Page 40 of Her Rogue to Ruin
“All right,” she said, her voice husky with the same desire she stoked in him. She tipped the sketchbook toward him. “You may have a look.”
Phin didn’t release her hand. Barring Louisa waking up, he didn’t intend to until they arrived at Seastow.
But she’d laid the sketchbook on her lap, and he found a vision of himself staring back at him.
At first, he frowned. He looked rumpled—his hair disheveled, his clothing creased. Not at all the polished gentleman he liked to think of himself as. The saving grace was that she had him smiling. A subtle curve of his mouth, the kind of smile that had likely emerged as he’d watched her work. Enough for her to add the dimple in his cheek that his father said made him look foolish.
His eyes were the most finished aspect of the sketch. The glint of light on his pupil, an intense, direct gaze in which she’d somehow managed to capture both the worry he carried and all of the yearning he felt when he looked at her.
“You’re displeased?” she said, then captured her bottom lip between her teeth.
“It’s extraordinary,” he told her with utter sincerity. “You see me.”
“I do,” she told him in a soft, earnest tone, “and I quite like what I see.”
She saw him with an honesty he rarely even allowed when he looked at himself in a mirror. It both thrilled and terrified him that it only made him want to show her more of himself. Not just stripped bare for an erotic painting, but he wanted to reveal himself in ways he never had with anyone else.
But would she still like what she saw then?
CHAPTER9
Portia had readiedherself for the possibility that Phin’s betrothed would be at the family’s Sussex estate when they arrived. She wasn’t, but a small army of servants were assembled in front of the sprawling country estate.
“Welcome to Seastow Hall,” Louisa said brightly, then hooked her arm through Portia’s, pulling her toward the front door.
“It’s beautiful.” Portia would have preferred to stop and sketch her first impression of the lovely house. She could almost sense its history. The house she’d lived in with Winston had always felt cold and imposing, no matter how she’d attempted to make it feel welcoming.
Seastow had an inviting air about it and a long conservatory on the far end of its facade that she could already see was teeming with greenery.
Louisa parted from her as they entered a foyer, and a housemaid led Portia to a guest room that felt more like a suite with its large canopy bed and sumptuous seating area near a marble fireplace.
Phin had been drawn away by his mother nearly the moment they were through the front door, and she told herself not to put too much thought or hope into how often they might see each other or be alone during her time in Sussex. His main role was to serve as host of a fortnight-long house party. Her purpose in coming was to continue her commissions for the family.
The eldest Pemberton daughter, Caro, would be in attendance with her husband, and another daughter, who was currently away at finishing school, would be arriving soon too.
After a maid assisted her to sort out the clothing she’d brought, Portia grew restless. She’d become used to be being busy, having some task or commission to accomplish, no matter the time of day.
She decided to make her way to the conservatory and do some flower studies. Next to animals and people, she loved painting flowers most. But she hadn’t finished collecting her brushes, portable watercolor paint box, and paper when three quick raps sounded at her chamber door.
As soon as she pulled the door open, Phin swept in, closed the door behind him, and threw the lock.
“That carriage ride was maddening.” He was breathless, color infused his cheeks, and he looked at her if she were a feast and he was a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“I agree. Trains are much faster.”
He laughed at that, a hearty, full-throated sound that melted all the hesitation and resistance inside her.
Then he reached out his hand. No words. No voiced question, though she could see what he was asking in his gaze.
Portia went into his arms, and he pulled her tight against him. Then he spun, positioning her against the locked door. His mouth came down on hers with hungry urgency, and she opened to him, letting all her own longing spur her She wrapped an arm around his back, feeling the bunching and shifting of his muscles, holding on to steady herself and yet pulling him closer too.
When he reached down to gather the fabric of her skirt, her hips bucked against his in eagerness.
“I love your passion,” he told her as he reached below her petticoat and found the bare stretch of thigh above her stockings. He drew his fingers along her skin, and the most delicious shivers rippled through her.
“Touch me,” she urged. And he knew without saying more what she wanted. Needed.
He found the opening in her drawers and then slid his fingers through her curls, where she was wet and heated and aching for just this. For him, and for this moment that she’d given herself to in fantasy but longed for in truth.
