light.
“What are you doing? Back down with you.” Nettie pushed her back into the soft mattress.
“What happened?”
“You swooned.”
“I never swoon,” Portia denied, prepared to argue further, but stopped suddenly as memory flooded her.
Heath’s face swam before her like something out of a dream. Stark good looks. Eyes that glittered gray one moment and black the next. Hair dark as sin, long enough to tangle her fingers in—
Portia halted her wayward thoughts with a swift shake of her head. He should have stayed in her dreams. She had planned to keep the memory of him there—the wickedly handsome stranger who rode like Satan set loose, who knife-played for sport and climbed mountains in the dead of winter, who scandalized her with hot words whispered against her ear.
Only her dream had turned to the stuff of nightmares.
Her anonymous rescuer was none other than the earl her grandmother wanted her to wed. She shook her head, trying to chase away her ridiculous sense of betrayal.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. Chasing him off wouldn’t be a problem. Not when he wanted her gone.
Sitting up again, she flung back the thick counterpane, humiliation stinging her cheeks as she recalled his wretched treatment of her. “Nettie, fetch my clothes.”
“I’ll do no such thing. The doctor said—”
“A physician was here?”
“Yes. He said you needed to stay abed until you’re well.”
Portia shook her head fiercely, an image of Heath’s hard features flashing in her mind. In no way would she stay a minute longer under his roof. “I feel better now. Let’s be on our way.”
Nettie opened her mouth, but Portia waved a hand to silence her. “I will not remain here. Not after the way that brute treated me. Can you imagine, Nettie?” She flattened a palm to her heart as if she bore a mortal wound. “He thinks I would want to marry him!”
Nettie tossed her hands up in the air. “Fine. Kill yourself—”
“I’m not on death’s door.” Portia winced when the shrillness of her voice pierced her head.
Sighing, she rubbed her throbbing temples. “Truly, I feel much improved. Certainly fit for travel.” Her feet dropped down from the tester bed, sinking into the thick carpet.
She made it halfway to the armoire before a brief rap sounded on the door. Halting, she turned and watched Lady Moreton breeze into the room.
The countess froze midstride. “What are you doing?”
Portia twisted a toe in the plush carpet guiltily, feeling absurdly like a child caught at mischief.
“Getting dressed.”
“You most certainly are not,” Lady Moreton declared.
Before Portia could lodge a protest, both women ushered her back into bed, tucking the covers to her throat as if she were an invalid.
“I am really well enough to travel—”
“Travel?” Lady Moreton’s eyes rounded. “You’re quite ill, my dear. And even if you weren’t, you’ve only just arrived. Why in heavens would you wish to depart so soon?”
Why? Portia blinked at the countess, wondering if she mocked. Did she not hear her grandson demand her departure? “I think it best if I leave.”
“Leave?” Lady Moreton glanced at Nettie as if needing confirmation that Portia truly intended to leave. “Why would you want to do that?” Hurt flickered across features surprisingly smooth for a woman of her years.
Portia wet her lips. “Lady Moreton, your grandson made his wishes exceedingly clear—”
“Posh!” Lady Moreton sliced the air with one slender, blue-veined hand. “I invited you. You are my guest. Heath cannot uninvite you.”
Clearing her throat, Portia tried again. “At any rate, I would be more comfortable taking my leave.”
Lady Moreton frowned, pursing her lips until they all but disappeared in her face. A determined glint entered her eyes and a hush fell over the room as Portia suffered her scrutiny. Swallowing, she stubbornly held that considering stare, resisting the inclination to fidget.
“What are you doing? Back down with you.” Nettie pushed her back into the soft mattress.
“What happened?”
“You swooned.”
“I never swoon,” Portia denied, prepared to argue further, but stopped suddenly as memory flooded her.
Heath’s face swam before her like something out of a dream. Stark good looks. Eyes that glittered gray one moment and black the next. Hair dark as sin, long enough to tangle her fingers in—
Portia halted her wayward thoughts with a swift shake of her head. He should have stayed in her dreams. She had planned to keep the memory of him there—the wickedly handsome stranger who rode like Satan set loose, who knife-played for sport and climbed mountains in the dead of winter, who scandalized her with hot words whispered against her ear.
Only her dream had turned to the stuff of nightmares.
Her anonymous rescuer was none other than the earl her grandmother wanted her to wed. She shook her head, trying to chase away her ridiculous sense of betrayal.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. Chasing him off wouldn’t be a problem. Not when he wanted her gone.
Sitting up again, she flung back the thick counterpane, humiliation stinging her cheeks as she recalled his wretched treatment of her. “Nettie, fetch my clothes.”
“I’ll do no such thing. The doctor said—”
“A physician was here?”
“Yes. He said you needed to stay abed until you’re well.”
Portia shook her head fiercely, an image of Heath’s hard features flashing in her mind. In no way would she stay a minute longer under his roof. “I feel better now. Let’s be on our way.”
Nettie opened her mouth, but Portia waved a hand to silence her. “I will not remain here. Not after the way that brute treated me. Can you imagine, Nettie?” She flattened a palm to her heart as if she bore a mortal wound. “He thinks I would want to marry him!”
Nettie tossed her hands up in the air. “Fine. Kill yourself—”
“I’m not on death’s door.” Portia winced when the shrillness of her voice pierced her head.
Sighing, she rubbed her throbbing temples. “Truly, I feel much improved. Certainly fit for travel.” Her feet dropped down from the tester bed, sinking into the thick carpet.
She made it halfway to the armoire before a brief rap sounded on the door. Halting, she turned and watched Lady Moreton breeze into the room.
The countess froze midstride. “What are you doing?”
Portia twisted a toe in the plush carpet guiltily, feeling absurdly like a child caught at mischief.
“Getting dressed.”
“You most certainly are not,” Lady Moreton declared.
Before Portia could lodge a protest, both women ushered her back into bed, tucking the covers to her throat as if she were an invalid.
“I am really well enough to travel—”
“Travel?” Lady Moreton’s eyes rounded. “You’re quite ill, my dear. And even if you weren’t, you’ve only just arrived. Why in heavens would you wish to depart so soon?”
Why? Portia blinked at the countess, wondering if she mocked. Did she not hear her grandson demand her departure? “I think it best if I leave.”
“Leave?” Lady Moreton glanced at Nettie as if needing confirmation that Portia truly intended to leave. “Why would you want to do that?” Hurt flickered across features surprisingly smooth for a woman of her years.
Portia wet her lips. “Lady Moreton, your grandson made his wishes exceedingly clear—”
“Posh!” Lady Moreton sliced the air with one slender, blue-veined hand. “I invited you. You are my guest. Heath cannot uninvite you.”
Clearing her throat, Portia tried again. “At any rate, I would be more comfortable taking my leave.”
Lady Moreton frowned, pursing her lips until they all but disappeared in her face. A determined glint entered her eyes and a hush fell over the room as Portia suffered her scrutiny. Swallowing, she stubbornly held that considering stare, resisting the inclination to fidget.
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