Page 12 of Her Rogue to Ruin
“Do you disapprove?”
“No, not at all.” He loved the prospect. A bit too much.
“Excellent,” his mother said and then released his arm as they approached the morning room door. “I need to speak to Cook about next week’s menu. Why don’t you speak to Lady Hastings first, and I’ll find her before she departs?”
Phin offered his mother a smile before she headed downstairs.
Then his muscles tensed of their own accord. Somehow, the prospect of Portia joining his family made the question he planned to put to her seem even more inappropriate.
Yet he rarely turned back once he’d decided on a course of action, and he promised himself he would ask her today.
* * *
Portia had devised a new strategy.
Lady Pemberton’s morning room also had an east-facing window. Not quite as broad as the one in the viscount’s study, but with sufficient and matching light.
Louisa balked at first, insisting that her brother would not disturb them further if they used his study, but she’d eventually acceded to the new location. Then she’d quickly come to prefer it. Her mother’s space for writing letters and entertaining other lady visitors was appointed with sumptuous furnishings, and Louisa could settle onto cushions that were much more comfortable than in her brother’s study.
Portia was grateful for the girl’s change of heart. She could hardly explain that Phineas Pemberton disturbed her peace of mind even without being in the room. But minimizing the possibility of him bursting in again had seemed like a perfect plan.
And so far, it had worked.
Louisa sat for two hours, chatting in her usually lively manner, and Portia had made good progress. Now she was packing up so that she could prepare for the Granford ball.
“Lady Hastings…”
Portia let go of the paintbrush she’d been storing in her satchel and watched as it plopped soundlessly onto the thick carpet. Every muscle and sinew in her body melted at the sound ofhisvoice.
The man she’d thought she’d be able to avoid.
She swallowed, trying for self-control, and forced her back stiff as she turned to face him.
“Yes, Lord Pemberton?”
Goodness, why was her voice so blasted breathy?
Her cheeks were flushed. That much she could feel. Heat infused her face, her neck, the tips of her ears. So much for not letting the sight of Lord Pemberton affect her anymore.
And, of course, he noticed. With her pale skin and red hair, she tended to go pink from head to toe when agitated. A shade closer to radish red if the feeling persisted for long.
His dark brows dipped inward as if he sensed her unease. Then he pivoted as if he meant to exit the door he’d just entered.
Portia held her breath.
An illogical fear rose up—that he was going to walk away and send her a letter of dismissal on the morrow. Though logic reminded her that she’d given him no reason to do so. Unless behaving like an overheated ninny in his presence was reason enough.
But rather than departing, he closed the door of his study, shutting them inside. Together. Then he faced her again.
“Forgive me,” he said roughly, “but I must speak to you privately if you’ll allow it.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
The very air around her changed when he was near, growing thicker, like the sultry heat of a summer night. Something in her middle felt lighter, and at the same time wildly chaotic, when he looked her way.
But he so rarely looked at her. And he almost never spoke to her. There was rarely a need.
Until three days ago. And now today.
