Portia spun about on the arm of Lord Epping. She forced a laugh at his raucous tale of another escapade conducted by the Merry Friars, though beneath it she couldn’t help but recognize the irrelevance of the young lords’ activities. There was no meaning behind the Friars’ exploits. No purpose or greater intention beyond momentary diversion.
The group of young men, whom she counted as friends, lived a life so far removed from Dell’s it was truly laughable.
Bloody hell, just thinking of him made her body heat with an unnatural flush. And it wasn’t all good. Her lingering fury over his refusal to allow her assistance in his work mingled with a physical yearning that simply wouldn’t go away.
It was a good thing he was gone from town for a few days. Portia needed that time to sort out her feelings. She had thought she knew exactly what she wanted: the opportunity to work with Nightshade—as assistant, apprentice, it mattered not as long as she could be with him.
And that was the crux of the issue and what had her so blasted twisted up inside. It was the work, yes. But it was also Dell.
Although it had angered her to hear him belittle her contribution and deny her capabilities, what wounded far worse was the idea that his refusal might be based on more personal reasons—or rather, a lack of the personal connection she had hoped was developing between them.
Portia silently cursed the situation. She had never been very good at introspection, and right now she truly needed some insight into her own mind. And heart.
Carefully concealing any evidence of her inner anxiety, she smiled at Lord Epping as their dance ended and he brought her back to Emma’s side. He gave a jaunty bow before striding back to his friends where they gathered near the entrance to the ballroom, likely masterminding their next prank and readying themselves for a hasty retreat.
There had been a time not long ago when Portia had envied the lords their fun, knowing that as a young lady she would never have the freedom to join them. That was before Dell, before she had discovered something far more worthy of her time and attention.
She would never forget the rush of satisfaction she had experienced when she’d discovered those children and knew she would do anything to ensure their safety and freedom. Of course, the tussle with Bricken hadn’t left her mind either. But with proper training, she had no doubt she’d be able to handle any similar encounter with poise and confidence.
But how to convince Dell of that? He may think the matter finished, but she was not ready to give up just yet.
Perhaps she would ask Hale to train her. The idea had merit.
Before she could explore the idea further, she caught sight of Fallbrook skulking not far away, watching her with a menacing expression. She stared back at him, refusing to be cowed by the flash of anger in his eyes. And as the distaste deepened across his handsome features, Portia lifted a brow and smiled. Mostly because she knew it would annoy him more than anything else.
His lips moved as he muttered something beneath his breath before he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Taunting the man was probably not the smartest thing to do, but Portia couldn’t help it. She would have to continue keeping an eye on the cad, and if he tried anything else with her or either of her sisters…well, Portia had taken to wearing Dell’s slim knife as part of her daily accoutrements.
“You are frightening off potential dance partners with that scowl, dear sister.”
The statement drew Portia rather forcefully out of her head. She hadn’t even noticed Lily stepping up beside her. Her sister’s smile was almost cheeky. It had been ages since she’d seen such mischief in her sister’s expression.
What was this?
“It is a very precise strategy,” Portia replied with an answering grin. “Though I do not suppose you would wish to employ it.”
Lily shrugged gently, and her gaze slid to the side. “It is true. I happen to enjoy society. Many people do, you know. You do not always have to be so determined to resist contentment.”
Portia narrowed her focus on Lily. “Tell me, then, what among all this fluff and nonsense manages to bring you joy, Sister?”
Portia may have missed her sister’s flickering glance to the far right of the ballroom if she hadn’t been watching intently for just such a telltale sign. She followed that glance to a group of lords, resplendent in their finery. The gentlemen, all of the highest social echelon, stood in quiet, dignified conversation. Portia noted a duke, no less than three earls, and a marquess among them.
Bloody hell. Was Lily’s lover a member of that distinguished assemblage?
She slid a pointed gaze back to her sister, who had already moved her attention out toward the masses shifting through the crowded room.
“It is not all nonsense, Portia.” Lily’s tone softened, and she continued thoughtfully. “Deeper meaning does exist behind the veil if you are willing to seek it. If you have patience.”
“And an endless supply of hope,” Portia added intuitively.
Lily smiled, and her gaze gravitated once more toward the group of noble lords.
This time, Portia noted that one of the group—an intensely elegant, dark-eyed gentleman with a fierce and glowering expression—was staring back. His hard glare fell on her sister for only a moment, but oh, what a moment!
Portia expected the spot where Lily stood to ignite with the force of heat in that stare.
