Portia would not trust him to keep his word, but she was willing to take him to her bed? What sort of logic was that?

Mateo snorted in disgust. Women’s logic—the sort tailor-made to drive him mad.

And therein, perhaps, lay part of the problem. For until she’d pressed that deliciously curved body up against him he hadn’t allowed himself to think of Portia as a woman. First he’d painted her as a scheming opportunist, and even once he’d realised he was mistaken still he had not truly looked at her. Instead he’d overlaid her with a picture of the unassuming, unfailingly supportive young girl he’d once known.

In reality, she was neither. She was still as he’d remembered and expected, but she’d grown, too. No, he had not expected to encounter strength, steel and determination. She’d become a woman of fascinating layers. And were this any other time and circumstance he’d enjoy nothing more than slowly peeling them away.

Deb Marlowe grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.

Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at debmarlowe@debmarlowe.com

Recent novels by the same author:

SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS

AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT

HER CINDERELLA SEASON

ANNALISE AND THE SCANDALOUS RAKE

(part of Regency Summer Scandals)

Tall, Dark and Disreputable
Deb Marlowe

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Biaggi’s Bunch…

You all already know why—

and that’s what makes it beautiful!

Chapter One

Berkshire, England—Summer 1821

Ribald laughter and drunken babble spilled out into the night. The owner of the Spread Eagle Inn took cheerful part in the bonhomie as he shooed his last customers into the dark. He stood a moment, listening as they scattered, secure in the knowledge that they would be back tomorrow and that the satisfying weight of coins in his apron pocket would only grow heavier.

Inside his taproom, quiet settled over the abandoned tables and peace wrapped itself around the place in lieu of the dissipating curtain of smoke. Mateo Cardea alone had not stirred when the innkeeper called. Here the fire burned warm, the ale was good and the accommodating wench in his lap ran soft fingers through his hair. He should have been blissfully content.

He was not.

The lightskirt slid a finger around his ear. She leaned in close, her brassy blond hair tickling his jaw, her other hand trailing a whisper-soft caress against his nape. Mateo could feel the tough calluses on her fingertips. He closed his eyes and imagined the touch of them against his other, more sensitive areas.

Arousing as the image might be, Mateo still could not summon the enthusiasm needed to climb out of his chair. Ridiculous. A few paltry coins and the girl was his for the taking, yet the thought did not dredge up more than a faint stir of desire.

The yawning innkeeper ambled back into the taproom. He cast a glance at Mateo and crooked a finger at the girl. ‘Get these chairs atop the tables, Etta, and I’ll help you sweep up,’ he said, not unkindly. The girl gave a soft groan of protest, but rose up and out of Mateo’s lap. She trailed a finger over his shoulder and down the length of his arm as she went. Mateo recognised the gesture for the promise it was and briefly waited for an answering surge of interest.

It did not come. Inside him there was no room for such clean and simple things as peace and desire. ‘Dio nel cielo,’ he breathed. Oh, but he was tired of the unfamiliar burn of anger in his gut and the caustic flow of resentment in his veins. For weeks he’d been like this, since he’d first discovered his father’s shocking betrayal.

All of it gone. Everything he’d spent his life working for, planning towards, gone with the reading of a few cold words. Years of biting his tongue, of endless explanations, of patiently coaxing his father to more modern business practices, and still the old man had not trusted him in the end. Mateo was in disgrace and, for the first time in a hundred years, control of Cardea Shipping had fallen outside the family. It was more than a man’s pride could bear.

His indifference was more than the strumpet could bear. She had worked her way back over to his side of the room and into the dark corner behind him. Now she leaned against him, blocking the heat of the fire, but warming him none the less when she bent low to encircle him in her arms. Her impressive bosom pressed soft against his back.

‘Are ye even here, tonight?’ Etta asked, demanding the return of his attention. ‘What are you thinkin’ of, that’s got your mind so far away?’ She stiffened a little and drew back. ‘Some other woman, p’raps?’

Mateo smiled. ‘I am not so foolish, sweet.’ With a sigh of regret he acknowledged the need to evade her interest and retire upstairs alone. Tomorrow held fair promise to be the worst day of his life and no amount of mindless distraction tonight would help ready him for it.

‘What is it, then?’ she demanded, circling round to the front of him again, her bottom lip forming a perfect pout. ‘Something important, I hope,’ she said low in his ear, ‘to be distracting you from the bounties at hand.’

He disentangled himself and drew her around to his side. Taking the girl with him, Mateo crossed the small distance to the bar. Here the innkeeper tidied up, trimming the wicks on cheap tallow lamps and polishing the worn wooden counter with pride. Mateo took the furthest stool and gestured for the girl to perch next to him.

‘No, tonight I have been lost indeed—thinking of fathers, and of sons. Do you know,’ he continued in a conversational tone, ‘that my father once caused a citywide riot over a wh—’ Etta straightened in her seat and he cleared his throat ‘—over a celebrated courtesan?’

She relaxed. ‘He never!’

Mateo smiled at her obvious interest. Even the innkeeper sidled closer to listen. ‘Oh, but he did. It happened in Naples, long ago. La Incandescent Clarisse, she was called, the greatest beauty in Europe. Endless poems were written to the soft pink of her lips, to the sweet curve of her hips. Playwrights named their heroines for her, artists worshipped her as their muse. Men followed her carriage in the street. My father was only one of many caught firmly in her spell.’

‘What happened?’ The girl’s face shone bright and she had briefly forgotten her practised seduction.

‘The inevitable.’ Mateo shrugged. ‘La Incandescent got with child. All of Naples held their breath, fascinated to hear who she would name as the father.’

‘Who was it?’ she breathed. ‘Not your da?’

‘After a fashion. You see, Clarisse could only narrow down the field. The father of her child was either my father, or Thomas Varnsworth.’

‘No!’ The innkeeper gasped.

‘Him what’s the Earl of Winbury?’ Etta asked, amazed.

‘The old Earl, rather,’ Mateo replied.

The innkeeper could not contain his shock. ‘But his daughter lives—’

‘Yes, I know,’ Mateo interrupted. ‘Shall I continue?’

They both nodded.

‘Upon hearing the news, Lord Thomas—for he was not the Earl yet—and my father got into a terrible row. They fought long and hard, nearly destroying La Incandescent’s apartments, and still they raged on, until the fight eventually spilled out into the streets. Spectators gathered. Someone spotted the tearful Clarisse and the rumour spread that La Incandescent had been harmed. The crowd grew furious, for Clarisse was a favourite of the people, and soon the two men found themselves fighting for their lives.’

‘And all over a strumpet?’ the innkeeper said in wonder.

‘Hush, you,’ the girl admonished. ‘Let him finish.’

Mateo shifted. Too late he worried about raising the tavern wench’s expectations, but that thought set off another surge of bitterness. It had been a woman’s damned expectations that had ruined his life. Portia Varnsworth had once expected to marry him. Mateo’s father had expected him to go along with the idea. Mateo might have expected somebody to consult him on the matter, but no one had bothered.

Etta, however, appeared to have taken the tale as a challenge. She raised a brow and tossed him a saucy grin. ‘I’m summat well known, myself, in these parts,’ she said.

‘Indeed?’

‘Oh, aye,’ she purred. ‘Would you like to know what I’m famous for?’

‘He don’t need to know now,’ grumbled her employer, ‘and not in front o’ me. What ye do upstairs is yer own business. Down here, it’s mine. Don’t ye want him to finish his tale? And you’ve a taproom to straighten first, in any case.’ He nodded for Mateo to continue.

‘Ah, yes, well, my father and Lord Thomas were arrested—for their own protection. They spent two days in a cell together and came out the best of friends.’

‘And the lady? Clarisse?’ Etta leaned closer.

‘When they were released, she had gone. She left Naples and disappeared. No one ever knew where she went, although rumours abounded. My father and Lord Thomas made a vow to find her and searched for years.’

She stilled. ‘Did they? Find her, that is?’

‘No,’ he said soberly. ‘Notto my knowledge. But they never stopped looking, either, until their dying days.’

Her eyes shone in the dim light, bright with unshed tears. ‘That’s the most romantic thing I ever heard.’ She sniffed.

The innkeeper snorted. ‘Then I would say you were in sore need of a little romance.’ He nodded towards Mateo. ‘He might be the one to give it to ye, but first—’

‘Aye, I know, I know, the taproom,’ Etta grumbled. The weight of her gleaming gaze felt nearly solid on Mateo’s skin. ‘I just mean to give him a taste of what comes after.’ She slid down from her stool and reached for him.

Mateo saw the stars in her eyes. The girl’s mind tumbled with fancies and dreams and he knew that he had perhaps not been so wise in his choice of tales. It is no bad thing to create a vision of things that might be, but of a certainty he would not be the one to bring her grand ideas to fruition.

