How to Woo a Widow (3 page)

“Mr. Noakes,” she said a little breathlessly. “How lovely to see you again.”

That gentleman took her gloved hand and kissed the air above it.

“And you, ma’am,” the exceedingly tall Noakes smiled down at her. “Might I reserve a set?”

Though she’d like to avoid any reminder of that night at Vauxhall, Portia suspected that Noakes himself was rather harmless so she proffered her dance card and watched as he penciled his name into an empty slot.

She’d found herself in demand despite her widowed state, though perhaps that circumstance merely added to her allure. Widows did have a certain reputation for impropriety, she knew. One gentleman had even hinted at some activity more intimate than dancing between them, but pretending not to understand him, she sent him away in a frustrated huff.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Noakes?” she asked politely as she spied Lord Tretham wending through the crowd toward them, her requested lemonade in hand.

“I suppose I’ve had worse evenings, ma’am,” Noakes returned, running a finger around his neck cloth. “Almack’s not exactly a man’s first choice for an evening’s entertainment,” he said mournfully. “Present company excluded of course.”

“Ah, Lord Tretham,” she said as that gentlemen handed her a glass. “Thank you. I believe you know Mr. Noakes?”

As the two men exchanged desultory greetings, Portia heard her mother’s voice behind her. It had been that lady’s idea to come tonight. Not that Portia was opposed to the idea, but after the fiasco at Vauxhall she’d not gone out in company at all and her mother had suggested that a visit to Almack’s might be just the sort of unexceptionable entertainment her daughter needed. And considering she’d never seen Tony enter these hallowed portals, Portia had agreed.

“Why, yes,” she heard her mother say behind her. “She’s just there with Lord Tretham and Mr. Noakes.”

Who was she sending her way now?

As Portia turned she caught sight of a familiar set of shoulders encased in a black coat standing before Lady Bascombe.

“Oh look,” Noakes said with a grin. “There’s Leighton!”

Sure enough, Tony turned to face them and as their eyes met across the room, Portia felt the breath rush from her body. The intensity of his gaze made her heartbeat accelerate like a racehorse in the final stretch.

She had to make her escape.

But, as she turned to leave, the sound of ripping fabric tore through the air. Noakes had been standing on the hem of her gown, and the flounce she’d added just that afternoon gaped like a wound at her feet.

An oath she’d heard many a time from her husband’s mouth flitted through her mind, though she just managed to keep from saying it aloud.

“Dashed sorry, Mrs. Daventry.” Noakes was apologetic, but kept his ridiculous grin. “Only look, Leighton. Clumsy clod, what? I’ve ripped Mrs. Daventry’s hem but good.”

Portia looked up into the green eyes she’d seen in her dreams every night for the past week.

“Indeed,” Tony said without looking away from her.

Tony heard Noakes chattering on but didn’t really listen. Instead his whole focus was on Portia. Had it really been only a week since he’d last seen her? It felt like months, years.

He’d thought about calling on her the day after their encounter at Vauxhall. Sending flowers seemed inadequate. And in the end his mother and sisters had kept him busy squiring them about town on shopping excursions. Whether by calculation or coincidence he’d decided just this afternoon that after this evening’s visit to the beastly boring Almack’s he would put his foot down and tell Lady Leighton he would see Portia with or without her blessing.

A man could not be ruled by his mother, after all.

He’d intended to call on her first thing tomorrow, but as soon as he’d stepped through the doors of the venerable assembly rooms, he’d spied her, standing beside Noakes of all people, fanning herself, her cheeks pink from exertion.

In his mind’s eye he saw her again on that night on the dark walk, when her face had been pink from exertion of a more pleasurable sort.

His groin tightened at the memory.

“Let me escort you to the ladies retiring room to repair your gown, Mrs. Daventry,” Tony said smoothly now, offering Portia his arm as Lord Tretham scowled up at him, clearly put out by the a possible rival’s appearance on the scene.

Though Tretham had been at school with Tony and James, the other boy had been a bit of an odd duck. There was something about the fellow that put Tony off. To see him lavishing attention on Portia raised his protective hackles. And if the truth were known, sparked no small amount of jealousy.

He’d lost her to another man once.

He would not let it happen again.

Perhaps sensing Tony’s antipathy towards him, Tretham took Portia’s other arm. “No need to bestir yourself, Leighton,” he said firmly. “Mrs. Daventry has no need of your escort.”

“Besides,” he added, “Don’t members of her family get hurt when they allow you to accompany them?”

Tony heard Portia’s gasp and watched as Tretham smiled with the satisfaction of knowing his barb had hit its target.

“My lord,” Portia hissed to Tretham. “That is unforgiveable. I will not make a scene here, but let me tell you in no uncertain terms that neither I, nor any member of my family, holds Tony responsible for what happened to James that day. I will kindly ask you to never speak of this matter my hearing again.”

Portia’s defense of him soothed some raw part of Tony’s soul that he had thought beyond relief. Though he had known on some intrinsic level that his role in James’ death was unintentional, knowing that Portia and her family had absolved him of responsibility brought him succor he hadn’t known he needed.

Tretham, looking genuinely stricken, apologized. “My apologies, Leighton,” he said gravely. “I don’t know what came over me. Jealousy over a pretty girl, I suppose,” he said with a wry smile. “I know as well as everyone else that James’ death was nothing but a wretched piece of bad luck. No one could possibly have guessed the axle would break.”

Though he still thought Tretham’s accusation had been out of line, Tony knew there was little he could do outside of challenging the man to a duel. And he’d had enough of guns and fighting in the Peninsula to last a lifetime.

“It’s alright, Tretham,” he said, though he took Portia’s arm in his before the other man could do so himself. “I understand how mad one can become over a pretty face.”

