Tall, Dark and Disreputable (17 page)

They’d reached the narrow hallway. At his words, Dorrie came to an abrupt halt. Impatient, Mateo pushed past her. ‘I’ll just be sure everything’s ready.’

‘Reading?’ Portia winced as Dorrie grabbed her arm and stalled her. Her companion’s whisper sounded harsh in her ear. ‘We’re stopping in Reading? Do you think that’s wise?’

‘This is the first I’ve heard of it,’ Portia said, trying to calm the sudden racing of her heart.

‘But
she
lives in Reading. Every time those horrible, impudent letters arrived, they were posted from Reading. And all the papers, when they wrote of her origins, they called her an
innkeeper’s daughter
.’

‘I know that, Dorrie.’ The thought of running into…
her
was bad enough, but to do it with Mateo at her side…She shuddered.

She struggled for composure. ‘But we’ll be getting there late and only stopping for a few hours’ rest.’ She grimaced. ‘There are at least three inns in Reading that I can recall. We’re not likely to run into her.’ She
frowned. ‘And even if we do, what can she do? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Dorrie sighed. ‘As if we weren’t facing trouble enough.’ She folded her arms stubbornly. ‘It’s asking too much of you, I’ll just explain to Mr Cardea—’

‘And tell him what?’ Portia’s chin lifted. ‘Lord, Dorrie, I would like to keep just one of the many humiliating episodes of my life to myself! Does the world need to throw evidence of every one of my shortcomings in his face? Please, I cannot stand the thought of him looking at me with…with pity and with…
knowing
.’

‘But, there’s a chance—’

‘It’s a chance I’ll take,’ she said firmly. ‘Because the odds have got to be higher that nothing will happen at all.’

I
t was late when they arrived in Reading and the streets lay dark and quiet. Dorrie clung to her side as Portia climbed wearily down from the post-chaise. Mateo had already completed his transactions with the postillion and the stables, now he went ahead of them into the inn to make arrangements for their short night’s stay. Portia watched him go, in the torchlight only an indistinct form topped with broad shoulders and a tangle of dark curls, and considered how different her mood might be right now, had Dorrie done as she’d suggested and gone home.

Ouch
. Dorrie was still very much present, as evidenced by the vice-like grip she was maintaining on Portia’s arm. Her head bobbed and swivelled like a weather vane, searching corners and shadows with nervous, darting looks.

‘Relax, please, Dorrie. It’s late. No one is about at this hour.’

‘No one we’d wish to meet,’ she returned.

‘Come, let’s go in then.’ They followed in Mateo’s footsteps and found him finishing with the innkeeper.

‘Is she all right?’ Mateo leaned in close as the landlord called for their baggage to be carried up to their rooms. He nodded towards Dorrie, who had steered Portia as far from the public taproom as possible and was now scanning the darkened hallways. ‘What is she looking for?’

Portia shivered. Fatigue seeped into her very bones and undermined her defences. The warmth of his breath on her cheek only served as a reminder of everything she longed for and could not have. ‘I think we’re all just tired,’ she said, crossing her arms in front of her.

‘Indeed we are.’ Dorrie had come back. She claimed Portia’s arm once more. ‘Thank you, Mr Cardea, but I’m taking Portia straight up to our room.’

‘Goodnight, then.’

His gaze followed them, a palpable sensation down the length of her spine as they climbed the stairs. Portia wanted to turn back, to meet his eyes and allow him to see all the turmoil and fervent desire seething inside of her. She did not. And not just because she feared the lack of a similar conflict in his eyes. Though it took all of her will, she kept her face turned forwards, towards the future. Because soon enough this would be over and that’s what she’d be left with. Her future, alone and independent, just as she’d wished.

She did as Dorrie bade, kept her gaze down and followed her companion’s swinging skirts into their small room. Just the one bed, big enough to share, an
empty wash stand, a small table and one chair before the unlit fireplace. Dorrie shut the door with a sigh of relief. Portia stared at the bed with a mix of longing and regret.

Had she ever been this tired? Had any woman ever been subjected to a day so filled with soaring highs and despairing lows? And would she ever stop wondering what might have been with Mateo, had circumstances been different?

With a sigh she sank down on to the foot of the bed. She smelled of horse, of wind and sun. And passion. She wondered if Dorrie could detect it, if she already knew what she had begun with Mateo today, in that dark, secluded wood. She thought of tomorrow, when she would see London again, wear a pretty day dress instead of this increasingly heavy habit, when she would meet a wicked Countess and perhaps discover the reason they’d been sent on this frustratingly wild ride.

She leaned her head against the bedpost. What she truly longed for—quite inexpressibly—was a bath. A long, steaming bath in which she could close her eyes and examine the triumphs and soak away the humiliations of the day—and prepare herself for the gains and losses of tomorrow.

