Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

WITH FINGERS CLUMSY FROM the cold, Portia worked at the buttons of Crispin’s greatcoat, so heavy on her shoulders. She didn’t dare meet Eleanor’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to see that wide-eyed hurt again. She wasn’t Eleanor’s equal, not fit to be in the same room as her.

This time, she’d betrayed more than Crispin and her brother’s trust. She’d hurt Eleanor, who did not deserve that, and she’d betrayed Jeremy, the man she was supposed to marry. Again. She wanted to weep with the horror of how badly she’d failed.

Hob appeared at the top of the servant’s staircase. He came to a full stop, eyes wide when he saw the condition the two of them were in. Both of them soaked to the skin, her in Crispin’s hat and greatcoat, muddy shoes, and water dripping everywhere.

“Hob,” Eleanor said in a light voice. God, what a brilliant performance. You’d never guess now, that her sister-in-law thought there was anything the least untoward about this. “Do help Lord Northword with his wet coat.”

Hob bowed and said, as he went to Crispin, “I was about to walk out to find thee, Miss.”

“As well you didn’t. You’d have got drenched, too.” She meant to match Eleanor’s aplomb and failed miserably at that, too. A shiver cut short her attempt to wipe water out of her face. She’d hardly minded her wet clothes and hair before, but now she was miserable inside and out. She managed to get the greatcoat unbuttoned and off her shoulders. Hob took it from her without a word.

“What on earth possessed you to go outside in weather such as this?” Eleanor’s smile was sweet, so sweet.

It was on the tip of her tongue to confess everything. Every horrible impulse, every awful, unworthy thought, and beg for forgiveness. She ought to confess all the ways in which she’d traded a few moments of bliss for her very soul, but Crispin plucked his hat off her head and dropped it on the table by the door and her words went unspoken. “Before you take my coat, Hob, see to sending a maid to help Miss Temple out of her wet things, won’t you?”

“Yes, milord.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Eleanor gave a clear, silvery laugh, but Portia knew she’d forever tainted relations with her sister-in-law, and very likely Magnus, too. Eleanor smoothly transferred her attention from Hob to Crispin. “Do take his coat. Lord Northword will catch an ague if he leaves it on.”

Crispin lifted a hand. “Well, now, Hob, I can hardly remove my coat in front of ladies, can I? I’ll not be so indelicate.” On the table, a damp ring formed around the brim of the hat, slowly spreading outward. “I’ll need my valet directly, if you’ll see to that as well.”

“Aye, milord.”

Portia could not summon Crispin’s cheer nor Eleanor’s sweetness. Every glance, every word flayed her to the bone. Eleanor might as well have been there at the stable block, watching Portia fall into sin.

“You were gone so long Magnus was worried.” Eleanor picked up Crispin’s hat and handed it to Hob. He accepted it with a bow and headed for the stairs.

“We were caught in the rain,” Crispin said easily.

“Quite a downpour. We were worried.”

“Did you not hear or see how it came down, Mrs. Temple?” He turned part way to her so that half his back faced Portia. He spoke so gently. “Forgive me that, ma’am. I know how intensely you feel everything.”

She set her fingertips over her heart. “I do, my lord.”

“I know I would have worried had I been in your place and my sister-in-law had gone out in such weather.”

“Yes, my lord. Precisely.”

“There was nothing we could do but take refuge where we could.”

“Which was?”

He spread his hands. Water dripped from his sleeves onto the floor. “As you can well imagine, no place very dry. There was a tree. Not a very big one, I’m afraid. Not so far from the creek at the back of your property.”

“A tree.”

“Yes. A tree.”

It didn’t matter what Crispin said, or what excuses he made, or how convincing he was for any of it, Portia knew every word was a lie. Eleanor’s expression remained calm and pleasant, but dread curled in the pit of her stomach. That smile lay so heavy on them, around them, between them, that she could not react in any way.

“Thank you, Lord Northword, for going after her.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Temple.”

“My dear Lord Northword. You ought to change into some dry clothes.” Portia felt horrible. Eleanor was a woman incapable of malice and accustomed to thinking the best of everyone, and here they were, deceiving her. “You’ll take a chill if you don’t.”

Crispin set a hand on the back of Portia’s shoulder, no longer the man who’d kissed her senseless. Not the man who’d made love to her in a way that obliterated the life she’d built without him. He’d retreated behind a pleasant facade, and she was unbearably aroused by him. “You as well, Portia.”

She nodded, but Eleanor detained her with a hand to Portia’s arm. Crispin bowed to them and headed for the stairs.

“You’ve no idea how worried Magnus was for you,” Eleanor said.