Page 11 of The Duke Says I Do
His mouth fascinated her. She couldn’t remember paying much attention to a man’s lips before. The lower lip was surprisingly full. A sign of restrained passion? Plenty ofnoblemen had bad reputations with women. Granville didn’t. But that didn’t mean he’d never kissed anyone.
What would it be like to kiss him? The thought prompted a shiver. Not of revulsion. Odd, because when she’d tried to imagine Juliet and Granville kissing, she hadn’t succeeded. They both seemed too stiff and proper to engage in anything as messy as a passionate embrace.
Portia had never been kissed. She’d never particularly wanted to be kissed. How bizarre that the first man to stir any curiosity about the activity should be someone she once found of no interest.
If she thought about it – and she thought about it far too much today – she suspected that Granville would be quite a good kisser. He was renowned for his competence. He’d been competent today, dealing with Jim and Alf. That competence had saved her bacon.
In fact, the only time that she’d seen him at a loss was with Jupiter. He’d even taken Juliet’s rejection in his stride.
Not that she’d ever kiss the Duke of Granville. She might suffer an unwanted attraction. He didn’t. Once she’d set him up as Jupiter’s master – he mightn’t know it yet, but he’d lost that particular battle – nothing would stop them reverting to their frigid distance.
How ridiculous that the knowledge made her burn with regret.
Because right now, sitting opposite His Grace, she admitted that she’d dearly like to kiss him. Even more shocking, she’d like him to sweep her into those powerful arms and touch her with those elegant long-fingered hands.
At twenty-five, she was late discovering the power of physical attraction. To think that Alaric Dempster was the man to awaken her dormant desires. It was almost inconceivable. Yet the merest sight of him had her hungering for more.
“We’re turning into Piccadilly.” He let the blind fall back. Outside, it sounded like half of London rattled and shouted and pursued their trade. Inside the carriage, Portia and Granville inhabited a different world.
The gloom’s return assuaged Portia’s fear that her expression might betray her unacceptable longing. The carnal direction of her thoughts troubled her. Her secret parts thrummed in a most unsettling fashion. Unsettling, if not exactly unpleasant. She shifted on the seat to ease the unaccustomed weight between her legs. It didn’t help.
“Not far to Lorimer Square then.” She hoped the duke missed the remark’s breathiness.
The duke lived across the square from the house that Papa had rented the last two seasons. Portia had expected her father to give up the lease, now Viola and Juliet were married. But these days, he mostly stayed in Town. Perhaps after last summer’s mayhem, he couldn’t bear to return to Afton Court.
Portia didn’t mind living in London. There were more animals in trouble here than in the country. At least the part of the country that she inhabited. Largely thanks to her efforts. She’d wondered whether her father might question where the constant stream of strays came from and curtail her activities but he never had. She supposed he imagined that people gave them to her, if he devoted even that much thought to her in between his dreams of theatrical fame.
Granville knocked on the ceiling, startling Jupiter from his snooze. He sat up and whined in protest.
“It’s all right, boy.” Portia was impressed at how he’d settled. Often rescued animals were so frightened that they were difficult to transport.
The duke scratched Jupiter’s ears. He mightn’t have any experience with dogs, but so far his instincts were good. She suspected that his air of quiet authority contributed to Jupiter’seasy transition. Nervous animals appreciated a sure hand. So, it turned out, did she. The moment Granville emerged to defend her against Jim, she’d known that she was safe.
The panel above Granville’s head slid open. In the gap against the sky, Portia caught a glimpse of the coachman’s lined, benevolent face.
“Lady Portia has very kindly agreed to help with the dog, Phipps. But discretion is required.”
“Aye, sir. I can manage that. If you’ll wait in the carriage once we reach the stables, I’ll send off those puddingheaded lads.”
“Capital. The other thing is Jupiter needs a bath. We’re probably better doing that in the stables, as well. Or perhaps the garden.”
“I’ve got no authority over the gardeners, sir. Let’s stick to the stables.”
“Good thinking.”
Portia had to credit Phipps for not betraying the slightest sign that these requests were unusual. Or that he minded the opulent carriage transporting a filthy mongrel from the London streets. Let alone a virgin of good family.
Although she knew nothing about the duke’s private life. Perhaps he often lured women of pristine reputation to his house.
“Would you like me to look after the dog, Your Grace?”
Granville glanced at Portia. The open panel admitted enough light to read his expression. She saw him consider the idea, but to his credit, he didn’t leap at the chance to pass Jupiter’s care over to a servant.
This afternoon, she was astonished at how much she laid to Alaric Dempster’s credit.
“I’ll accept your help with pleasure, but I think it’s time I learned how to bath a dog, don’t you?”
Phipps’s expressionless face hinted how bizarre he found this statement. “Very good, Your Grace.”