He stilled as her arms went around him. He had no wish to damage her feelings. A woman had brought his world to a crashing halt, but he would not take his revenge on this, her artless sister. He sent a swift plea to the heavens for something, anything to distract the girl and extract him from the awkward situation of his own making.

The knob on the taproom door rattled. A floorboard creaked in the passage outside. Mateo jerked to attention along with the others as the door opened swiftly and his name echoed through the empty room. He stared, speechless, at the figure framed in the shadowy entrance and he knew that in the future he would be more careful in what he wished for.

A breeze wafted over Portia Tofton’s flushed cheeks as she approached the Eagle. The night air was cooler than she had expected. She didn’t care. She had her indignation to keep her warm, her dead husband’s pistol to keep her safe and a fervent desire to shock the wits out of Mateo Cardea to keep the purpose in her step.

Coming to a halt in front of the inn, she cast it a look of loathing. The beady eyes of the building’s painted namesake returned her glare. The raptor’s outstretched talons glittered in the moonlight, sending a shiver down her spine

Mateo had arrived in the village today; word was out and spreading fast across the county. Weeks it had taken for him to take ship and make his way here, but had he come to her? She snorted. Of course not. Apparently not even the loss of his family legacy was enough to tempt him to her side. Despite the urgent wording of her request he had holed up in the most disreputable tavern for miles around. No doubt he’d spent the day drinking, carousing, and who knows what else, while she had been left to twiddle her thumbs.

How utterly predictable.

No. Portia squared her shoulders and took a step forwards. Such treatment might be standard in her old life, perhaps, but it was not at all acceptable in the new. She was a widow now. Her husband’s death had granted her a new freedom and independence that she meant to take full advantage of. Heaven knew—and everybody else did too—that it was more than he’d given her while he lived.

She raised a fist to knock loud and long upon the tavern door, but noticed it stood slightly ajar. She put her hand on the knob and paused. Gone were the days that Lady Portia Varnsworth—or even Mrs. James Talbot Tofton—meekly did as she was expected. She’d had enough of men ruling her life. Though her brothers might try, there was no one left with the authority to order, bully—or, worse, ignore her. And Portia meant to keep it that way. She wanted nothing more than her independence, the chance to be in charge of her own destiny. She’d thought she had it, too, until that wretched solicitor had come calling.

But no matter. She had a grasp on the situation. One even exchange with Mateo Cardea and she would have her freedom—and her home—safe again. It only wanted a little courage and a good deal of determination. Sternly she reminded herself that she had an ample supply of both. Boldly she pushed the outer door open and let herself in, steeled to face—

Empty darkness. Silence.

‘Is anyone there?’ Some of her bravado faded a little as she stepped forwards into the gloom. Portia paused to take a good look, curious to see the place servants and villagers whispered about. The ante-room appeared perfectly ordinary at least, certainly not like she’d imagined a reputed den of debauchery and iniquity. Disappointed, she continued forwards.

A doorway sat at an angle to the right. From beneath it shone the faintest glow of light—and from behind it she caught the low murmur of voices. She crept closer.

There. Faint but unmistakable: Mateo Cardea’s wicked chuckle.

Portia stood helpless against the intense shiver of reaction that swept through her. As a young girl she’d spent hours tagging after Mateo and her brothers. She’d lurked in hallways and corners, listening for that infectious sound. Five years older than she, Mateo Cardea had been an ideal, the unsuspecting object of her first consuming love. An absent smile from him had held the power to light up her day, but it had been his rich laughter, full of mischief and exuberance, that had set her young body a-tremble.

Not that he had ever taken notice. Despite their friendship, she’d never been more than background scenery to him, a secondary character in the drama of his young life.

She was determined that things would be different now. All day she had sat, waiting for him to come, seething when he did not. Until—as the hour grew late and her temper grew short—she’d finally decided that this time she would begin with Mateo as she meant to go on. She would force him to look at her, to see her, to truly recognise her for the woman she was. Mateo, her brothers, indeed the whole world—it was time that they all took a second look at Portia Tofton.

With a purposeful and careful tread she approached the door. But he was not alone. Feminine tones mixed with his, and then both faded away. Portia’s face flamed. Etta was as notorious as the Eagle itself. Of course Mateo would be with her. Everyone else had been—including Portia’s own husband.

She was a different woman, now, though. She would not sit idly by and be ignored. She turned the latch as quietly as she could and paused once more. The manner of her entrance must lend itself to the image she wished to convey. She wished to appear a woman of self-possession and authority. A woman he could desire, whispered some deeply buried part of her. She shushed it. Above all, she would not be a supplicant.

She shifted her weight, hoping for a strategic glimpse into the room before she entered. A board creaked loudly underneath her, but Portia did not heed it.

It was he. Her stomach fluttered in recognition. How well she knew that rogue’s twist of a wry grin, the tangle of inky, wind-tousled curls, and the spark of wickedness dancing in a gaze as warm as her morning chocolate. Her pulse tumbled nearly to a stop, then rushed to a gallop as her mind made sense of the rest of the tableau before her.

Mateo Cardea at last—but perched on a stool, the infamous Etta entwined around him tighter than the Persian ivy Portia had coaxed up the walls of her arbour. She gripped the door handle until her knuckles whitened. God, but it was the old hurt all over again. How many times in a woman’s life could she withstand such a whirlwind of pain and humiliation?

One too many times. But this would be the last. She breathed deeply and willed her spine straight and her voice steady. With a flourish she swept the door open and stepped into the taproom, trampling her heart underneath each tread of her foot. ‘Ah, here you are, Mateo,’ she called. ‘As ever the scapegrace, I see, seeking pleasure when there is serious work to be done.’

A rush of anger pulled Mateo off of his stool and out of the circle of Etta’s arms. In an instinctive reaction his knees braced, his toes flexed within his boots to grip the floor and his breath quickened to match the sudden racing of his pulse. It was an old impulse, standing fast to face his enemies—except this adversary was neither a ship of the line bent on impressing his men nor a fat merchant clipper ripe for the picking. Instead it was a slip of a girl in a sky-blue pelisse.

He stared as Portia Tofton sauntered into the taproom as if it belonged to her. But this was not the shy, roundshouldered girl he recalled from his youth. From her head to her curvy figure and on to her dainty little toe, this was a woman to be reckoned with. Her stylish bonnet beautifully framed the look of cool amusement fixed on her face. Mateo’s jaw tightened even as she removed it, letting it swing by ribbons of shaded velvet.

For so long he had imagined this confrontation. In his mind he had rehearsed his collected entrance into her presence, practised the biting words with which he would consign her to the devil. Now it would seem she had connived to rob him even of that satisfaction.

His fists clenched. An air of assurance hung about her as she stepped into the candlelight. And why not? She thought she had him right where she wished. Heedless of propriety, unmindful of the great wrong she had done him or perhaps just without regard for his feelings, she stood there, all expectation, smiling up at him.

That smile made him wild. Fury set his temples to pounding, but he would be damned before he would let her see it. ‘Peeve!’ he called. ‘It is you, is it not?’

Her expression of triumph dimmed at the use of the old nickname. Relentless, he pressed his advantage. ‘But I see that much is the same with you, as well, my dear.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Still, after all these years, you are pushing yourself in where you do not belong.’

If he had hit his mark, she hid it well with a toss of her head. ‘Come, let’s not be rude, Mateo,’ she cajoled.

He nearly choked. ‘Rude? You conniving little jade! You would count yourself fortunate should I stop myself at merely rude!’

‘I don’t think the occasion warrants it.’ She cast a quick, curious gaze about them. ‘This is a place of…conviviality, is it not?’

He had not thought it possible for his anger to grow hotter. But the roiling mass of resentment inside him ignited at her words—and his control slipped further as the flames licked higher. Incredulous, he gaped at her.

He pushed away from the bar, away from her. Retreating back to the dying fire, he glared at her. ‘Conviviality,’ he scoffed. ‘Is that what you expected from me? Damn you English, and damn your deadly, dull-mannered ways,’ he said thickly. ‘And damn me if I will greet with equanimity the woman who has usurped my life’s work, and then—asif I am but her lackey—calls me to her side with a damned insulting peremptory summons!’

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. ‘Mateo—’

‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘By God, I am not one of your reserved English gentlemen! Come within an arm’s reach of me and I won’t trust myself.’ He turned away from her and gripped the stone mantel over the fire. ‘Never in my life have I struck a woman, but you, Portia Tofton, tempt me beyond reason.’

Perhaps he had gone too far. At the bar, the innkeeper made a slight sound of protest. Etta watched with avid interest. But Portia barely reacted.

‘Ah, Mateo…’ she sighed ‘…I’d forgotten how incredibly dramatic you become when you are angry.’

