Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(44)

Where was Sinclair? Had he gone to the orgy after she’d gone to bed? Was he in bed now? Was he really alone?

He’d kissed her and perhaps he’d wanted to seduce her, and she’d turned him down. He must have been lusty and frustrated, and there were plenty of women here who would be delighted to satisfy him.

Portia went to the window.

The storm had broken overnight. She couldn’t see the sea for rain and cloud.

There wouldn’t be a boat coming from the mainland. She was trapped here for another day. She slumped down on the window sill—she who had braved the slums.

Lightning flashed, making her jump. The whole island lit up with cold white-blue light. In that burst of light, she saw a shape on the lawn—a long, dark shape. At once, she was plunged back into darkness. As she struggled to make sense of what she’d seen, thunder crashed. Like the gods playing cymbals, her mother used to say.

She thought she saw someone lying on the lawn in the rain. It must have been one of the guests. He must have passed out there—

Or he was dead. Like Viscount Sandhurst.

She waited. Another flash came and she strained to see. It was so brief, just for a second, but she was certain now. There was a man lying in the grass. Probably a drunken orgy guest. But what if he wasn’t?

What should she do? Get help, goose.

Yet another burst of lightning and she saw a man running out through the rain; then she jumped at an almost instant explosion of thunder. The storm must be right over them.

The man she’d seen running out had dark hair and he was tall. Her gut instinct screamed that it was Julian. The Duke of Sinclair, she meant.

But it could be someone else. There were other brunette men in the house. Still she hurried to her door, unlocked it, and headed for the stairs.

Portia reached the bottom and made her way through the dark house to the terrace doors. One was opened, snapping against the stone wall of the house, flung back and forth by the wind. She grabbed it and held it.

There were no lights on, and she should have had the sense to bring a lamp. A dark shape against the black rain-filled night sky, the man came in, staggering slightly under the weight of the apparently unconscious man he carried over his shoulder. He made his way to the settee. Another bolt of lightning in the background illuminated his face from the side.

“Sinclair!” she gasped.

His face was stark with shock and pain. “It’s Willoughby. He’s been attacked. Beaten badly.”

“Heavens. By whom?” She quickly moved toward him to help.

“No, Portia. Go back upstairs. Don’t come here. You shouldn’t see this.”

“I’ve dealt with violence before.”

“Nothing like this, I’ll bet.” He shouldered Willoughby’s limp body to the settee. Ignoring his warning, she went forward and around him and she got a glimpse of Willoughby. She let out a cry, then clapped her hand to her mouth to smother it.

His face . . .

It was all darkness. A strange circle of black and shadow. There were no features. There was nothing there.

Sinclair’s body loomed in front of her. His arm went around her, holding her up. Suddenly Portia found herself sitting a large wing chair—Sinclair had deposited her there. “I don’t understand,” she breathed. “Where is his face?”

Pain flashed over Sinclair’s face. Then she understood. “Someone did that to him? That’s awful. Horrible!”

For the second time that day she had a glass of brandy pushed into her hand. Sinclair hadn’t said a word. He’d just poured a brandy for her and pressed the plump balloon-shaped glass against her palms. She took one burning sip. It didn’t calm her. Nothing could.

“I’ll take you back upstairs,” he said. “It’s too late for him.”

“He is dead?” But given what she’d seen, she knew he must be. And if he hadn’t been . . . it would have been worse.

“I can’t believe this. Earlier tonight he was alive and . . . and. . . doing things in the drawing room.” She had no words to describe what he’d been doing in the drawing room. Not any words she could actually say. “Now he’s gone.”

“Sip the brandy,” Sinclair said.

“No, I think not,” she said as she put it down.

Sinclair had turned on a lamp and had removed Willoughby’s coat while examining him. Now he went back and laid the garment over Willoughby’s body, covering the destroyed face. Portia forced herself to get up and go over to help him. But she’d never seen such horrific damage inflicted on a human being, and her knees kept wobbling.

She had to stop and grip the chair. She wasn’t as strong and tough as she thought she was. It was an infuriating thing to discover.