Not a practical wish in the middle of the night. Abruptly, she stood. ‘I’m going back downstairs, Dorrie, to request some hot water—enough to wash in, at least. I can’t even begin to imagine climbing into bed in this condition.’

‘Poor dear,’ Dorrie crooned, ‘you’ve been through half of Berkshire today.’ Her companion sat beside her
on the bed. Sympathy and a perhaps more disturbing understanding showed in her face as she reached over to tuck a stray curl behind Portia’s ear. ‘I’ll go; you stay safely here and rest. I’ll ask for coal for the fire, too, so you won’t catch a chill.’

It wasn’t worth an argument. The door snapped shut behind Dorrie and Portia closed her eyes and leaned again against the bedpost. Mateo’s room was right across the hall. Was he falling straight into bed? She hoped he dreamed of her tonight. She hoped all the wicked, erotic sensations of the day—the sight of her bare breasts, the damp feel of her, and the sensuous sound of her release—had been burned into his brain. It was no less than he deserved. No less than she had already suffered, locked for hours on the inside of that post-chaise, reliving the taste and feel of his hands and lips and tongue all over her.

She jumped as the door opened again. ‘Hot water and coal are on the way,’ Dorrie said from the doorway. ‘The landlord’s sending a girl right up. Since we are not retiring right away, I’m going back to the kitchens to see if I can find us a bite to eat.’

‘Thank you, Dorrie.’

‘Sit down, dear.’ Dorrie nodded towards the comfortably plush chair in front of the fire. ‘You look exhausted. I’ll be right back.’

Portia pushed away from the post. She had to stop this. She could not continue daydreaming over Mateo. Their paths were clear and separate. He’d made his stance plain. She would only make herself miserable
and him ill at ease. They had enough trouble to contend with, without her rampant desire adding to everyone’s discomfort.

She curled into the chair, staring into the empty hearth. But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? She didn’t feel uncomfortable with him. She only felt right, happy, at home in his regard for her.

They’d crossed a boundary today, and not just in a physical sense. She’d been deliberately prickly since he’d arrived, had worked hard to show him only the strong, determined, independent side of her. Until today. Today she had cracked. She’d let him see her soft, flawed interior—and he’d met it with the same simple acceptance and admiration that he’d shown before.

Heady stuff, that. She felt a sudden pang of sympathy for some of J.T.’s opium-eating friends. She could easily come to crave something that felt so good.

More significant, perhaps, Mateo had gifted her with a glimpse inside of him, as well. For all of his insouciance and charm, she knew him for a deeply private person. Laughter and smiles were his shields and he’d allowed her to slip past them today. It had felt like a beginning, a tantalising glimpse of the deeper, more meaningful rapport that could exist between them. Except that it never would exist. Instead, tomorrow they faced the end. One way or the other, they’d go their separate ways.

The thought nearly stole her breath.

But life was short and full of hardships. And truly, Portia knew herself for one of the fortunate few.
Whether her plans for Stenbrooke were granted or not, she’d been given the gift of a new beginning—and this time around she was determined to do things differently. She’d reached for a way out last time. She’d accepted the least evil of all her options and tried to make the best of it—or so she’d told herself.

But was it the whole truth?

Now was the time for truth-seeking, was it not? Now, at this time, when her future poised, teetering, on the brink of what might be, perhaps she should look deep and accept her own truth.

She did not want to—but she feared she was to be given no choice. All the platitudes and excuses she’d used to reassure herself were flaking away. She dropped her head in her hands, tried to block out the comprehension that rose like the sun within her. But there was no escaping it. She’d accepted James Talbot because she’d been afraid. Afraid to stand up to her brothers. Afraid they were right and she wouldn’t ever be anything but a burden to the people she loved.

And that wasn’t all. She delved even deeper into the ache that lay buried at the heart of her and winced at what she found. Mateo had hurt her, and her unsuccessful Season had frightened her. Before she’d fully recovered, her brothers’ disregard had wounded her further. And she’d given in to that hurt and fear. She’d been afraid that no other man would ever want her. She’d been afraid to even try—she’d never fought for her chance at happiness.

It was an ugly, painful realisation—but worse was
the sudden thought that she might be doing it again. Was she fixating on Mateo because it was easy? Because he was here? Was she dredging up old feelings because despite all of her talk, she was afraid to be alone?

The door opened with a bang behind her, startling her out of her bleak thoughts. Peering around the high back of her chair, she saw a servant girl backing into the room, burdened with an armful of towels, and a pitcher of hot water, with a heavy coal bucket hanging off one arm.

