Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Portia.” Crispin threw an arm wide. “Fifty if he’s a day. I don’t care how much you like his mother. What do you mean by this?”


She freed her hand from his and clasped her hands behind her back. She never had liked dealing with what people meant rather than what they were saying and right now Crispin was not saying what he meant. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. What do I mean by this? What do you mean?”

“I’m not asking you anything.”

“My mistake.” She tapped her toe, and even though on the grass her boot made no noise, her irritation with him was plain enough.

“I’m demanding that you explain why you’re marrying a man old enough to be your father.”

“Sit, Fido,” she murmured. “Good dog.”

He took a step forward. “Don’t make light of this. You don’t love him. Don’t insult me by telling me you do. I know when a woman’s in love.”

“I’m sure you do.” And that came out too hard and too resentful.

“Mrs. Temple is right. You don’t love him.”

She set free her hands to break off another stalk of lavender and tap his chest with it. “You’re a worse bully than her.”

“I’ve not bullied you since you were ten. You wouldn’t stand for that from me.” He flexed his fingers then crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do you love him?”

So much was already broken with her life, she did not wish to have it fracture now by telling him things she did not care to admit to herself. Before Crispin arrived, she had been at peace with her decision to marry, indeed, she had been near to desperate to leave Doyle’s Grange, and the sooner the better. She reached behind her and broke off another stalk of lavender.

“The truth.”

“We’ve discussed this until it’s dead. Exploded.”

When she looked at him again, he frowned at her. “No, we haven’t. We haven’t discussed this at all.”

She stared at the crushed lavender on her palm. “Perhaps I don’t wish to discuss it. There’s nothing can be done.”

“Did what happened at Wordless mean nothing to you? Is that what you’ll have me believe?”

Guilt slid down her spine, but she ignored it. “Don’t tell me what I feel. Or what I ought to do. Or think or decide about anything.” She glared at him. “I am capable of making my own decisions, you know. I think I know what will make me happy.”

He snorted, and that earned him a glare. “I demand an answer.”

His curt words got her back up. “Do you, now?”

Being Crispin, he wasn’t concerned with the sort of manners he used with Eleanor. “I do.”

“What do you expect me to do about that?” In a fit of pique, she curtseyed. “My lord.”

“Stop that. I’ve told you it’s nonsense.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t at all. Stop telling me it is.”

“Portia.” His attention was too much for her just now. That sort of attention. His looking at her the way he had at Wordless. “Please. Do you love him even a little? How am I to bear the thought of you marrying a man you don’t love?”

She whirled away from him and the lavender, and walked away from the tree that was her permanent farewell to Doyle’s Grange. He followed. Of course he followed. He never knew when to let well enough alone. She let out a breath. “I am weary of all this interference in my life. Yours and Eleanor’s. If it continues any longer, I swear to you, I will marry Jeremy tomorrow and you and Eleanor can go to the devil.”

“I’m not going anywhere with that woman. Besides, you can’t. The banns haven’t been read.”

She snorted. “Scotland’s not far.”

His eyes pierced her, and she was sorry she looked because she couldn’t forget the feel of him, the rightness of having her arms around him and her heart beating in her chest. He said, “You’re too young to be marrying.”

She stopped walking and stared at him, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Laughter bubbled up and for her very life she could not keep it back. He was so ridiculously earnest. She managed to draw in a breath and suppress her mirth long enough to speak. “You ought to be mocked for uttering such an absurdity. Too young? Good heavens, you can’t be serious. I’m twenty-seven. Better if you agree with Magnus and remind me at every turn that I am on the verge of too old to be marrying.”

“You’re not too old.” He yanked his hands free of his pockets and gesticulated.

“You shan’t find an answer in the air. Nor change my mind, either, not with all the bluster in the world.”

“Bluster. I’m not blustering at you. And that isn’t what I meant at all. You’re too young to be marrying that man.”

She folded her arms underneath her bosom and gazed at him, tapping one foot on the ground. He stared at her bosom. She looked too, brushing at her bodice. “Have I got something on me?”

He lowered his voice. “Come away with me again. To Wordless. Right now.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She pointed at the house. “Because the man I mean to marry is inside.”