Page 35 of The Duke Says I Do
“Not yet. Should I go and chase them home?”
“You probably should. Or they’ll have sore heads tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that straightaway.” Phipps knocked out his pipe and stood up. He sent Granville a leery glance. “Has Mr. Hobbs encountered our new arrival?”
“Yes,” Granville said. “So far he hasn’t complained.”
Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t. In fact, he was probably composing applications right now to the many noblemen who envied Granville his accomplished valet.
“I see,” Phipps said, clearly also unconvinced that the arrival of a dog off the streets would meet with the starchy valet’s approval.
Hobbs would have by now dealt with the mess upstairs, Granville assumed. He’d listen for the sound of the duke going out. That mess upstairs that included…
All the blood drained from his head.
Dear God, Portia’s clothes were still draped over the screen.
Those damned drugging kisses had done for his brain. After all their trouble to conceal Portia’s presence, they’d made an egregious mistake.
Not to mention that Granville hadn’t cleared away the signs that two people had used his apartments. Two sets of wet towels. Two bowls of dirty water.
“I have to go,” he said urgently, already heading for the door. “Thank you both for being so good with Jupiter.”
He took to his heels with the frail hope that Hobbs, the world’s most punctilious valet, hadn’t tidied the ducal chambers, the moment he got the chance.
Scampering across the cobbles behind him told him that Jupiter followed. By the time he pushed the garden gate open, the dog was at his side.
Granville clattered up the steps two at a time. He reached his room and flung open the door. And drew a great breath of relief.
Relief, but also puzzlement.
Nothing had been touched. The crumpled blue dress still draped over the screen. When he checked the dressing room, it was similarly untidy with his discarded clothing and a heap of wet towels. The soapy water hadn’t been removed either.
Hobbs mustn’t have set foot in here since Granville sent him on his way. Perhaps he’d taken advantage of his evening off to go out, but that was unlike him. To Granville’s knowledge, the fellow had no life outside his master’s requirements.
But a man shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
He and Portia had dodged a bullet. Or a serving of spiteful gossip at the very least.
By God, he wasn’t used to all this intrigue. He’d better get smoother at covering his tracks quick smart. Because while a respectable man would decide that he must never again be alone with Portia, the very proper Duke of Granville had other plans. Plans to spend as much time alone with his beautiful neighbor as he could, and be damned to conventional morality.
Chapter 9
Early on a drizzly April morning, riders in Hyde Park were thinly spread. A thick mist emphasized the atmosphere of isolation and mystery.
That suited Portia fine. She was out for a morning canter with Rankin in the hope that she’d run into the Duke of Granville, who always rode in the park before settling down to the hard work of governing his estates and the nation. She told herself that she wanted to find out how Jupiter had fared overnight. But she knew at heart that while she cared about the dog’s welfare, for once her interests were much more selfish.
She wanted to see Granville. She wanted to learn whether he planned more kisses. And if he did, when and where.
Oh, those kisses…
She usually slept like a log. She was a healthy, active woman with a clear conscience. Last night, she’d stared into the darkness for hours. Strange feelings kept her awake and restless. Those extraordinary kisses had turned her whole life upside down. She’d never experienced anything to match them.
The memory of Granville’s lips on hers stirred a pleasurable tightening in the place between her legs. She shifted in the sidesaddle to ease the sensation.
No longer did she marvel at her sisters going dotty when they fell in love. She’d always been puzzled that proper Juliet and shy Viola threw wisdom to the winds when they met the men they’d since married. Although it still left her reeling that the man who sent her demented was that supercilious prude, the Duke of Granville. Who turned out to be the sort of man she’d dreamed of, before she’d matured enough to understand that no husband would allow her to pursue her crusade.
So far, there was no sign of the duke. Could he be having second thoughts about an entanglement with another Frain woman? Yesterday he’d spoken of Juliet without resentment, and Portia believed him when he said that he hadn’t loved her. But his unhappy history with her family remained an obstacle.