She could not keep the slight mockery from her tone—and that was all it took. The last of his restraint tore away. Everything this infuriating chit did and said only fuelled the blowing gale of his anger.

‘Dramatic?’ he ground out. ‘I am betrayed. I am robbed of the future that I have laboured all my life for. I am a laughingstock where once I was a respected businessman. And I am furious. What I am not is dramatic.’He whirled around and advanced on her with menace alive in his step. His voice, gone rough and threatening, reinforced the truth in her words and the lie in his. But Mateo was beyond caring. Hell and damnation, but she pushed a man too far! And she was—at last!—a bit frightened. God help him, but he wished to frighten her.

She stood her ground, though her eyes widened, and her fingers crushed the velvet of her ribbons. ‘I believe you have let the Cardea temper and your own imagination run away with you,’ she said. ‘I sent an urgent request for you to come and discuss this situation. There is a vast distance between urgent and peremptory.’

‘Ah, it is my mistake,’ Mateo growled. ‘Yes, I am sure your urgent need of a long and thorough gloat required my presence. Well, I can assure you, I feel your triumph keenly enough without such a humiliation.’

‘But I—’

He swung his arm in a sharp gesture and cut her off. He was close enough now to clearly see the puzzlement in her great brown eyes. Good, then. There was one question that had hung between them for years. He would answer it one last time and put an end to this entire farce. ‘We’ve both trod this ground before, have we not? It was not enough that you and our fathers sought to manoeuvre me into marriage? But I won that battle—so now you must find a new way to steal my future. Once again you have played a game without informing me I was a participant—and just as before you will find that I refuse to act as the prize.’

She gaped up at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Do not play the innocent with me, Portia, not after you have conspired to steal all that I value,’he growled. ‘Perhaps it is not so inappropriate for you to be here tonight, after all. It is a fitting setting for you to learn that I will not be bought like a whore, no matter the bait that you dangle in front of me.’

Portia gasped. Behind him, Etta echoed her. The innkeeper dropped his cloth and took a step towards the corner of the bar. ‘That’s enough, now.’ He cast a conciliatory eye in Portia’s direction as he came around and approached them. ‘I don’t claim to know what there is between the two of you, but the gentleman was right the first time, Mrs Tofton. You shouldn’t be here, let alone at this hour. If word got out, your credit would suffer, and so would mine.’

All of Portia’s colour had faded at Mateo’s last heated words. As the innkeeper’s objection penetrated, her flush returned with a vengeance. Her chest heaved as an angry red wave crept upwards from beneath the standing collar of her pelisse. ‘I’m sorry for it, sir, but surely the damage is done.’She cast a neutral glance at Etta and then regarded Mateo with the sort of loathing his crews reserved for an empty rum casket. ‘And well worth it, I must say, for suddenly I find several things have become clear.’

She looked away and this time it was she who took a step back. ‘I never thought—I can scarcely believe—’ She dropped her head, placed her hands on her hips and actually paced back and forth a few steps, seemingly lost in thought. Some of Mateo’s ire began to fade as he took in her air of bewilderment and the forgotten bonnet swinging against her knee.

She stopped suddenly, caught at the apex of her trajectory. Her chin lifted and at last he caught a glimpse of answering anger in her gaze—but there was hurt there too, and something bleak and sad.

‘I wished you to come because I needed your help.’ She spoke low. ‘I thought it possible that you might have some insight into why your father and mine would have acted so contrary to expectation and good sense. I know nothing of why your father made the choices he did. I’m sorry he died, but I was as shocked as you were to hear the contents of his will.’ She paused. ‘My father is dead, too, Mateo. And my husband, as well. Together they have left me in a dilemma as terrible as yours.’

Her words doused the burn of fury inside of him, but she was not done yet. At her side, her fists clenched. ‘I came here tonight to chide you, for I was unable to fathom why I had to ask you to come to sort this mess out in the first place, and why you would dally so long once you set out, in the second. But now I see.’

He watched her pull her bonnet on with shaking fingers. ‘I had no notion that your opinion of me had sunk so low, but truly, it matters naught. I ask you, please, to come to Stenbrooke tomorrow.’ She tied the strings with short, jerky movements. ‘You are both right. This is neither the time nor the place. But if you will come tomorrow, we will discuss this business.’ She swept the room with a glare that included all three of them. ‘Business, and nothing else. I trust I make myself clear?’ With an all-encompassing nod, she turned on her heel and strode out of the taproom and into the night.

The towering heat of his anger had faded to mere embers. She had cut the legs out from under him. Still, Mateo managed an involuntary step after her. The tavern owner deliberately put himself in his path. ‘Mayhap, sir, you don’t have all the facts you need,’ he said gently.

‘Aye, I fear you’re right in that.’Mateo stepped back, scrubbed a hand from brow to jaw, and cocked an enquiring eye to the man. ‘She tells the truth, I think?’

The innkeeper shrugged. ‘They do say as she’s one for straight dealing, hereabouts.’

‘I would say it is either truth she’s given us,’ Mateo paused, ‘or a beautiful performance.’ He sighed. ‘I feel like the Mariner—discovering the world has shifted and the sun is rising in the west.’

‘A woman’ll do that to a man, eh?’

‘I fear so.’ Mateo glanced back at Etta. ‘Look at me. Knocked off my pillar of righteous anger in the space of a few minutes—and damned if I’m not exhausted from the fall.’ He reached beyond the man to grasp his ale and drained it in one long haul. ‘I am for bed,’ he declared. ‘It seems I’ve a mess to straighten in the morning.’

The innkeeper nodded his approval. ‘I’ll see that you are not disturbed.’

Mateo shook his head. ‘It’s far too late for that, my friend, but I thank you just the same.’

Chapter Two

A glorious morning dawned the next day, spilling sunlight into the breakfast room at Stenbrooke. A breeze drifted, rewarding early risers with the taste of heavy dew and the fresh scent of green and growing things. Never had Portia felt more out of harmony with the start of a beautiful day.

For once immune to the call of her gardens, she stood at the window while her breakfast grew cold behind her and the light limned the fair hairs on her arm with gold. The parchment in her hands glowed nearly transparent, grown worn with time and tears and frequent handling. And though she hid the letter when her elderly butler came in to shake his head over her untouched plate, he would have been hard pressed to read the faded ink in any case. Portia, of course, had no need to read it; its message had long ago been etched into the darkest corner of her heart.

Philadelphia, 11 July 1812

Your curst brother has arrived safely, Peeve— it began without preamble—bringing with him details of this preposterous scheme our fathers have hatched between them. I cannot believe they have risked him at such a time of conflict between our two countries, and I am inclined to agree with Freddy when he wonders what put such a maggoty idea as marriage in their brains. I know we spent a good deal of time in company together when last I was at Hemp shaw, but surely they must realise that was years ago and we were only friends, besides?

In fact, I feel that I owe you a most profound apology—for this must be my father’s doing. He is grasping at straws because I mean to sign a letter-of-marque bond. It’s a surety he’d rather see me occupied with a wife and marriage than a privateer’s cruise. I am deeply sorry to have caught you up in such a muddle but what must we do to break free?

Stand firm, I suppose, is the only answer. I pledge to do my part here—for at last I have got my own ship and she is the fastest schooner, with the sweetest lay in the water that you’ve ever seen. I mean to make my fortune with her, Peeve, though I promise not to target any ship that carries your brother back to you. In any case, I’m sure you’ve your own plans you don’t wish me to disrupt. Stand fast, dear girl, as I mean to, and there is little they can do to force us otherwise.

‘What’s this?’

Portia started as the door opened again behind her. Over her shoulder she watched as Dorinda Tofton, her cousin by marriage and companion, entered on the heels of the butler.

‘Vickers tells me that you are neglecting your breakfast again, Portia,’Dorinda chided. ‘He also suspects that you are mooning over a letter. Has that woman sent another of her hateful missives? I thought we’d seen an end to this nonsense! I won’t have you harassed—’

‘No, Dorrie,’ Portia interjected before her companion could get herself too wound up. ‘I was just going through some old correspondence.’

‘Oh. Well. You’re all right, then?’

Portia hesitated. ‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ She shot a brief glance out of the window before focusing on the food spread out on the sideboard. ‘Will you please come and have some breakfast then, dear? I can see that we are in for a beautiful day, but you know how I feel about you disappearing into the gardens without so much as a piece of toast in you.’

For a long moment, Portia did not answer. The letter she held was the last communication she’d had with Mateo Cardea until last night—and even after so many years it still held the echo of her youthful shock and dismay. With gentle fingers she folded it up and tucked it into her bodice. Right over her heart she placed it—where she would wear it as a reminder and a shield.

‘Portia?’ Dorinda paused in the process of making her own selections and eyed her curiously.

She turned. ‘Yes, of course. I was just sitting down to finish.’