Lily clearly felt it as well. Her cheeks had turned a flushed pink, and her lips had parted on a swift inhale as she lowered her gaze to her hands.
Apparently, her gloves needed some serious adjusting just then.
Portia held back her amusement. But only just barely.
“Hope is a powerful incentive,” Lily replied after a minute.
“Indeed,” Portia noted in agreement.
She hoped, for Lily’s sake, that her sister’s affections were not misplaced. Though if she were any judge at all of what she had just observed, there was something very significant going on between Lily and her secret lover.
And, of course, thoughts of lovers led her back to thoughts of Dell.
How on earth was she going to convince the stubborn man to give her a chance?
That was the question that followed her for the next few days as she waited to hear word of Dell’s return to London.
The longer she waited, the more foolish she felt for believing he would send for her.
Finally, she could wait no longer. Late one night, she remained in her bedroom until the house was quiet, which meant waiting until Lily had also slipped out through the gardens to the carriage waiting in the lane beyond.
Portia sat by the window of her darkened room, watching as her quiet, modest, dutiful sister dashed through the night to meet her lover.
She couldn’t help but give a little snorting laugh. Emma would be shocked to her toes to know what her little sisters were up to these days.
Enveloped in her full-length cloak, Portia crept down to the street and hailed a hack. As she tipped her head back to give the driver the address, she was stunned to see a familiar face. The very same man with the bushy beard and floppy felt hat who had driven her the day she had followed Turner to Hale’s.
“Well, hello,” she exclaimed with a smile. “What perfect luck.”
“’Ello, miss. Up to some trouble again, are you?”
“Just a little,” she answered pertly.
The round-faced man gave an indulgent nod. “Right then, in you go.”
The drive to Honeycutt’s went quickly, though not quite fast enough to outpace her growing anxiety.
She was being ridiculous. There was no reason to think anything was amiss simply because she hadn’t heard from Dell. His return must have been delayed. Surely, if he were back in London, he would have sent word to her. Despite their argument, he must know she expected some sort of communication from him.
Still, as the hack approached the familiar address, something about the location was glaringly different.
The streetlamp outside was no longer broken. It lit up the block in a way that seemed eerily inappropriate.
With a stab of trepidation, Portia asked her driver to wait as she walked up to the front door and knocked. She wasn’t sure why she knocked instead of entering boldly as she had in the past, but she was grateful she had as the door was opened by a sleepy young maid.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Portia stared, then stuttered, “I…I am here to see Mr. Honeycutt.”
The maid shook her head as she glanced down the street cautiously. “Ain’t no Honeycutt here. The home is newly let to Mr. and Mrs. Frye.”
“I see,” Portia replied, and she was afraid she did see. All too clearly.
She did not doubt the maid. Did not feel in her bones this was another aspect of Dell’s disguise and deception as Nightshade. He hadn’t been out of town at all in the last days. He had been executing this little escape.
And now he was gone. Well and truly gone.
Her steps were heavy as she returned to the hack. A fire burned in her stomach. Anger. Injured pride. And the creeping uncertainty of a kind of heartache she tried forcefully to ignore.
It was the heartache that ignited her temper and spurred her to action.
The cad thought he could be rid of her so easily, did he?
She looked up at the driver and gave a quick instruction before climbing back into the carriage.
It took only another half hour of circling the lanes and parks of the nearby neighborhood to find whom she sought. He sauntered down the street with a sack slung over one shoulder and a red cap on his tousled head.
Portia brought the carriage to a halt and boldly called out.
As soon as Thomas saw her, his face split with a wide grin, and he came jogging quickly to her side.
“’Ello, lovely.”
Portia smiled. “Hello, Thomas. How have you been faring lately?”
He shrugged and sent a sweeping glance about the square. “Well enough, I s’pose.”
“I see you are still under a certain character’s employ,” she said, giving a pointed look at his red cap.
“Aye,” he replied as his gaze narrowed. “Are ye having some more trouble?”
“No,” she quickly assured, warmed by his concern, “but I do need to speak with him. Where is his new location?”
Thomas shook his head and glanced down at his feet before he looked back up to meet her gaze with obvious regret. “You know I’m not s’pose to be telling anyone that.”
“I do, and I’m sorry to put you in this position, but I really must see him. It is important”—she paused and decided to be honest with the boy—“to me personally.”
Thomas gave a fierce little frown. “Damn me,” he muttered under his breath. Then a second later, his dirt-streaked face lifted in a half smile that was frightfully knowing for such a young boy. “I be guessin’ this means I’ve lost me chance with ya?”