And before Tretham could launch them into further discussion, Tony led Portia at a brisk pace away from the crowd and toward the antechamber that had been set aside for torn flounces and the like.

“How high-handed you are, Lord Leighton,” Portia said dryly as she walked away with him. “You must learn to show proper respect for your elders. And really, though Tretham is unable to take no for an answer, he seems harmless enough. Rescue was hardly necessary.”

Her tone was playful, as if the business with Tretham hadn’t even happened. And Tony, not wanting to examine his reaction to her words too closely, remained silent. He was more upset than he cared to admit about the way the other man had laid hands on Portia, like a wolf marking his territory.

Her gown tonight was a deep green that accented the creamy skin of her bosom and shoulders above a scandalously low bodice. He glanced down and was assailed with the conflicting urges to cover her up with his coat and to pull her closer so that he could get a better view.

“What inspired you to wear such a revealing gown to Almack’s of all places?” he asked as they entered the hallway, his eyes straying once again to the very same bodice he was objecting to. “Tretham certainly looked his fill.”

He felt her stiffen beside him, and attempt to remove her hand from his arm.

“I don’t see what business it is of yours, Lord Leighton,” she huffed, trying and failing to get away from him. “And it certainly doesn’t excuse his behavior. Or yours for that matter.”

He pulled her along, nodding at various acquaintances as they went. After a few resisting steps, Portia seemed to give in and walked along beside him—though her smile was as stiff as an over-starched cravat.

They walked in silence down the grand staircase and when they reached the ground floor instead of heading left toward the dining room, Tony scanned the guests milling about, chose his moment and pulled her into the small hallway that ran behind the cloak room toward the service door leading into the mews.

“I could call out for help,” his captive huffed, though it was obviously an empty threat since she didn’t pull away again.

“You could,” Tony agreed with a shrug “but we’ve already left the most crowded areas. Back here there’s no one to hear you but grooms and horses.”

She made a skeptical sound at the back of her throat.

When they reached the service door, Tony extended an arm to wave Portia through. He saw her consider running back the way they came, but with a huff of annoyance she preceded him out the door.

Though they had entered the realm of the rough men who attended to the horses and carriages of the fine-gowned and expensively-shod ladies and gentlemen of the ton, their appearance didn’t cause more than a raised eyebrow from a grizzled coachman. The eccentricities of the people they served were to be expected, the man’s shrug seemed to say.

The air was redolent with the smell of horses and fresh hay. And other, more earthy scents. For a moment he was assailed with the memory of a day spent in the stables at the Bascombe’s country estate. Of Portia’s laughter as she’d fed a pilfered carrot to her little mare.

“What was she called?” he asked, for all the world as if they still strolled in the hallway of the most exclusive club in London. At her quizzical look, he elaborated, “That mare…the one who kicked me.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten about that,” she said, stepping carefully to avoid a puddle. “Circe. Perhaps she guessed what a disagreeable fellow you’d turn out to be.”

He led her to a shadowed area, hidden from both the lamplight and the feeble moonlight that filtered down through the thick London air.

“Ah yes,” he said, turning his body to shield her from the view of any curious servants. “Circe. She didn’t like me, but you do.” He slid his hands to her waist and pulled her against him.

What the hell was he doing? He was exposing her, a widow of good reputation, to the gossip that being found in this position could cause. And yet, he didn’t stop.

Perhaps he wanted her compromised, he thought, breathing her in. That sweet scent of roses and Portia he found so intoxicating.

“What are you thinking, Tony?” she demanded. “What if someone sees us?”

“Let them see,” he growled. “It’s not as if you weren’t letting them ogle you back inside.” His gaze wandered to the creamy flesh of her chest as it rose and fell with her every angry intake of breath.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “My gown,” she hissed, jabbing her closed fan into his chest, punctuating her every word, “is no more revealing than the gown of any other woman in that ballroom. And what right have you to object in any event, my lord?”

“This one.” He pulled her to him and crushed his angry mouth into hers.

Good God, he thought, I sound like the villain in a Minerva Press novel. But after that there was no time for thought. Only sensation.

He’d expected resistance, but Tony should have known that Portia would give as good as she got. Instead of tight-lipped anger, she opened her mouth, pressing her curves against him in a way that made the blood pump feverishly through his veins. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, resisting her pull for only a moment before he gave her what she so obviously craved, thrusting into her mouth, his tongue meeting hers in a maestrom of passion.

Chapter Four

Portia was angrier than she’d been in a long, long time. How dare he? she fumed. Even as she grasped the front of Tony’s jacket and held onto him as if only he stood between her and a bone-shattering fall. Arrogant, infuriating man, she thought, as she returned his kiss, stroke for agonizing stroke.

“You have no right,” she murmured, pulling back to nip his bottom lip between her teeth. “No right.” When had her brother’s boyhood friend grown up, she wondered, reveling in the feel of his hard, firm muscles beneath her gloved hand.

“Every right.” She felt the rumble of his words vibrate against her skin. His hand stroked up from her hip to her breast, while his lips caressed down from the corner of her mouth to her chin. “Mine. You’re mine. Portia.”

She should have found his possessiveness disgusting, but she didn’t. She reveled in it. And shivered at the delicious feel of his large, sure hand caressing the exposed skin of her chest.

She felt his hand inching its way inside the neck of her gown, easing it down her shoulder to further expose her to his touch. “Beautiful.” She wasn’t sure if he was talking about her as whole or simply her bosom, but it hardly mattered when she could feel his approbation growing against her thigh.

“Tony,” she said more firmly. Though it began as a protest, it ended on a pleading note as she pressed herself against him like a cat seeking a stroke. “Tony, we can’t.” Her protest was a feeble one, but somewhere she found the strength to push against him rather than pull him toward her as she devoutly wished. “Tony, stop.”