she was, her thoughts no place in particular. She was glad to be ministered to with no need to do anything but move as required to get her wet clothes off. The cold penetrated to her bones. Had that second rain washed away the smell of sex? Lord, she didn’t even know if Crispin had come on her clothes or his.
The maid unhooked the last of the fastenings of Portia’s gown. “You poor thing. You’re soaked to the skin. What happened?”
“Lord Northword and I were caught in the rain.” She pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her gown and was immediately caught up in another shiver. “We took refuge under a tree.” She fixed an image of the stream in her head, as if doing so would make it true. “By the stream. Near where my brother likes to fish.”
“So far from the house, Miss?”
“It rained so hard we were drenched. There was sleet, too.” That was true. There would have been sleet by the stream as well.
“And here you went out without a cloak. Goodness, why? Come closer to the fire, Miss.”
“Thank you.” She shivered again when Bridget stripped her of her petticoats and undergarments. The places where Crispin’s early beard had rasped against her skin were livid against her bone-cold skin. The bruise his mouth had left on her throat, the scrape left by his clothes against the inside of her thigh. She’d not felt any of that at the time, but she did now. Her skin contained the residue of his mouth, his hands and his cock, the sigh of his breath. Bridget would surely put the evidence of her deception before Eleanor. Ten years since her fall from grace, and she’d given up body and soul without a thought. She’d tried to love elsewhere. She truly had.
Wiped down, dried off, hair combed out, and her in dry undergarments, she came out of her dumb state when Bridget picked up the pink gown. “I’ll be up half the night with this.”
“Don’t bother.” She sank onto an armchair. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Crispin had done when he came to passion, other than she was sure he’d not come inside her. “It can wait.”
“If I don’t launder this right away, it will be ruined for certain.”
“If it can’t be saved, burn it.”
“Oh, it’s too pretty for that.”
“Keep it, if you like. Whether it can be saved or not.” She met the maid’s astonished gaze head on and managed a smile. “The color suits you better than it does me.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss.” She scooped up the rest of the wet clothes and undergarments then whisked away the gown before leaving Portia alone.
With no one to distract her, her heart crumbled. Part of her soul had vanished when she and Crispin proved unable to make a future together. Today, she’d had him in her arms again, and she wasn’t sorry for that. She wasn’t. But she’d been left with a newer and more painful reminder of exactly what she’d given up ten years ago.
Chapter Seven
T HE BLOODY RAIN HAD STOPPED AGAIN. In Northword’s room, with its rear-facing windows, the light shifted with the constant change in the gaps of sky between the clouds. He held the note Hob had just delivered to him. He itched to toss it onto the fire. “No answer, Hob. Thank you.”
He left it to his valet to give Hob a coin, which was quickly and discreetly done. The moment the door closed, he crumpled the note—predictably, the sheet was scented—and threw it on the dressing table. It landed half on the portable secretary he’d brought with him and half on the abandoned leather strop. Meet at his earliest convenience . The devil he’d be summoned like he was a misbehaving son. Not again.
He yanked on his shirt sleeve. “Are we finished with this nonsense yet?”
“No, milord.” His valet was even tempered, thank goodness, since at the moment, Northword wore nothing but a shirt and clean breeches.
“Get on with it.”
After that display of impatience and having to endure the arrangement of the rest of his
The maid unhooked the last of the fastenings of Portia’s gown. “You poor thing. You’re soaked to the skin. What happened?”
“Lord Northword and I were caught in the rain.” She pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her gown and was immediately caught up in another shiver. “We took refuge under a tree.” She fixed an image of the stream in her head, as if doing so would make it true. “By the stream. Near where my brother likes to fish.”
“So far from the house, Miss?”
“It rained so hard we were drenched. There was sleet, too.” That was true. There would have been sleet by the stream as well.
“And here you went out without a cloak. Goodness, why? Come closer to the fire, Miss.”
“Thank you.” She shivered again when Bridget stripped her of her petticoats and undergarments. The places where Crispin’s early beard had rasped against her skin were livid against her bone-cold skin. The bruise his mouth had left on her throat, the scrape left by his clothes against the inside of her thigh. She’d not felt any of that at the time, but she did now. Her skin contained the residue of his mouth, his hands and his cock, the sigh of his breath. Bridget would surely put the evidence of her deception before Eleanor. Ten years since her fall from grace, and she’d given up body and soul without a thought. She’d tried to love elsewhere. She truly had.
Wiped down, dried off, hair combed out, and her in dry undergarments, she came out of her dumb state when Bridget picked up the pink gown. “I’ll be up half the night with this.”
“Don’t bother.” She sank onto an armchair. For the life of her she couldn’t think what Crispin had done when he came to passion, other than she was sure he’d not come inside her. “It can wait.”
“If I don’t launder this right away, it will be ruined for certain.”
“If it can’t be saved, burn it.”
“Oh, it’s too pretty for that.”
“Keep it, if you like. Whether it can be saved or not.” She met the maid’s astonished gaze head on and managed a smile. “The color suits you better than it does me.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you, Miss.” She scooped up the rest of the wet clothes and undergarments then whisked away the gown before leaving Portia alone.
With no one to distract her, her heart crumbled. Part of her soul had vanished when she and Crispin proved unable to make a future together. Today, she’d had him in her arms again, and she wasn’t sorry for that. She wasn’t. But she’d been left with a newer and more painful reminder of exactly what she’d given up ten years ago.
Chapter Seven
T HE BLOODY RAIN HAD STOPPED AGAIN. In Northword’s room, with its rear-facing windows, the light shifted with the constant change in the gaps of sky between the clouds. He held the note Hob had just delivered to him. He itched to toss it onto the fire. “No answer, Hob. Thank you.”
He left it to his valet to give Hob a coin, which was quickly and discreetly done. The moment the door closed, he crumpled the note—predictably, the sheet was scented—and threw it on the dressing table. It landed half on the portable secretary he’d brought with him and half on the abandoned leather strop. Meet at his earliest convenience . The devil he’d be summoned like he was a misbehaving son. Not again.
He yanked on his shirt sleeve. “Are we finished with this nonsense yet?”
“No, milord.” His valet was even tempered, thank goodness, since at the moment, Northword wore nothing but a shirt and clean breeches.
“Get on with it.”
After that display of impatience and having to endure the arrangement of the rest of his
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