Portia laughed. “I am afraid so. But I will still give you a kiss for your trouble.”
“I’ll take it.” He swept his hat off his head, and Portia leaned forward to press her lips to his cheek as she had done once before.
The boy stepped back again. “Yer a prize, you are,” he said with a grin as he smashed his hat back down on his head. “I may lose me hide fer this, but damn if it ain’t worth it.”
“I am infinitely grateful, Thomas. And if you are ever in need of anything with which I have means to assist, I hope you will come to me.”
The boy shrugged off her offer with a prideful lift of his chin. “I do all right, miss. Don’t worry ’bout me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Portia was outside Nightshade’s new headquarters, a modest-size brownstone not far from St. James’s Park. It was certainly a step up as far as neighborhoods went from Honeycutt’s modest abode.
She wasn’t sure yet what she was going to say to Dell about his essentially disappearing on her. She was furious but intended to at least give him a chance to explain before she told him what she thought of such a dastardly move.
The building was deceptively quiet, looking empty and unlived-in.
Portia was not fooled. She walked boldly to the front door and gave a pert knock.
Only a moment went by before the door swung open on a well-oiled hinge to reveal Morley’s expected image. The small man did not give any indication of surprise at seeing Portia there, just executed an acknowledging lift of his chin before turning to melt into the shadows at the back of the hall.
Portia stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The place was dimly lit and significantly larger than Honeycutt’s prior residence. Portia wondered how Dell had come by such a place and at such short notice.
She glanced around. Where would he be at this time of night?
She started up the stairs on silent feet. Part of her was dreading an encounter. Another part of her knew she had to see him, watch him as he said the words she suspected he would say.
Portia knew herself well enough to know her heart would trust nothing but the bold truth. And she had no intention of pining away, never having had the courage to face the man and demand an explanation for his behavior.
Light spilled from an open door on the second floor. Portia stopped in the doorway before entering the room.
Dell lounged in an overstuffed armchair, slumped back in the corner with a leg dangling over one chair arm and a book open in his large hands. He was intent upon what he was reading and did not immediately notice her arrival. His chocolate-and-caramel-colored hair was tousled and fell in careless waves over his slightly furrowed brow. A couple of days’ growth of beard darkened his face, and as she watched, with her stomach twisting and her heart beating so loudly it was all she heard, he lifted his hand and ran his knuckles along the edge of his jaw.
Then, with a slight flick of his gaze, he looked up and saw her standing there. His expression didn’t change. Not to show surprise or regret or joy at the sight of her.
The only acknowledgment was a subtle darkening of the gold in his eyes.
Portia’s heart gave a frightful lurch as she felt an inexplicable urge to hit him. Or kiss him. She wasn’t exactly sure which. Perhaps both.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was low, and Portia detected a slight gravelly edge in the very masculine tone.
Annoyance, most likely.
She had always been an irritant to him. Was that why he had left?
Strolling forward—impudently—with her chin high and her gaze sharp, Portia looked pointedly at the book. “Another job for Nightshade?”
Dell closed the small volume—a journal—and tipped his chin back to look up at her. He was not the slightest bit intimidated by her stance or the hard tone of her voice.
“Why are you here?”
His cool impatience injured her more than anything else could have. Was she so easily dismissed? She couldn’t believe it. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to accept it.
She gave him a look of disappointment mixed with exaggerated disbelief.
“Come now, Turner, you know why I am here.” She swept her cloak back over her shoulders. Her hurt sparked fear, and that gave swift rise to her temper. Crossing her arms tight beneath her breasts, she pinned him with a narrow-eyed stare. “Did you think you could just slink away, like a thief in the night? Did you think I could not find you? Or that I wouldn’t look?”
He quirked a brow but didn’t answer.
Portia sighed, feeling suddenly weighed down by everything she was feeling. She did not like this sense of uncertainty, this feeling of rejection. But there it was, heavy and dark inside her.
Why was she here?
She met Dell’s shadowed gaze and felt it down to her toes despite the distance he had forced between them. She saw the tension in his jaw, the deceptively relaxed sprawl of his lean, muscled body, the way he held the small book in his hands as though protecting it from her.
He didn’t trust her.
And that hurt.
Portia took a deep breath. She straightened her spine and set her hands firmly on her hips. “Tell me the truth, Dell.”
His frown darkened, and he shifted in his chair, setting both feet firmly on the ground. He appeared to be squaring off for battle.