Dorinda took a seat and tucked into her coddled eggs with relish. ‘What do you mean to tackle today, dear? The damaged bridge on the Cascade Walk?’ She frowned. ‘Or did I hear you say that the dahlias were in need of separating?’

Portia smiled. Only politeness led Dorrie to ask—she neither shared nor understood her charge’s passion for landscaping. ‘Actually, I mean to stay in this morning.’

Dorinda brightened noticeably. ‘A wise choice. The sun is quite brilliant today. You know how harmful it can be to one’s complexion.’ Dorrie’s own milky countenance was her pride and joy—and Portia’s significantly browner one counted as a chief worry. She set down her fork and took up her teacup. ‘Perhaps,’ she began, her word choice seeming as delicate and deliberate as the stroke of her finger over the fine china, ‘we might begin to pack some of our winter things? We might even consider starting on the books in the library.’

Portia set down her toast.

‘It’s only sensible to be prepared.’ Dorinda sounded as if she were coaxing a reluctant child. Her voice lowered. ‘We’re running out of time, dear.’

Portia was a woman grown. She’d been married—and then widowed in spectacular fashion. She’d run this estate entirely on her own for years now. Never had she shown herself to be fragile or weak, and especially not since the day she’d first received the letter tucked into her bodice. Bad enough that her father and brothers had always treated her like a nursling—when Dorrie followed their example, it made Portia long to act like one.

But this was not the time for such indulgences. Instead of treating Dorinda to a screaming fit, she caught her gaze and held it. ‘There is no need to pack, as I’ve told you repeatedly. We are going nowhere. We will proceed exactly as planned.’ She leaned forwards. ‘Even better, we begin today. Had you not heard? Mateo Cardea has arrived in the village. I expect he will call on us today.’

‘He’s here at last?’ Dorinda nearly dropped her teacup. ‘Oh, but will he co-operate?’ she fretted. ‘I know you recall him fondly, but there is this business with his…well, his business!’ She reached over and laid her warm hand over Portia’s. ‘I want you to be prepared. I know you have not wished to consider it, but when you put this admittedly odd circumstance together with what you’ve told me about the marriage scheme your fathers tried to force on both of you…It’s just that it’s entirely within the realm of understanding…’ She exhaled in exasperation. ‘Portia, he’s likely to formulate ideas. And none of them are likely to paint you in a favourable light.’

Portia felt the heat rising in her face. Dorrie had raised this concern before, and she had refused to believe such a thing of Mateo. Unfortunately, Mateo had been all too willing to believe such a thing of her. Bitterness churned in her belly. So much for the friendship she had valued so highly and for so long.

But admitting it also meant confessing her entirely improper, late-night visit to the Eagle, and that was a pot that Portia had no intention of stirring. ‘If he is so disobliging as to think so of an old and dear friend,’she said with heat, ‘then he is not the man I thought him to be.’ She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. ‘And I will just have to set him straight.’

‘Oh, if only we’d bought that French muslin when we had the chance! The sage would have been so flattering on you, dear.’

Portia frowned. ‘I begin to worry that you are the one with ideas, Dorrie. And if that is the case, then you can just rid yourself of them straight away.’

‘Well, forgive me, but he’s a man, is he not? And if you mean to ask for a man’s help, then you’ve got to use every weapon in your arsenal—and give him every reason to agree.’

Portia rolled her eyes at the familiar refrain, but Dorinda had not even paused to take a breath. ‘I confess, I’m so nervous about meeting him! I know you count him an old friend, but in all of these years there’s been not so much as a letter between you. I—’

She stopped as Portia slapped both hands on the table and stood.

‘Please, Dorrie! Stop or you’ll have me tied in knots along with you.’ She straightened. ‘I have what Mateo wants. He can help me get what I want. It will be as simple as that.’ She ignored her companion’s huff of disagreement and stepped away from the table. ‘I’ll be in the library, settling the accounts, should you need me.’

It took only minutes at her books for Portia to regret her decision. A bundle of frayed nerves, she fidgeted constantly in her chair. She could scarcely believe that Mateo had laid the blame for his troubles at her door. They had always been at ease in each other’s company, accepting of the other’s foibles, keepers of the other’s secrets. It should never have been so easy for him to believe the worst of her.

She put down her quill and rested her head in her hands. He’d casually crushed her fledgling feelings so long ago. It should come as no surprise that he did it again, and so easily. A conniving jade, he’d called her! Even her husband’s betrayals had not cut so deep into the heart of her—perhaps because they had been expected.

She stared blankly at the housekeeper’s note complaining of the rising cost of candles. A bitter laugh worked its way out of her chest. Beeswax could become as dear as diamonds and still not jolt her as deeply as the sight of Mateo Cardea’s arms around the Eagle’s Etta. The sight had been a jagged knife to her heart and to her faith in her friend. And Mateo had only twisted the blade deeper when he made his suspicions clear.

Abruptly, she pushed away from the desk and crossed to the window. Staring out over the beauty she had coaxed from the earth, Portia forced herself to acknowledge the truth. Through a span of years, a disastrous marriage, neglect and isolation, some part of her old schoolgirl self had survived—and she still suffered an infatuation for Mateo Cardea.

It must end here and now. Any lingering softness or longing must be locked tight away. She thought she might go a little mad if Mateo also thought of her as helpless and weak. So she would meet him as a woman—composed, controlled, in charge of her own life, and to some extent, his as well.

She could not suppress a smile at the thought. Of all the men in her life, Mateo might be the only one she had never been able to best or ignore, but she had the whip hand over him now. Keeping it might not be easy, but it could prove to be a great source of satisfaction.

With a flourish, Portia threw open the casement. Breathing deeply, she acknowledged the subtle siren’s call of the gardens. Abruptly, she decided to answer. Turning, she strode out of the library, and headed for the stairs. ‘Dorrie!’ she called. ‘I’ve changed my mind! I’m going out!’

In general, Mateo’s mood suffered when he found himself landlocked for any length of time. It seemed some part of him always listened, yearning for the timeless thrum and endless animation of the sea.

Today, though, the beauty of the day and the peace of the country conspired to silence his craving. A wonderful mosaic of woodland and farmland comprised this part of Berkshire. His mount stretched out beneath him, light on his feet. The faintest breeze blew across his face. It all made for a pleasant enough morning, but not enough to distract him from his pensive musings.

Dramatic, Portia had called him. Hardly the worst label that had been handed him. Hell, he’d been called everything from rascal to reprobate. But through months of war and a longer struggle to keep a business literally afloat, he’d always maintained his reputation for cheerful roguery. Even through the heat of battle, his crew teased time and again, he’d kept a fearsome grin on his face and his wit as sharp as his blade.

That had not been true in the last months. He’d been on the verge of a major business coup when he’d been struck hard by the grief of his father’s passing. That unexpected tragedy had been difficult enough to deal with, but swift on its heels had come the reading of the will, and, with it, the added afflictions of anger and betrayal. They made for unfamiliar burdens, but Mateo had embraced them with a vengeance—as anchors in a life gone suddenly adrift.

He and his father had always had their differences. Leandro Cardea had been a serious and driven man, determined to live up to the ancient merchant tradition of his family. Mateo’s lighthearted manner had at times driven him mad, as had his ideas for the business. Their disagreements had been loud; their heated debates, on the future of shipping and how best to steer the business in the hard years after the 1812 war with England, had been legendary. Mateo had been constitutionally unable to submit to the yoke of authority his father wished to confine him in, but despite different temperaments and differing opinions, he had thought they always shared the same end goal: the success of Cardea Shipping.

He did not know who he was without it. His first steps had been made along the teeming Philadelphia docks. He’d spent his childhood in that busy, dizzy atmosphere, learning arithmetic in the counting houses and how to read from warehouse manifests. He’d grown to manhood on board his father’s ships, learning every aspect of the shipping business with sweat and tears and honest labour. His adult life had been comprised of an endless search for new markets, new imports, new revenue. For years he had worked, struggled and prepared for the day that he would take the helm of the family business.

And now he never would. So, yes—he had grabbed on to his anger with both hands and held tight. But it was an unaccustomed affliction, and it had grown heavier and more burdensome with each passing week. It would be a relief indeed to set it aside, but was he ready?

Not quite. Portia had been convincing last night. Something inside him wished to believe her, but he had a need to question her closely, and a rising desire to compare stories.

I need your help, she’d said, and she’d mentioned something about her own dilemma. It set his mind awhirl, with curiosity and, worse, a growing sense of suspicion. His father’s heavy-handed manipulation blared loud and obvious, but could Portia truly have been unaware of her part in it?

