Page 79 of The Duke Says I Do
Which made it difficult to appear unmoved as she dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He took her hand and bowed over it. It was even harder to hide her immediate physical reaction to his touch. A wave of sensual memories assailed her, turning her knees to water.
The orchestra played the waltz’s opening. Her hand tightened around his, and she dared to meet his eyes. He appeared wary, not like her insatiable lover at all. But the hand at her waist was possessive, and she was close enough to hear his shuddering exhalation at the contact.
The dance floor was crowded and offered no real privacy. But something jagged and restless inside Portia settled, now they were together.
“I thought my time would never come.” Despite its quietness, his tone conveyed a fierce longing that had her stomach performing a dizzying swoop. “What do you mean by dancing with all these other buffleheads instead of me?”
Her hand moved in a surreptitious caress on his shoulder. Those aristocratic nostrils flared as if he drew in her scent.
“Those buffleheads are your friends,” she protested on a splutter of laughter. Mostly because she was so happy to be in his arms again. She’d been in emotional tatters since she left him.
She didn’t want to think about what that meant for her future. Because amidst all the joy and passion and intrigue, one thing remained clear. This was an affair, not a lifetime commitment. At some unspecified time, Granville would choose a wife, a perfect duchess, the kind of woman Portia could never be. And Portia would be left bereft and brokenhearted.
The familiar twitch of his lips. “Not anymore.”
“Heaven help your political career.” Like him, she kept her voice to a murmur.
“To buggery with my political career. I want you to myself.”
For a blazing moment, she stared into his eyes. She realized that while he might joke about his frustrations, he was deadly serious. His urgency made her heart race with forbidden excitement.
Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “When can we go away again?”
“That’s up to you.”
“It will look strange if it’s too soon,” she said with a pang of regret. Right now, she was ready to consign society and its notions of propriety to Hades.
“Then meet me in the square after the ball.”
“Alaric…”
He whirled her in a reckless turn, but she was already off-kilter with desire. “I have to kiss you.”
“Not here,” she managed to force out, struggling to look as though she despised the Duke of Granville.
“Damn it, I know.” He sounded like he suffered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. “People will talk.”
His grip on her waist firmed, even as he tried to adopt the blank expression that he always wore dancing with her. He wasn’t very successful. She suspected that she made a similar dog’s breakfast of hiding her turbulent emotions.
“This is…more difficult than I thought it would be.”
“Yes.” Desolation weighted the word. Because Portia didn’t just mean avoiding the gossips’ notice. She meant needing to behave as if she didn’t love this man more with every breath.
Before she’d gone to Alaric’s bed, the act had been onerous enough. Now after he’d buried himself deep inside her, it was nigh impossible to treat him like a mere acquaintance.
Even worse, she must act as if the duke meant nothing to her for as long as she lived. They moved in the same social circles. Unless she emigrated to France or America or far Cathay, they were fated to encounter each other every season. The idea of the torture ahead left her feeling like she was poised at the mouth of hell.
“Can I take you out onto the terrace?” His voice was stiff with the effort of concealing his feelings.
“People will notice.”
“I’m devilish sick ofpeople.”He spat out the last word like a curse. Right now, Portia could only agree.
She chanced a quick glance into his eyes, then wished she hadn’t. He looked like he wanted to eat her up with a spoon. The humbling truth was that she was more than willing to be devoured.
