Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(92)

Sinclair drew her back, lowered his mouth, and kissed her. His mouth caressed hers, teased hers. Then he tipped her back just a little, holding her, and his mouth commanded hers.

When he set her on her feet, she wobbled.

She was just a little afraid she was dreaming. “I don’t understand. Saxonby felt for your pulse—he said you were dead. I felt for your pulse and found nothing.”

He cupped her face tenderly. “I am so sorry, angel. I used some light card I found, colored it with pink-tinted face cream that belonged to Harriet, then shaped it into a curve. I slipped it under my cravat, keeping that tight so anyone who checked my pulse wouldn’t be able to fit their fingers in far and wouldn’t be able to see they were actually touching card. Also, Sax ensured he dragged you away before you’d touched me for long.”

The matter-of-fact way he explained it suddenly made her feel cold. “That was tremendously clever. You certainly fooled me. I thought you were dead.”

Sinclair winced, gazing into her eyes.

“We concocted the plan together,” Saxonby added quickly. “Once Sin was ‘dead,’ he could investigate with impunity. We figured the murderer would be surprised, thrown off guard. Or get cocky. We hoped the fiend would give himself—or herself—away. That was the reason we couldn’t let you in on the plan, Portia. We had to ensure the murderer was convinced of Sin’s death.”

She realized Saxonby was trying to take half the blame.

“Portia, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Sinclair said hoarsely.

“But you did anyway.” She pulled away from him, stepped back, and wrapped her arms around herself. What a fool she’d been. “You let me think you were dead without even a thought of what I would feel. You hurt me again, and you didn’t care.”

“God, Portia, I did care. It ripped my heart out to hurt you. I was afraid if you knew the truth, the murderer might see it in your eyes. And Sax promised to protect you with his life. He also promised not to tell you. I almost gave in and revealed myself to you. He talked me out of it once. Then Sax told me what you said in the kitchen. I guessed you were acting as bait to lure out the killer. I only wish my damn shot had gotten him—or her.”

“You fired the shot that saved my life.”

“I’m normally a damn better shot. But I was afraid to hit you. Portia, love, I’m sorry if I made you suffer. But I never thought you would hurt so much.”

She gaped at him. “But why would you think that? Why would you think I wouldn’t care?”

“I thought you still hated me, over what I did.”

“I don’t, Sinclair. I—” She couldn’t say it, but she knew she loved him. But she was afraid to say it. He was wild and attended orgies. She was domestic and boring.

And apparently he didn’t trust her enough to confide in her.

Saxonby softly cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you alone to discuss things. Sin, you can tell her what we’ve discovered. Which isn’t much. Lock the door behind me.” Sax went to the door. He opened it and said, loud enough for any eavesdroppers to hear. “I’ll leave you alone with him, Miss Love. To say those last things you wish to say. I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Then he closed the door. Sinclair took quick strides to the door and turned the key.

She watched his body move with lithe grace. She wanted to be angry he’d tricked her. She wanted to be hurt that he hadn’t trusted her.

But she couldn’t be.

All she could think was that he wasn’t dead. Thank heaven he wasn’t dead.

Something snapped in her. For days, she’d been surrounded by sex and by death and all she wanted was . . . was love. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed to his chest.

“Portia.” With his words, his chest rumbled beneath her. His hands gently caressed.

No—she was tired of chaste embraces. She had thought he was gone. For twenty-four hours she’d been filled with pain. And . . . regret.

She arched up on her toes, grabbed the fabric of his shirt for balance, and kissed him. Wild and openmouthed and wanton.

Her lips caressed his, hot and demanding. She wanted to kiss him hard. She almost wanted to hurt him with her mouth. She wanted to make him be the one who was melting and begging and in pain.

Her hands ran over his chest, stroking his hard pectoral muscles through his shirt. He was so warm—warm and alive. She was heady with relief, panting with anger—how couldn’t he have trusted her? But the anger made her want to touch him more.

Through his shirt, she found his nipples and she strummed them, tweaked them, played with them the way he had played with hers. She broke away from his kiss to put her mouth to his linen shirt and try to suck his nipple through the cloth. When he sucked her, it made her suffer agonies of desire and she wanted to do that to him.