As he’d already done hundreds of times, Mateo dragged his memory for details of the thwarted marriage scheme Leandro Cardea and the Earl of Winbury had attempted nearly nine years ago. Their timing had been preposterous. Mateo had been completely occupied with his sleek new schooner, and the opportunity for fortune, glory and adventure that privateering would give him and his crew. The notion of a marriage had been his father’s last, desperate attempt to steer him from that course. Ever the rebel, Mateo had laughed at the idea—and at his father’s clumsy choice of a bride.

Portia Varnsworth? A girl-child she’d been, with plenty of pluck, but no more appeal than a younger sister. At the time he’d hoped she’d been just as incredulous as he. He’d written to her with that assumption, and certainly her response had reassured him. She was far too young to contemplate such a thing, she’d replied, and entirely too caught up with a landscaping project on her father’s estate. And there was the Season for her to look forward to the following year. Mateo had sighed in relief and promptly forgot the entire scheme.

But he had thought of her occasionally, over the years. He remembered her shy smile and her willingness to listen. He’d been surprised and curious at the news of her marriage, and sympathetic when he’d heard of her husband’s death. Had anyone asked, he would have confessed to remembering her fondly.

Until the day he’d sat in the solicitor’s office and heard that his father had left the controlling interest in Cardea Shipping to her. Instead of leading the family legacy into the future, he would be working for Portia Varnsworth.

Mateo’s shock had been complete. Doubt and suspicion had sprouted like weeds in his mind. And if he hadn’t been so angry, he would have laughed at the—once again—impeccable bad timing of the thing.

At the thought he urged his mount to a quicker pace. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, someone had to quickly take control of Cardea Shipping. Ahead must be the lane that would take him to Stenbrooke. He took the turning, but after only a few minutes’ travel he found himself distracted. Gazing about him, Mateo realised that, of a certainty, there was one thing about his childhood friend that had not changed.

Portia Tofton, née Varnsworth, was a gardener. Digging, planting, pruning, cutting, Portia had never been happier than when she was covered in muck. Looking about, it became clear that she had continued to indulge her beloved pastime here at Stenbrooke.

The lane he followed led first through a wooded grove, immaculately kept and dotted with the occasional early-blooming clump of monk’s hood. Eventually, though, the wood thinned, giving way to a sweeping vista of rolling hills. Ahead the path diverged. To the left, over the tops of a grouping of trees, he caught sight of a peaked roof. On the right nestled a jewel of a lake, edged with flowering shrubs and spanned by a rustic stone bridge.

Mateo marvelled at the beauty of the scene. Then he spared a moment’s empathy for the hardship some sea captain had endured in transporting the obviously exotic specimens.

He shook his head. The landscaping work here was awe-inspiring. Surely Brown or Repton had had a hand in it. Had Portia kept this up herself after her husband’s passing? But of course she had. Care and attention to detail were evident in every direction.

It was ongoing even now, he noted, catching sight of several labourers grouped on the far side of the bridge. Standing thigh-high in the lake, they were repairing one of the arches, judging from the steady ring of hammer against stone. He watched them idly until he reached the fork in the lane, and then he turned his mount’s head in the direction of the house.

Until suddenly his brain processed what his eyes had just seen. He hauled on the reins, startling the animal, and spun him swiftly around. Raising a hand, he cast his best weather eye towards the lake again. Yes. One of the labourers had moved to the edge of the stone pedestal and into view. A labourer in skirts.

A sharp bark of laughter broke free. Yes, he mused, men did die. Enterprises failed, empires grew and nations were born. Mateo had learned that lesson the hard way. One had only to look about with an unjaundiced eye to know that change and upheaval were the only persevering truths in this life.

Perhaps that explained, then, why he should be struck with unexpected delight at the odd tableau before him. It was something of a relief to discover that some things never did change.

The ghost of a smile flitted about his mouth. It was even more of a relief to once again find pleasure in a simple, unexpected moment. He let the stranglehold on his anger slip—just a little—and spurred his mount towards the lake.

Chapter Three

‘That’s done it now, Mrs Tofton.’

Portia’s ears still rang from the blow of the mallet. Her foreman’s voice sounded tinny and distant, though he loomed close by her side.

‘You can let go. That’s the last one.’

She did, shaking out the strain in her arms and stepping back. The damaged pedestal of her stone arch bridge was nearly repaired, she saw with satisfaction.

‘Aye, that does it,’ Newman echoed her sentiment. ‘A bit of mortar and it’ll be right as rain.’ He turned as another man splashed up. ‘We’ll not be needing another block after all, Billings. You can throw that one back in the cart. We’re nearly done now.’

Billings turned, but cast a resentful eye back towards the bridge. ‘Can I be gettin’ back to the orchard now? New branches don’t train themselves.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Portia grasped her water-logged skirts and started back towards shore, as well. ‘Thank you, Billings. I am sorry I had to tear you away from your trees.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps next year we shall be able to hire some more permanent labourers.’

‘Aye, well, and if you do, let them waddle after Newman here. I’m fine alone in the orchard, but if you be wantin’ a crop this year or next, you’ll be lettin’ me get on with me work.’

‘Oh, go on, you old crosspatch,’ she said, smiling over her shoulder at him. ‘Newman, can you finish up on your own? I suppose I must get back to the house and change before our company arrives.’

‘You’ve left it a bit late.’ Billings shifted his burden and spat casually into the water. ‘Leastaways, you did if your company’s dark, broad as that yonder oak and near as tall.’

Portia’s gaze followed the thrust of his chin towards the shore before the impact of his words truly hit her. With a gasp, she splashed to a halt and dropped her skirts. A horse stood tethered near the pony cart they had used to transport stone and supplies, and striding down the slight incline towards the water came Mateo Cardea.

Tall and strong, with sun glinting off his dark curls and shining boots, he advanced with a purposeful tread. Portia’s mouth gaped open as he failed to stop at the shore’s edge, but the chiselled lines of his face were set and determined. Without hesitation he strode right into the water and towards her. She stared, noting his furrowed brow and the large straw hat dangling from his fingers.

Water sloshed around her knees as he drew to a halt in front of her. Her breath caught.

And then he smiled.

Unfair! The cry emanated from the vulnerable part of Portia’s soul, the one that she had spent just this morning locking away. It was a nonsensical notion, but the sudden pounding of her heart felt eerily like the bang of a fist on a closed door.

Where was the angry, brooding man who’d hurled insults at her last night? She searched his face, but the stormy countenance and dangerous gaze had fled like clouds before sunshine. And left only the visage that had fuelled her adolescent dreams for years.

The real irony was that it was a face that might have been made for anger and brooding. Bold, dark eyes flashed under arched brows and amidst a longish, angular face. The great Cardea nose might have overwhelmed any other man’s features, but on Mateo was balanced beautifully by his wide, sensual mouth and irresistible tangle of curls. Masculine splendour shone down on her, warmer than the rays of the sun. And suddenly Portia wobbled, as weak in the knees as if she truly had spent too long in the heat.

Mateo stepped close and grasped her arm.

Billings snorted as he sloshed past them. ‘Coming through, Mrs Tofton.’

Newman followed without comment, and without turning his gaze in their direction. Portia barely noticed. She watched, mesmerized, as Mateo’s other hand lifted, rose and disappeared above her head. She jumped, startled at the gentle touch of his fingers moving in her hair.

‘Forgive me,’ he said softly. ‘But—’ Brown and capable, his hand hovered before her face, holding a large chip of stone. Comprehension dawned, along with a flush of embarrassment. She suppressed it and watched him toss the thing into the water. Grasping the straw hat where it dangled beneath their arms, he offered it up. ‘You’ll want your hat, Peeve,’ he said quite casually. ‘Your nose is turning red.’

She lost her fight with the advancing tide of warmth. And just the thought that he might notice turned a simple blush into a spiralling wave of heat. She tried calling herself to task. She’d meant to demonstrate her complete indifference to his anger, to present a picture of a woman occupied with her own pursuits, fully capable of commanding her own destiny. She had not meant to blush like a girl at his first words or to meet him standing knee-deep in the lake.

But this was the Mateo of her youth—and somehow their bizarre situation seemed fitting. He towered over her, one eyebrow elevated, a matching wry grin pulling at the opposite corner of his mouth. Portia drew a long, shuddering breath. It struck her hard—that oh-so-familiar gleam in his dark eyes, full of good-natured mischief and just the smallest hint of irony.

She pulled abruptly away from his touch and struck out on her own for the shore. ‘Don’t call me that, please.’

He followed, literally in her wake. ‘I will not, of course, if you dislike it. But I assure you that today at least, I meant it only in affection.’

‘Nevertheless.’ Portia climbed the springy bank, bent down and grasped her shoes.

‘Shall I call you Mrs Tofton, then?’ he asked with a quizzically raised brow.

She heard the unasked question. He wondered why she did not use her hereditary title. And deliberately she did not answer. ‘That is my name,’ she answered in the same tone. ‘But why don’t you just call me Portia, as you used to?’ She summoned a smile. ‘I beg your pardon for meeting you in such disarray. My foreman said we had to act quickly to prevent further damage to the bridge, and I’m afraid I cast all other considerations aside.’