‘…inconsiderate…out of bed…heating kettles in the dead of night…’ The girl kept up a continuous, discontented rumble as she made her way into the room.

Portia started out her chair. ‘Let me help with that.’

‘Oh, no!’ came the sharp, indignant reply. ‘You want hot water in the middle of the blasted night, you’ll get it. My papa runs the best inn in Reading, with the best service! Anyone will tell you. A thousand times a day I have to listen to it, on and on…’

Portia shrank back in her chair. Her nerves were too frazzled to deal competently with such blatant disrespect, her emotions too raw. The woman’s grumbling continued as she deposited her burdens at the wash stand. Carrying the coal, she crossed the room to the hearth. Portia curled tight into the chair, out of the way, and watched the back of her head as she quickly built up the fire.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as the coals flared to life.

‘Not at all,’ the girl returned, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She shot Portia a quick glance of dislike over her shoulder. ‘If you suffer a longing for fine French
cuisine, just say the word, my papa will have me on the first packet to Calais.’

But Portia sat frozen, arrested by what she’d just seen.

The woman finished, rose, and managed to dip a curtsy that oozed mockery. By the growing light of the fire, with the woman in full view now, Portia could see it all: the ruin of a once-pretty face, marred by a network of reddened scars that ran across one side of her face and disappeared under the wilted linen of her cap. The girl noticed her changed manner and shot her a look of scorn. Head high, she flounced across the room to the door.

She paused on the threshold. Portia’s nails dug into the padded arm of the chair.

It couldn’t be. But it was.

After all of Dorrie’s precautions—Portia bit back the sudden, mad urge to laugh.

It was her. Moira Hanson. Her husband’s mistress.

Behind her, one hesitant footstep sounded, back into the room.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ The girl’s voice rang low now, incredulous. Slowly she retraced her steps, stopping at the side of Portia’s chair to stare down at her. ‘It is! I’ve seen you, once before,’ she said wonderingly. Then she laughed, an ugly, brittle sound. ‘It was at the theatre. You were with your fine, fancy friends. Me and J.T. had a box, not far away. You never even saw us…’ her mouth twisted ‘…or what we got up to, right there under your nose.’

Portia kept her gaze locked on the fire. ‘Thank you for the water.’ She gestured. ‘And for the fire.’ She had
to work to keep her voice neutral, flat. ‘That is all I require.’

‘Oh, no!’ Moira said, low and vicious. ‘You’ll not get off that easy. Did you think to come here and lord it over me? Is that why you’re here—making demands in the dead of night?’

Portia looked up then, focusing on her narrowed, mean eyes, and pointedly not on her disfigurement. ‘I had no idea you were employed here.’

‘I’m not
employed
here, Miss High and Mighty. My father is the landlord.’

It was the scorn in her voice that did it. Dread and chagrin began to turn to anger and indignation.
She
had been the victim in this mess, not this greedy little harpy. It had been a horrible, humiliating, tragic episode—but none of it had come through Portia’s actions.

She stood. ‘That would be
Mrs
High and Mighty, as you would have good cause to know.’

The other woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve come to gawk at me, haven’t you? Have a laugh at my expense?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Me? You’re the ridiculous one, so fine—you think you are.’ Moira stepped forwards. Her voice rose. ‘I don’t care who your father was, you weren’t woman enough to keep your husband happy.’

‘That is enough. Just please go.’

‘You think you’re better than me?’ the woman shrieked.

Portia shook her head.

‘Why haven’t you answered my letters, then? Tell me that.’

Portia raised her chin. Her heart ached at the thought of the wicked taunts and hurtful accusations that had been in those letters. How she’d love to give as good as she got, just this once. Make this vulgar strumpet eat every one of the hateful words she’d spewed at her, in writing and in person. But they had each paid a steep price already, and Mateo slept just across the hall. She shrunk at the idea of him being witness to this woman’s vitriolic hatred. It would be her last, greatest humiliation.

The door opened again. Portia flinched, but it was only Dorrie, carrying a covered tray. She stared. It took a moment for her to recognise the confrontation taking place in the room, and then all her colour drained away. ‘Oh, no,’ she moaned.

Moira laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. You thought to humiliate me? You’ve done enough already!’ She gestured towards her marred face. ‘You ruined my life! And it’s time you paid.’

‘Please,’ Portia asked. ‘This is neither the time nor the place. Just go.’

‘You don’t know how right you are,
my lady
.’ The girl nearly choked on a sob. ‘This is not the place, not
my
place. Do you know how long it took me to get out of here? To make my way to London and break into the right circles? But I had done it! I was on my way to becoming one of the most glittering courtesans in history! I had my own rig, my own servants. And now here I am, back again, fetching and carrying for every loose screw on their way in and out of Town.’