Page 33 of Her Rogue to Ruin
To her shock, he immediately turned and followed her.
“May we talk before Louisa comes down?” he asked quietly as they walked side by side toward the stairs.
“Yes.” Had she ever said no to the man? Was she even capable of it? “Where?”
“My study,” he whispered when they started down the stairs and a servant passed by in the hallway below.
There should have been no subterfuge in it. She was a commissioned artist visiting her patron’s home to conduct a work session with his sister. He might have invited her into his study to settle her wages. Or to discuss a new commission of the family’s thoroughbreds or house pets.
But when she stepped into the book-lined room and he closed the door behind them, the air grew thick with a sort of electrical frisson between them.
“Is Louisa all right?” he asked, finally breaking the taut silence.
He stood close enough for her to see the flecks of bronze in his eyes, and his gaze roved her face, often flicking down to her mouth.
Portia willed herself not to do the same. If she did, she feared she’d reach for him.
“Yes, I think she is. We didn’t talk for long.” Portia recognized the oddness of those words. She spoke to the girl nearly every day, but it had never been as raw and emotional as the brief conversation today.
“Perhapsyoushould talk to her,” Portia suggested.
“Should I?”
“Yes, I suspect you could help.” Portia swallowed hard. She found she couldn’t leave it at that, though a warning voice inside her urged her to. “Her pending betrothal seems to have her fretting a great deal.”
He flinched as if the subject itself pained him. “I see. I’ll speak to her.”
Portia weighed whether she should say more. Almost certainly not. Not if she wished to protect her commissions with his family. But the topic touched a raw place in her own history. She dipped her head, crossed her arms, and turned away from him.
As always, she was aware of him. He let out a sigh and then took a few steps closer. Portia both wanted him to touch her and feared that he would.
Here, at Pemberton House, she’d vowed to herself to maintain a professional distance from him. What happened between them at her studio was to remain separate. They’d agreed on that much, at least.
“Portia…”
She closed her eyes, relishing the way he said her name with tantalizing warmth in his tone.
Looking ahead, she stared at the books on his shelves. Skimmed titles. Anything to steady her, to keep her from giving in to how much she wanted to kiss Phin again. Here. Now.
A particular volume caught her eye. “Wollstonecraft,” she whispered. Then she whipped around to face him. “Is this your book?”
Phin tipped his head and then reached out—he was standing close enough that his arm brushed Portia’s sleeve—to pull the book off the shelf. He flipped through a few pages and a soft smile lit his face.
“My mother’s,” he said.
“But have you read it?”
“Yes.” His smile widened. “She insisted that I do so.”
“And yet you still think your sister should be forced into an arranged marriage.” The words were out. She couldn’t take them back, though her heart began to thrash against her ribcage.
Portia held her breath as she watched a kaleidoscope of emotions cross his face—shock, then a flash of offense, then what she thought looked a great deal like sadness.
“I do not want that for her.” He swallowed hard. “Or myself.” For a moment, he cast his gaze away from hers, staring at the wall of books. He transformed in that moment, his jaw tightening, shoulders straightening.
“Our father…”
“Sought to manage your futures,” Portia finished quietly. “I do understand that. More than you know.”