She lowered her gaze as he drew close, and caught sight of his ruined footwear. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘your boots!’ She glared up at him. ‘Whatever possessed you, Mateo? There was no need of that.’

‘But it was necessary—after my display of spectacularly bad manners, I feared you would strike out for the opposite shore at the sight of me.’ He still held her floppy hat. With delicate movements, he lifted it high. Moving slowly, as if he worked not to frighten her, he settled it on her head.

She stood stiff and ram-rod straight. He followed the line of ribbons with his fingertips and began to tie them under her chin.

‘I suppose I could not have blamed you if you had,’ he spoke low and his jaw tensed. ‘I owe you an apology, cara. No matter the situation, I should not have lashed out at you like that.’

She flinched at the old endearment. He was too close. She was too flustered. She’d wanted him to look at her, see her, but she’d imagined it at more of a distance. Portia’s heart began to flit inside her chest like a bird in a cage.

She pushed his hands away and stepped back. ‘I’m perfectly capable of tying my own ribbons, thank you,’ she said irritably. She breathed deep, needing to regain control of her wayward emotions and the situation. You aren’t a love-struck young girl any more, she reminded herself fiercely.

‘There is no need for an apology.’ There, that was better. Her tone, at least, sounded tightly controlled. ‘The circumstances are highly unusual. I suppose anyone might have jumped to the conclusions you did.’

His dark gaze roved over her. He said nothing for a long minute, just watched her closely while she fiddled with half-tied ribbons. ‘Ah, but I begin to see now,’ he said. ‘Anyone might have suspected the worst, but you didn’t expect it of me.’

Some heavy emotion weighted his voice. Guilt? Sorrow? She wished she knew which she would have preferred it to be.

‘And that changes much of what I thought would pass between us.’ His brow furrowed as he stared down at her. ‘And what do I do with you now, I wonder?’

Portia stiffened. ‘Not a thing! It’s not your place to do anything at all with me. In fact, I’d say the shoe was quite on the other foot.’

He winced. ‘I deserved that, did I not?’

‘And far more.’ She raked her gaze down the length of him. ‘Hard as you may find it to believe, Mateo, I’ve had important things on my mind—and not a one of them involved a scheme to trap you into marriage.’

He returned her speculative gaze. ‘Do you know—I think it would have been better for me, had you been the villainess I suspected you to be.’

How was she supposed to answer that?

‘Portia! Are you down here still?’

The shrill call saved her from the necessity. She glanced up and caught sight of a glimpse of colour through the trees. Many times over the years, she’d had reason to be grateful to Dorrie, but she could recall nothing like the great tide of relief that swept through her now.

‘Portia?’

‘Here, Dorinda!’she answered with a wave as Dorrie erupted from the trees at a trot.

‘Portia,’ Dorrie called, urgency alive in her expression, as well as in the unusual quickness of her step. ‘Vickers tells me a rider was spotted %h; ’ Her gait faltered. ‘Oh, yes. I see I’m too late.’

Portia fidgeted as the heavy weight of her companion’s gaze fell on her.

Dorrie let out an audible moan. ‘Oh, Portia, dear! How could you?’

From beside her came an unexpected, but completely familiar sound. From this broad-shouldered hulk of a sea captain came an almost boyish snort.

Portia’s eyes widened. How many times had she heard that exact sound? Hundreds, if not thousands. It triggered a whirlwind of old emotion: exasperation, irritation and fleeting camaraderie. Visions danced in her head, of infuriating pranks, of whispered risqué stories she’d tried desperately to overhear, and of the pair of them united, usually to get one of her brothers either into or out of trouble.

It was a sound from her past. But today it ignited a great, yearning well of hope for the future. The old Mateo Cardea would have helped her in an instant. Perhaps he was still in there somewhere.

And perhaps he would enjoy getting to know the new Portia Tofton.

Her heart pounding, she moved forwards, beckoning Dorrie closer. ‘It’s just a little lake water, Dorrie,’ she cajoled. ‘And you’re not late, but just in time to meet Mr Cardea. Come, and I will introduce you.’

Mateo watched Portia hurry away. A great wave of guilt and confusion had swamped him at her earlier words. He allowed it to fade a bit, allowed it, even, to be replaced with a wholly ungentlemanly sense of satisfaction. He’d rattled her. Good.

He had a sneaking suspicion that it would be in his interest to keep Portia unsettled. And a little rattling was no more than she deserved. After all, she’d rocked his moorings loose last night. And she’d done it again today, too, without even so much as trying. Ah, but the picture she had presented just now had been priceless! Pink-cheeked, covered in rock dust and knee-deep in water—Dio, but she’d been the most beautiful sight. He’d seen the contentment on her face and the glint of mischief shining brighter than the gold flecks in her eyes, and he’d forgotten his purpose.

What was he to do now? He closed his eyes. Exactly what he’d intended, he supposed. Her artless confusion and hesitant manner convinced him of her innocence, but changed nothing, really.

Mateo had arrived in England with a purpose. He’d meant to rebuff Portia Tofton, thwart any attempt at manipulation and get his company back. Failing that, he meant to say a last goodbye to his old life—and move on to the new. Old expectations were of no more use than a leaky skiff. A clever man knew when to abandon them and move on.

‘Mateo, may I introduce my cousin and companion?’ She approached again with the new arrival in tow. ‘Miss Dorinda Tofton.’

‘Piacere, Miss Tofton.’ Mateo bowed respectfully over her hand. ‘It is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My old friend is fortunate indeed to be surrounded by such beauty.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Miss Tofton agreed with a sweep of her hand towards the lake. ‘Is it not the most charming prospect?’

‘Nearly as charming as her companion.’ He delivered the compliment smoothly, but with just the right touch of sincerity. A flush of pleasure pinked her pale cheeks, but she did not grow uneasy.

‘And almost as pleasant as a reunion with an old acquaintance.’ Miss Tofton knew how to play the game. She glanced over at Portia and her brow creased once more. ‘Please do not allow the manner of our greeting to dishearten you, sir. Though it may not look it, we have been awaiting your arrival with the utmost anticipation.’

‘Yes, yes, Dorrie.’ Portia grew impatient with the fussing. ‘I do thank you for coming today, Mateo. We must talk of your company, of course, and I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you.’

She called out suddenly to the men preparing to leave in the pony cart. ‘Billings, Newman! Just a moment, please!’

She turned back to Mateo. ‘Dorinda is right, though; I really must change before we speak. Perhaps you would care for a stroll about the gardens?’Mateo caught the significant glance she shot towards her companion and wondered what it foretold. ‘I would love you to see some of Stenbrooke before we discuss our…troubles.’

She smiled sweetly before he could protest. ‘We’ll bring your mount along to the stables, and you can get acquainted with Dorinda.’ Her hand swept towards the bridge. ‘It’s quite safe now, and there are some lovely vistas on the Cascade Walk.’

Again, he was given no chance to respond. In a flash she was gone up the hill and climbing into the cart. One of the labourers hitched his hired horse to the cart and jumped on the back as it jerked to a start.

‘Well…’ Miss Tofton sighed as she waved them off ‘…it’s an unorthodox reception you’ve had, to be sure, Mr Cardea, but as Portia tells me you’ve been acquainted since infancy, I gather you won’t be too surprised by it.’

Curbing his impatience, Mateo laughed. ‘Surprised that Portia let a landscaping project distract her from every other concern? Not at all, ma’am.’

She glanced askance at him. ‘I see you do indeed know Portia well.’

He gestured towards the lake and they set off at an easy pace. ‘Perhaps it surprises you that a half-Italian merchant sea captain should be on intimate terms with the family of an English earl?’

Her denial came quickly, and, if he were any judge, in sincere terms. ‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘Portiahas explained how close your fathers were. I have to say, I was more than a little jealous when she spoke of the visits back and forth your families undertook. It sounds infinitely more exciting than my own childhood.’

‘I admit it was great fun, in most instances.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And I will tell you, over the years, in all the months we spent together, there were always constants,’ he said. He held three fingers up. ‘During each and every visit, my father and Portia’s would spend at least one evening drinking and recounting the story of La Incandescent Clarisse.’He folded down one finger and laughed at the sight of her rolled eyes. ‘Yes, I see you are acquainted with the story.’

He ticked off another finger. ‘At least one of Portia’s brothers would rake up a scrape that I would be forced to rescue him from.’ He raised a brow. ‘Again, you do not look shocked.’

The last finger he wagged in her direction. ‘And three—whenever Portia went missing, we all knew to look in the gardens.’ He dropped his hand and sighed. ‘I have only just finished telling myself that in a world of chaos, it is most comfortable to know that some things do not change.’

