Portia waited, breath suspended, knowing more was to come. Lady Moreton stroked the emerald pendant resting in the hollow of her throat.

“Thank you,” Portia murmured, sliding the counterpane to her waist. She was on the verge of swinging her legs down when the countess’s voice stopped her.

“Of course, I can’t permit you to leave until I deem you fit for travel.” Lady Moreton drew the counterpane back up to her throat and gave Portia’s shoulder a patronizing pat.

“Truly, I am well now,” she insisted.

Lady Moreton held up a hand, cutting off her protests. “Not another word on the matter. When I deem you fit for travel, you may depart and not a moment sooner.”

Nettie laughed behind her hand.

Portia sagged into the bed as if a suffocating weight had been placed over her. The counterpane suddenly felt hot, heavy—a death shroud.

Lady Moreton smiled sweetly, as if she had not just sentenced Portia to prison for an undefined amount of time. “Rest. Recuperate. I’ll send up some broth.”

Broth. Her stomach growled at the mention of food. She could stand a bit more than broth. Roast pheasant with creamed potatoes sounded about right, but Lady Moreton appeared determined to treat her like an invalid.

“Very well,” she relented, already thinking how she might get Nettie to fetch her some real food—and how soon she might arrange to depart without offending Lady Moreton.

The earl’s face emerged in her mind and her chest tightened. It would take a good deal more than this bit of baggage to tempt me. Humiliation burned a fire through her at the memory of his words.

Three days. Three days and not a minute longer, she vowed. Then she would leave. With or without Lady Moreton’s approval, she would leave. And she would put the earl’s hot gaze firmly and forever behind her.

A sudden knock at the door had Portia thrusting her plate of cheese and bread into Nettie’s fumbling hands. She anxiously arranged the counterpane around her as she struggled to swallow her mouthful of cheese. Nettie dropped the plate to the carpet and kicked it under the bed. At Portia’s nod, she opened the door.

A woman walked in pushing a cart laden with books. “Afternoon, my lady. I’m the house keeper, Mrs. Crosby.” Stopping beside the bed, she bobbed a brief curtsey.

Portia rose up on her elbows, her heart accelerating at the haphazard stack of books. The sight of so many, some whose leather spines never looked to have been cracked, filled her stomach with butterflies.

“What have you there?” Nettie asked.

“Lady Moreton selected these books for Lady Portia.”

Portia glanced from the twenty-plus books to Mrs. Crosby, a brow arched suspiciously. “Lady Moreton selected these?” No doubt her grandmother’s letters had related Portia’s fondness for books.

She reached for one, examining the spine. “Voltaire,” she read aloud. Her hand went for another and another. “Austen, Cervantes, Burney, Defoe.” Trying to still her racing heart, she slid her gaze to the house keeper. “Where did all these come from?”

“The library. Perhaps when you feel better you could explore it yourself, my lady. It’s quite a large collection.” Mrs. Crosby made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Oh, but you’ll be leaving, won’t you? Unfortunate.” In that moment Portia knew Lady Moreton had sent the books deliberately.

Portia reassessed the books, trying to suppress her tremor of delight now that she understood them for what they were—a bribe. She pressed her lips into a grim line and crossed her arms over her chest. No amount of books would tempt her to stay. She had her pride. Nothing could keep her here with that brute skulking about the place.

Then she spotted it. Her breath caught in her throat. With a shaking hand, she pulled a thin volume off the top stack. Freshly bound, her fingers skimmed over the smooth leather surface with its shiny embossed lettering. Mr. Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque.

She had heard of Mr. Poe’s unconventional stories.

“Oh, that one came in a few days ago. Lady Constance always sees that the library is kept current.”

“Incredible,” Portia murmured, her estimation of the stern Constance lifting a notch. She would have had to send away to America for this book. And at no small expense. Who knew what other books awaited below stairs? Likely a veritable treasure trove. Her chest constricted. Unfortunate she had to leave.

A deep yearning to investigate the Moreton library hummed through her veins. Such temptation was hard to resist. Unbearable. Her family’s library hadn’t been updated in years.

Her fingers caressed the sleek leather, her mind working furiously, searching for justification in staying. The image of herself immersed in books, exploring tome after tome, filled her head until she grew giddy. What better way to spend the Season than far away from Town and a new crop of Grandmother’s handpicked suitors? She nodded decidedly. Sound justification. What more did she need? Moreton Hall was precisely where her Grandmother wanted her to be. So what if the earl wished her gone? No threat of him liking her. No threat of him proposing. A slow smile spread across her face.

“I think,” she began slowly, “I should like to stay.”

Mrs. Crosby beamed. “Splendid, my lady. I shall inform the countess at once. She will be so thrilled.”

Portia nodded, ignoring the peculiar look Nettie shot her as she slowly opened the book. The spine gave a small creak and goose bumps broke out over her skin as the smell of ink and freshly cut paper assailed her. “Yes, do that, Mrs. Crosby.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

For the first time in an age, Portia felt giddy from anticipation. A good book. Time away from her family. From another disappointing Season.

