suddenly felt the stone wall of the house press firmly against her back.

Would he do as he did on the night he asked her to marry him? Make her come, as he’d called it?

She panted into his mouth. She wanted to come again. To feel that glorious explosion of pleasure. But she’d loved him back then. They didn’t have love now. How could she still want pleasure with him?

She was being dangerously weak.

She pushed against his chest—it was rock hard under her palms.

Sinclair drew back, breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this. With you, I turn into a hen-witted fool. I suddenly am willing to do erotic things with you, even though I know there will never be marriage or love or respectability. I feel this wanting deep inside, but I know I’m just being a complete idiot.”

Portia turned and walked away from him, toward the terrace doors. Footsteps pounding on the flagstones told her he was following yet again. “What if I’d realized I love you?”

Oh Lord. Such words. They gripped her heart. They begged her to stop and listen.

No.

“It’s too late. I couldn’t trust you. This is your world—you’ll go back to it eventually.” She kept walking. A stone wall edged the terrace and she followed it with no idea where she was going to go. She wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone tonight. She stopped and turned. “I want to go to bed—to sleep. I’m exhausted. I can’t face anything more tonight. But where can I sleep? There is only your bed.”

Suddenly, she was almost in tears. She felt both hot and ice-cold inside.

“You may have it,” he said gallantly. “I’ll find another bed tonight.”

“I suppose you can find one easily.” She hated how obviously hurt she sounded.

Yet he appeared oblivious. He nodded. Then said, “There are a lot of empty rooms in this house.”

He meant an empty bed? Not one occupied by another woman. Or women. That startled her. Yet she was not going to be in love with him ever. Why should it matter to her?

She’d had a wonderful kiss—but there could never be another one.

He grasped her hand. “Portia, lock your door tonight. The more I think about it, the more likely I feel Willoughby is involved. I saw how he invited you to join in at the orgy. He was watching you. Kidnapping you is the kind of nasty thing he would do. I intend to confront him over this. But I need to know you are completely safe.”

“I’ll lock it, push a chair against it, push the wardrobe against it, if I can.”

“Good.”

With that, he escorted her upstairs. Once he left her in the room, she diligently turned the key in the lock.

But she knew that was she really wanted to do was protect herself against this mixed-up feeling of emptiness and need, of fear and yearning.

It was the most frightening thing she’d ever felt. Wanting to go back to where she was ten years ago and feel passion all over again.

Even knowing how horribly it had ended.

* * *

Portia couldn’t sleep. Even though she was exhausted from having been kidnapped, from being tied to a bed, from witnessing a man’s death—and some rather shocking sexual antics—she just could not fall into slumber.

She lay with her eyes wide open.

Had Sandhurst been poisoned?

By whom? Which of these people who had come to an orgy for wanton sex had done such a thing?

The door rattled.

Oh heavens, who was there? Her heart thundered. She sat up in bed, staring at the door handle. It was locked, the key on her bedside table.

The rattle sounded again, sharp and urgent.

It wasn’t coming from the door.

Glass-paned doors led off Sinclair’s bedroom to a small balcony. The wind off the ocean buffeted them, pushing them to strain against the bolt that held them closed. That was causing the rattle.

Portia got out of bed. She’d slept in a filmy white silk nightdress. It had been brought to her by the maid who told her it had also been left for the guest of the Duke of Sinclair. She had questioned the maid, whose name was Ellie, but the young woman had known only what she’d been directed to do by written instructions from Lord Genvere.