Miss Tofton tucked her hand a little more firmly into the crook of his arm. For a few moments they walked in silence and Mateo welcomed the cool comfort of the shade as the path led them through a grove of birches.

‘I confess it is a relief to hear you speak fondly of Portia and her family,’ her companion said after a few minutes. ‘I realise that you have not had a chance to discuss…things, but I am very grateful to think that we might have your help.’

Curiosity quickened his pulse. But as so often happened with women, his silence had encouraged Miss Tofton to continue. ‘One thing I know from experience, Mr Cardea, and I would ask you to remember, is that a woman alone does not have an easy path in this world.’

‘None of us alone do, ma’am.’

‘You are right, of course, but I profess that it is particularly hard for a woman; we have so many more obstacles and fewer options, you see. A woman in such a situation must display more courage, resilience and determination than a man.’ She let go of his arm and crossed over to a pretty little bench. She ran her fingers over the scrolled ironwork, but did not sit. ‘Portia in particular is strong in many ways, but vulnerable in others. She’s had a difficult time of it since her husband died. Aside from the obvious repercussions, there’s been the unfortunate notoriety…’ She shook her head. ‘And debt—you would not believe some of the indignities she’s been exposed to in settling James Talbot’s debts.’

Debt Mateo could well believe. Even as a young man, J. T. Tofton’s tastes had run towards high stakes, fast horses and loose women—tastes that a mere squire’s son could not often indulge. But notoriety, indignities? The companion’s words and manner suggested something more than a husband who lived a little beyond his means. A sharp spike of curiosity peaked inside him, followed by a faint sense of shame.

‘You will be happy to hear, perhaps, that one area in which she has stood fast is in her belief in you, sir.’

‘Indeed?’ Shame quickly outpaced any other reaction.

‘Yes. 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 sigh.

‘For amoment,’ he relented. ‘And then, Portia, wetalk.’

Grudgingly, he stood and offered his arm. She took it, and then led him on a slow revolution about the house. She spoke ardently as they went, trying to convey her passion along with a picture of the estate as it used to be. And trying to subdue the hum of passion that coursed through her with every step.

But it was difficult. Her head might know how useless and more, how stupid, it was to fall into old patterns. Her heart might shrink, fearful of trusting the man who’d scorned her first, fledgling love and bruised her tender, young soul. But her body—her traitorous body didn’t care. It lit up for him, surging with awareness, trembling with intense response to his nearness.

How could it not? He was Mateo, and he was beautiful. Not the right word, perhaps, for a sun-browned example of strong and robust manhood, but the one she chose none the less. It was the beauty of character that he possessed—stamped into his laughing dark eyes, moulded into the kindness, the confidence and the absolute assurance of his manner. It called to her, just as it always had. And she could not answer.

So she talked instead of the choking ivy that they’d had to tear down, the sagging columns that had barely supported the first-floor balcony, the gradual replacement of the casement windows and large sections of the slate roof. She used every excuse to pull away, to walk ahead and remove herself from danger.

To her relief, he paid close attention, questioning her about the house and grounds, and when they circled back to the veranda he took his seat once more with a shake of his head.

‘I admit to being suitably impressed,’ he said to Dorrie as he held Portia’s chair. ‘Portia’s descriptions are so vivid that I can nearly see the sad state of disrepair that she first encountered here. The enormity of what you’ve accomplished is humbling.’ He gazed about at the tranquil scene. ‘I can only imagine the hue and cry and mess of reconstruction. It must have taken an army of labourers.’

Dorrie chuckled. ‘That’s exactly the remark that all visitors make.’

Conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the refreshments. Portia poured: tea for Dorrie and coffee for Mateo. Strong, hot and sweet—she recalled exactly how he liked it. The quirk of his lips told her that he noticed. He sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘I’m glad you realise the scope of the work we’ve done here, Mateo,’ Portia began, ignoring her own tea. ‘We started with the neglected fields first, and the orchards and the dairy. Once we had an actual income, we began on the house and the gardens.’ She leaned forwards. ‘But we’ve never had an army of hired workers. Everything we’ve done has been through the effort of our small staff and tenants. We’ve all worked hard and made something useful and beautiful. I know that you, of all people, understand what happens when people share goals, work and rewards.’

He stared. She thought he looked curious and a little resentful. ‘I think I know what you are trying to say, Portia. You’ve done an admirable job here.’ He pressed his lips together once more. ‘I suspect you mean to retain your control of Cardea Shipping, but before you decide, I ask that you listen to me, please—’

She cut him off. ‘No, what I’m trying to convey is that we are a family, Mateo. All of us here at Stenbrooke.’China clinked as she pushed her cup to the side. ‘And that is why I need you to help me save it.’

Mateo sat upright, jolted out of his customary lounge by the startling unpredictability of Portia’s words. In fact, that was not remotely what he’d been expecting her to say. He’d thought she’d been laying the groundwork, preparing him to accept her as the head of his company. Instead—

‘Save Stenbrooke?’ he asked. ‘From what? Explain please.’

Her pretty face twisted with pain. ‘You’ve complained that your father betrayed you. I find myself in complete sympathy, for mine failed me.’

‘I’m going to require a more thorough explanation than that.’

‘First I will tell you one last time—I have had no hand in your misfortune. I had no earthly idea of what your father was about, to will me controlling interest in your business.’

‘It is true, Mr Cardea,’ chimed in her companion. ‘I was here when her brother’s solicitor arrived bearing the news. I can testify to her utter shock.’

‘I panicked, in fact,’Portia said. ‘I thought something dreadful must have happened to you.’

Mateo saw sincerity in her eyes and an urgent need to be believed. ‘I’ll accept that—since we’ve met again, I already strongly suspected it. But what does it have to do with Stenbrooke?’

‘Nothing yet.’

Mateo caught his first glimpse of hesitation. He leaned forwards.

‘I was bewildered, but Anthony’s man didn’t have any answers. I sent a letter with him back to Hempshaw, thinking my brother would have them—or at least have news of you.’

‘And did he?’

She shook her head. Mateo watched several heavy strands of her honeyed hair fall from confinement and curl against the slender column of her neck. ‘No, neither. So I immediately sent a message to you, asking you to come and help me decipher this mess.’ Her gaze fell away. ‘I realise it might have been short, and perhaps awkward. That was precisely how I felt, considering how long it had been…and especially considering the nature of our last contact.’

Her hand rose and hovered near the bodice of her gown. Mateo recognised her obvious unease and thought back to her letter. It had indeed been curt and cryptic—and it had helped fuel his rising fury and suspicion. He sighed. It didn’t matter now, he supposed, but he was surprised at the intense relief that came with the knowledge that she had not conspired against him.

‘It was only a day or so later that yet another solicitor came calling—but for a very different reason.’ Portia exchanged a pained look with Miss Tofton. ‘He carried with him a deed of conveyance and informed me that Stenbrooke was no longer mine.’

Mateo shook his head. His brain hurt from the sudden shifts in this conversation. ‘How can that be?’

‘That was exactly our reaction,’ Miss Tofton said indignantly.

‘It could be—’ and now Portia’s voice rang with bitterness ‘—because of my rotten blighter of a husband.’

‘Portia!’

Mateo felt inclined to echo her companion’s gasp of shock.

‘I beg your pardon, Dorrie, but you are well aware of my feelings and Mateo might as well be, too.’

‘But to speak so of the dead…’ She shuddered.

‘Will not bother him in the least,’ Mateo assured her. He turned to Portia. ‘Please, go on.’

She nodded. ‘As you said, Stenbrooke came into my possession on my marriage. It was meant to be secured to me and my children in the marriage settlements. Somehow, my father failed to see it done.’ She fought to keep her resentment from overpowering her. ‘I have no notion how my father could have neglected to take care with the single most important thing in my life, but the fact remains that he didn’t. Stenbrooke therefore became my husband’s property, according to law.’ She paused. ‘And I had no idea. It was an oversight that no one saw fit to inform me of.’

Drawing a deep breath, she continued. ‘J.T. knew of it, obviously. He used the estate as a stake in a card game. He lost my home over a hand of faro—another fact that he neglected to tell me before he went and got himself so ignominiously killed.’

There was not enough room in Mateo’s head for all his myriad reactions to this conversation. A whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and feelings set his temples pounding. Ridiculous, then, that the one at the top was an ugly sense of satisfaction that perhaps Portia had not loved her husband.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he managed to say.

‘Oh, but you don’t even know the worst of it!’ Miss Tofton exclaimed. ‘This new owner is craven. He didn’t even have the decency to face Portia; he merely sent along a newly hired solicitor to deliver the news. And that dreadful man was in turn evasive and cruel. He said that his employer is an experimental agriculturist who is always in search of new ground for his research. He said it was quite likely that all of this would be ploughed under if ever he got his hands on Stenbrooke!’