But Portia also knew how to fight. In a way, she had been fighting all her life.
She tipped her head and smiled. There was no warmth in the smile, just a tight widening of her lips. “You have claimed more than once that my involvement with you, with Nightshade and his work, was just a lark, a temporary diversion to distract me from my boredom. Is that all I was to you, then?”
Her question inspired no reaction at all. Nothing, save a minute deepening in the crease of his brow. For some reason, that infinitesimal physical response made Portia’s stomach flutter, and something—Lily’s damnable hope—sparked in her heart.
With a gruff sound, Dell rose to his feet. He looked so strong and masculine. So confident and…cold.
The delicate light flickered inside her.
Dell took a step toward her—just one—and she nearly crumpled at his feet. The overpowering yearning to be taken up in his arms was disconcerting. Was she so weak, then?
But she didn’t fall. She held her ground and held his gaze, as dark as it had become.
“What would you have me say, love?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “We’ve both had our fun. Now it is over. I have work to do, and you have”—he gave a dismissive wave of his hand—“your silks and suitors and soirées to attend to.”
Her hands fisted. “You know I detest such trappings.”
“It is your life. Go back to being a lady.”
Portia wanted to scream her frustration, her disbelief, her personal conflict. But she would not give Turner an opportunity to belittle her any further. He thought her naive and pampered. Useless.
“I never was much of a lady to begin with,” she scoffed. “And it seems I will have to leave out suitors going forward,” she noted with a humorless smirk. “You took care of that one for me.”
“With your eager cooperation, sweetheart.”
She narrowed her gaze at his irreverent quip.
As she stared at him, she noticed the racing pulse in the side of his throat. She noted the fine sheen of sweat at his temples, though the room was not overly warm. She realized just how deliberate his casual behavior and cool demeanor appeared once she managed to shift her perception past her personal emotion to look closely enough.
Interesting.
* * *
Dell wanted to kick himself in the arse. Perhaps he’d have to visit Hale and go a few rounds with the prizefighter. Maybe then he’d feel properly punished for this.
Despite how fiercely she tried to hide it, he could see the hurt he had caused by his callous words and what could be seen as nothing less than betrayal. Her injured pride was obvious enough, but it was what lay beneath her fierce outward attitude that worried him most. That brief shadow of uncertainty that had crossed her flintlike gaze before she shoved it aside.
His gut twisted as he waited for her to fly into a temper. Instead, she did something he hadn’t expected but was suddenly desperate to avoid.
She stepped toward him.
Her potent stare shifted into a sliding assessment as it traveled down the length of his form. His blood boiled hot and fierce beneath her searing gaze. His muscles tightened, and his chest nearly closed against new breath.
Portia’s sensuality, as she turned it on him in full force, was a humbling thing. She held nothing back. Her honesty, desire, and anger were there for him to read in every splendid little detail of her face and every subtle movement of her body.
“Is this how it ends, then?” she asked, her voice low and deep, like raw silk.
It was all he could do to present himself as unaffected by her nearness. Every bit of his concentration was directed toward keeping his expression entirely neutral, bored even, as she tipped her head back.
He knew what she was about. He steeled himself to deny her, to reject this last bit of defiance on her part. Dell looked down into her gorgeous face, his heart racing wildly as he replied in a slow drawl, “It is already over.”
A flash of heat and fire in her gaze.
She took another step, coming to within a few inches of him. Just as she shifted in preparation to reach for him—at the exact moment when he needed to push her away—he grasped her to him instead. Wrapping his hands around her upper arms, he crushed her to his chest and swooped down to claim her mouth.
The kiss was an instant fiery mating. Passion, anger, regret, and a delicate sort of longing fueled the moment. Their tongues danced, teeth scraped, lips bruised. And then, as a deep and luscious moan slid from her throat, Dell forcefully shoved her away. Perhaps with more strength than was required, though he worried if even the strongest power in nature would be enough to enforce a proper distance.
Though a deep-seated craving ran hot through every avenue of his body, Dell managed a cool tone as he asked, “Now, have you gotten what you wanted?”
Her mouth was beautifully reddened from his kiss, and her lips were still parted to claim rapid breaths. The silver fire in her gaze shot through him, flashing with fury and pain before she tempered its heat, refining it into a sharp, cold weapon.
“Indeed, I have,” she replied icily as she stepped back. “You are a coward, Dell Turner.”
He was far worse than that.
She drew the hood of her cloak up over her sable tresses, then without another word or even a fleeting glance, she turned and left him.