Tall, Dark and Disreputable. Deb Marlowe

You must excuse me, but with no personal acquaintance of you, sir, I counselled her to proceed cautiously. I thought you might naturally have wondered if Portia had any prior knowledge of or design in your father’s actions.’

      ‘Naturally,’ he echoed weakly.

      She pierced him with her stare. ‘But Portia stood staunch in your defence and has claimed all these weeks that you knew her better than to suppose so.’ Her expression darkened. ‘I hope you will deserve her faith in you, sir.’

      As a warning, it was most effective. Mateo fought back another surge of guilt and tried instead to focus on just what all this might mean: for him and for Cardea Shipping. ‘I hope I will, too,’ he said. He held out his arm once more. ‘Shall we go back and find out?’

      Portia changed quickly to dry stockings and her prettiest day gown of palest yellow, the one that Dorrie said made the most of the dreaded sun-kissed streaks in her hair. On the verge of leaving her room again, she gasped. Her hair! She’d nearly forgotten. Bending over to peer in the mirror, she moaned at the liberal coating of rock dust.

      Well, she was not going to ring for her maid and wait an eternity to be re-coiffed. Instead, she took up a brush herself and stroked until her arm was tired and her plain brown locks were clean and shining. A quick high knot, a tuck of the wayward strands that would soon be working free in any case, and she was off, tripping down the stairs and rounding the turn at the bottom towards the back of the house.

      Vickers stood outside the dining room, giving lowvoiced instructions to a footman. Portia nodded and, trying not to give the appearance of hurrying, she headed straight for the morning room, where double doors led out to the veranda. They stood open, bathing the room in sunshine and warmth. Despite her urgency, she could not resist pausing on the threshold.

      Here. This exact spot—her favourite. Her eyes closed. She loved to stand here, poised at the juncture of inside and out, balancing on the common point between untamed nature and domesticity. Beeswax and baking bread scented the air behind her, the earthy smell of the sun-soaked lawn in front. In between. Neither here nor there. The perfect metaphor for Portia Tofton.

      Voices sounded ahead. Her eyes snapped open and she crossed to the stone balustrade. There. They had reached the ha-ha; Mateo was assisting Dorrie over the stile at the far end of the lawn. Portia watched closely as they approached. Could she do it? Could she make him understand what all of this meant to her?

      Carefully, she tried to gauge Mateo’s mood. Certainly he appeared relaxed as he talked easily with Dorinda. Portia stared, transfixed as the breeze tossed his curls and he laughed out loud. Their words were indistinct, lost in the crunch of gravel underneath their feet as they crossed the path, but as they approached her spot on the edge of the veranda, his tousled head rose. He looked up and met Portia’s gaze.

      They grew closer, and he continued in his steady regard, until gradually it turned into a slow survey, down the length of her and back up. Something shifted inside of her, a thrill of awakening excitement, long gone but not forgotten. She gripped the balustrade beside her.

      ‘Portia,’ he said gravely as they reached her, ‘I was just telling Miss Tofton how impressed I am with your gardens.’

      Dorrie smiled. ‘And I was just about to tell Mr Cardea how much more impressed with Stenbrooke he would be, had he seen it before all of your hard work.’

      Mateo’s brow furrowed. Portia could see his mind working, remembering. ‘It was not in good shape, then?’ he asked, but he said it as if he already knew the answer.

      Portia merely shook her head.

      ‘You know,’ he mused, ‘at first, as I rode in, I could only think of harried crews of seamen struggling to keep your more exotic specimens alive to make it in to port.’ He smiled. ‘But I also thought to myself that one of the great landscapers must have had a hand in all of this.’

      ‘Yes,’ Dorinda said firmly. ‘She did.’

      ‘Oh, don’t tease him, Dorrie.’Portia smiled and lifted her brows at the pair of them. She wanted Mateo at his ease for this interview. ‘Thank you for giving me a moment to repair myself.’

      His gaze travelled once more over the square neckline of her gown. ‘It was my pleasure.’

      Her pulse jumped. ‘Come,’ she said. She gestured to the elegant table and comfortably padded chairs set up in the shade. ‘Please, join us for some refreshments. This is one of our loveliest spots.’

      ‘Thank you.’ After he had seated them, he took his own chair and cast a smile at Dorinda. ‘When you mentioned the state of the place, I suddenly recalled the time when Portia’s aunt passed on and we all discovered that she would inherit this estate. It wasn’t until just now that I remembered that it was supposed to be a run-down old spot. Her brothers teased her unmercifully.’

      He turned his gaze to Portia and she noticed tiny lines at the corner of his dark eyes. ‘Brothers do tend to believe in the right to cruelty towards their siblings, no? And in Portia’s case, I believe they regarded it as a sacred duty. Especially when they heard the estate was to come to her on her marriage. They spent hours speculating how decrepit this place would become before Portia found someone to marry her.’

      Dorrie choked back a laugh. ‘Well, marry she did, and a good thing it was for me too,’ she said staunchly. ‘I’ve hardly been as comfortable and happy in my life as I have since Portia graciously took me in.’

      Portia returned her fond smile, but Dorrie continued. ‘And despite their meanness, her brothers were not that far off the mark. Of course, I was just a visitor then, but the house and grounds were both in a terrible condition when Portia and James Talbot moved in.’

      Perhaps Portia should not be watching Mateo so closely. Tension throbbed through her until she thought he must be able to sense it. But if she had not been paying such close attention, she might have missed it. There. Just the smallest wince at the corners of Mateo’s eyes. Not a smile line, either; it showed up at the mention of J.T.’s name. She had the fleeting thought that it resembled pain—or perhaps she only thought so because of the stabbing clench of her stomach that occurred for the same reason.

      He hid it well, by turning his gaze about him. Despite her anxiety, Portia felt a thrill of pride. She could not be falsely modest about the beautiful prospect; she’d worked too hard to achieve it.

      ‘Do you mean to say that this—’ he gestured ‘—is all your design?’

      ‘It is,’ Dorrie answered for her. She glanced at Portia and then graced Mateo with a determined smile. ‘And since there is yet no sign of the tea cart, why don’t the two of you walk along the front of the house? Portia can tell you about the changes she’s made.’

      ‘A tempting notion, Miss Tofton, were this a social call. But it is not. Portia has stated that she had no notion of my father’s intentions and I’ve offered my apology for jumping to conclusions, but I would like to hear the particulars, if you please.’ Mateo paused, his lips pressed tightly together.

      ‘Ah, the devil!’ he finally exclaimed, pushing away from the table. ‘This is a damnable snarl we’ve found ourselves in and whether it goes your way or mine in the end, we need to get it untangled—and the sooner, the better.’ He sighed. ‘But I suspect that first we must find out how we ended up here. To begin with, I’d like to hear more of the dilemma you mentioned last—’

      Portia jumped to her feet. ‘Please, Mateo?’ she interrupted before Dorrie could catch a hint of her late-night activities. ‘I promise your questions will be answered. And, in fact, there may be a solution to make both of us happy. But if you will bear with me, I’d like to start by showing you some of the history of this house.’

      ‘Portia…’ He sighed. ‘Cara, for me, this is already painful enough. I just wish to be done with it and truly there is some urgency…’

      She turned a pleading gaze on him and he trailed to a stop. She thought he meant to balk—but then he heaved a