Even the memory of the earl’s hard visage couldn’t dampen her spirits.

Chapter 7

Portia rotated in a small circle in the center of the library, the Persian carpet plush and yielding beneath her bare feet. She had waited until nightfall before sneaking from her bedroom, until a hushed silence fell over the household.

A visit to the library would have been impossible during the day. Not with everyone still treating her like an invalid, and not with Mrs. Crosby standing guard.

Yet standing at the center of the vast, cathedral-like room, she was glad she had waited. It was a reverent moment, almost spiritual. Standing alone with so many books, she didn’t want to share the experience.

Never in her life had she seen such a collection. The wind howled outside, rattling against a large mullioned window that looked out onto the moon-washed moor. Portia trembled in her thin cotton gown, half from cold, half from anticipation. The fire burned low in the hearth, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the perfume of leather and parchment. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils. Heaven.

She hugged herself and rocked on the balls of her feet. Mrs. Crosby had not exaggerated. The library was huge. Beyond impressive. Her head fell back, taking in the vaulted, forty-foot ceilings. The books extended to Heaven itself.

Excitement brimming in her heart, she started in one direction, then stopped and turned in another, unsure where to begin. Yet begin she would. All libraries were arranged with some kind of system in mind. Portia vowed to learn the design of this one as quickly as possible.

She had come armed with her reading spectacles. A true indicator of her seriousness considering she abhorred the need for them. Ever since the day she had first donned them and her grandmother recoiled as if confronted with Medusa herself. Pushing them up her nose, she started just left of the door, reverently trailing her fingertips over the leather spines.

“What are you doing here?” A deep voice sounded from behind.

Portia whirled around, stifling a scream. Heath watched her from where he lounged on a sofa—a great jungle cat, all long lines and loosely coiled muscle. Strength and danger lurked beneath his seemingly idle air. How had she not seen him when she first entered the library? How had she failed to notice him?

He stared at her from beneath heavy lids, his wicked gaze liquid dark in the fire glow.

Apparently he had watched her from the moment she entered the room—while she gawked and twirled in a circle like a silly child. Her blood burned with mortification.

“I heard you possessed a splendid library.” She clasped her hands together in front of her, hoping he did not notice how her voice quavered. “I came to see for myself.”

His gaze skimmed the cascade of hair over her shoulders, making her wish she had taken the time to pull it back. “You should be abed.”

Wetting her lips, she swallowed and said, “I’ve slept enough of late—”

“You’re ill.” His hard gaze fixed on her face as if he could see beyond flesh and bone to all that she guarded. “You should have more sense than to be up and about. Especially dressed only in your nightgown.”

Heat scalded her cheeks. Slipping her spectacles from her face, Portia lifted her chin and leveled him a reproving glare. “I wish everyone would cease treating me as though I were a piece of crystal to be handled cautiously.”

“You are gravely ill—”

“A mild ague, no more.”

He scrutinized her for a long moment, his gaze intense. She stared back and held her ground, chin up. Finally, he shrugged as if her welfare were of no account. And why should it be?

Her face burned as she recalled the way he had flirted with her. The memory of his hands on her body ignited a writhing lick of heat in her belly. A nameless female passing through might have been fit for dalliance—but not a lady his grandmother hoped him to wed. He wanted nothing to do with her. Perhaps he had when he thought her an anonymous female. But not now. Not that he now knew her identity.

“What are you doing here?” Sitting up, he flung one arm along the back of the sofa and gestured about the room with the other hand. “You don’t belong here.”

“As I said, I wanted to see your library—”

“No. Here. Moreton Hall.”

Pressing her lips together, she debated how forthright to be. He had certainly ended all need for niceties between them when he had ordered her from Moreton Hall with all the finesse of an ogre.

With that burning humiliation in mind, she mocked, “Come now, Lord Moreton. You know why I’m here.”

“To snare a husband,” he rejoined, his voice hard, cutting. “Me.”

“That would be my family’s wish, yes.” Portia drew a deep breath, ready to explain that he need fear no pressure from her on that score. That she was as much a victim as he, that she had no wish to press him for a proposal. She had no interest in marriage, in handing over what precious freedom she had to a husband.

Only he never gave her the chance to explain.

“Save yourself the trouble,” he growled. “I have no intention of marrying. Ever. My grandmother knows this, you understand, she simply can’t accept it.”

Angling her head, she observed him curiously. She never met a gentleman opposed to matrimony. There were heirs to consider, after all. And family alliances to be made. Intrigued, Portia asked, “You don’t want a son? An heir?”

His face hardened, convincing her that she hit a nerve.

“No.” The single word fell like a stone, hard, final. Not to be questioned.

“Why not?”

He scowled and even in the dim light she could see a muscle jump angrily in his jaw. “You haven’t a clue how to hold your tongue, have you?”

She stared, waiting.

Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair and confessed, “I can’t have children.”

Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he bit out, rolling his eyes. “I will not.” Shaking his head, he demanded, “Did your grandmother not explain the Moreton curse before she sent you here?” He sent her a pitying glance, the kind that seemed to say, poor fool.