Mateo narrowed his focus, and watched Portia intensely.

‘I want you to help me,’ she said simply.

He exhaled sharply. ‘And how do you expect me to do that? Portia, you must know why I’ve come. I want to make arrangements to buy back your interest in Cardea Shipping.’

She shook her head. ‘I won’t sell it to you.’

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the twisting of his stomach. ‘Perhaps just the Baltimore office, then. I started that branch myself, in the face of my father’s opposition. I confess, I don’t have enough ready capital of my own to buy you out completely, but I could likely manage just the one office.’

She shook her head again.

Now there was anger churning inside of him along with everything else. ‘Portia—’

‘No.’ She interrupted him yet again. ‘There will be no sale.’ Tension shone apparent in the thin line of her mouth and in every stiff angle of her body. ‘Instead I propose a simple trade. Stenbrooke for Cardea Shipping.’ Her hands gripped the end of the table until her knuckles whitened. ‘Buy Stenbrooke, Mateo, and sign it back over to me. Give me my life back, and I’ll give you yours.’

Portia clenched her teeth, her fists, and every muscle at her command as she waited for Mateo’s answer. He would agree. Of course he would. He had to.

His gaze, staring so boldly into hers, broke away. He exhaled sharply and pushed back from the table, crossing over to the stone balustrade. Leaning heavily, he stared out over the garden and beyond for several silent minutes. Portia’s head began to ache with the strain.

‘Why do you not go to your brother for assistance?’ he asked at last.

‘I have,’ she said, helpless against the bitterness that coloured her tone again. ‘Nothing there has changed since we were children. I am still the youngest, the baby of the family, and a woman besides. What need have I to live alone on my own estate?’ She rose to her feet and crossed over to the potted rosa rugosa. With quick, sharp movements she began to pick fading leaves off it, keeping an eye on his bent, still form all the while.

‘Anthony cannot spare the expense, and if he had that sort of ready income, he’d be honour bound to put it into his own estate. He sees no reason why I should not be happy to pack my things and move back to Hempshaw. His countess is overrun, you see, exhausted from birthing four boys in six years, and could use a bit of help with keeping them in hand.’

Mateo let loose a sharp bark of laughter, although there was little humour in it. ‘That is Anthony all over.’

‘Yes,’ she said flatly. ‘But I won’t have it. I am tired of being let down by the men who are supposed to have my best interests at heart. I want my home, Mateo. I want my independence.’

‘At the very least she should be allowed to use the London house,’ Dorrie complained. That had been her favourite plan for their future. ‘But her brother is adamant about saving expenses and has leased it out.’

Finally Mateo turned and looked at her.

‘The rest of the world would no doubt agree with my brother,’ she said. ‘But I had hoped that once you were here, and saw what we’ve done, you would understand. We’ve both had everything we wanted in our grasp, only to have it snatched away.’

His expression was carefully blank, but she could see the tension in the stiff line of his jaw. ‘I don’t have enough to purchase an estate like this.’ He gestured about him.

‘Perhaps not, but between the two of us, together in possession of a company like Cardea Shipping, surely we could, ah, liquidate some assets?’ Her spine had gone as rigid as stone, but she would not plead, even now. ‘I realise that the prospect is not pleasant, but it must be better than the alternative.’She let the unspoken threat hover.

But Mateo’s head had come up. ‘I suppose it could be done. We’ve the Lily Fair just in at Portsmouth with a cargo of flax-seed and fine walnut. And the agent there is as good as any we have in the company. The cargo itself will fetch a fair price, but once she’s unloaded, we could put it about that we’d like to sell her.’ His hands clenched on the balustrade behind him. ‘Dio, but I hate to give her up. She once made the run from Philadelphia to Liverpool in sixteen days, just two off the record.’

He stared unseeing at the terrace. ‘Her captain will be fair disappointed. I’ll have to reshuffle, offer him something special to keep him and his crew content. I’ll have to see her refitted, renegotiate with the insurers.’ He sighed then, and met her gaze. ‘But there’s no doubt she’ll fetch a fine price—perhaps enough so that with what I have set back, we won’t need to sacrifice any others. I’ll start the process.’ He grimaced. ‘And with both of our signatures upon the papers, there can be no questioning the order.’

He abandoned the balustrade and began to pace, his expression lighter than she’d yet seen. ‘There’ll be no need for me to linger, though. With her reputation, she’ll sell quickly. Our agents can handle the rest. And all you really need is funds. My own ship is waiting. A few days to draft up the exchange, leave instructions for proceeds from the sale to be sent to you, and I can be on my way.’

‘No,’ Portia said yet again.

Mateo stopped. He pivoted on his heel and turned to face her.

‘You must stay,’ she explained. ‘My brother is seriously annoyed that I will not let Stenbrooke go. He tells me there is nothing to be done and has forbidden his solicitors to aid me in this. After all the strife following his death, my husband’s solicitor will not even admit me any longer.’

Now she was on her feet and moving. ‘I have serious questions about the validity of this conveyance, but no one will give me any answers. I broached the subject of buying the estate back with the new owner’s solicitor, but he would not even agree to present the idea to his employer. This whole transaction seems cloaked in mystery, and no one will see it.’ She turned away, allowing sour frustration to leak into her words. ‘I am shushed like a child, patted on the head and ordered to pack my things.’ She spun back. ‘I am sick to death of it.’

She watched Mateo draw a deep breath. The excitement drained from his face even as it began to settle into an expression of exaggerated patience.

‘I’m afraid you don’t understand,’ he began. ‘There are business matters—’

She fought back a gasp. ‘Don’t you dare!’ She could not believe it. How did he dare to patronise her after all she’d told him? ‘Do not even think to speak to me in that reasonable tone! I’ve reached my limit, Mateo. I tell you now that I do not care what pressing business awaits you in Philadelphia. It has become painfully obvious that no one will take me seriously in this matter. Well, I am done being bullied, silenced and ignored. Clearly I need a man to aid me in this—and you are the only viable candidate.’

Anger flashed in his dark eyes and his jaw clenched. He moved away from the balustrade and began to pace from one end of the veranda to the other.

‘You will stay and help me with this matter until Stenbrooke’s deed is in my possession. Only then will I give you Cardea Shipping.’ Though she suffered a pang of guilt at his resentment, on that she must stand firm. ‘I am sorry to have to insist, but every other avenue is blocked.’ She tossed him a bitter glance. ‘I suppose I should not have hoped for sympathy. I doubt you have any notion how it might feel to be left without choices.’

‘Until now?’ he ground out.

She raised her chin.

‘And you would be wrong in any case,’ he continued bitterly. ‘You knew my father.’ He heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘He was a good man, as I know you will agree, but a hard one, as well, and one absolutely committed to his own path. You cannot imagine the frustration I have felt, the times I thought I must be crushed under his thumb. And now I find myself back in the same position.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Albeit, under a smaller, daintier thumb.’

Portia’s breath hitched. She’d been a fool to hope that they could get through this without harming each other’s feelings once again. But she would be free at last. She was determined. She was also fully aware of the great irony here; that the one man she must force to help her gain her independence was the only one she’d ever truly wished to give it up for.

She straightened her shoulders. ‘I would not place you in such a position if I could think of another way. So I suppose it is you who must decide. In the end you will get your legacy back, but you will have to wait, and I am afraid you will have to adjust to the weight of my thumb.’ She summoned her courage. ‘So—what will it be? Will you allow my hand on the rudder? Or is it too great a price to pay?’

His eyes glittered. ‘You may have the upper hand here, Portia, but I must insist that you keep your hands off my rudder.’

Careful. His pride had already been dealt a massive blow. She must handle this delicately, but the thought of surrendering her fate into the hands of another man made her reckless.

‘This is a crucial point, Mateo. We act as equals, or we do not act at all. I will not blithely turn this over for you to handle, while I sit at home. If you cannot accept me as a partner in this, then you will not get Cardea Shipping back.’

It was incongruous, the sight of him and his restless energy and gathering ire. He drew the eye, demanded attention, and looked completely out of place here in the midst of her green and tranquil haven. She blanched as he spun on his heel and approached her. The storm clouds were back, gathering across his brow.

‘So you do not trust me with your business, Portia?’ he asked in an acid tone. ‘No doubt you think I’ll be distracted by a stray wench and forget the weighty matters at hand.’He frowned. ‘Careful, cara, you begin to sound like my father.’

‘Nevertheless.’ Her chin thrust even higher. ‘What is it to be, then? Will you accept my terms? Or is the price too dear?’

‘Almost, it is,’ he growled. ‘Almost, you tempt me to fling your offer back in your teeth. But I will do it. As you knew I would. I’ve no choice, really, do I?’

His words cut the taut line of tension running up her spine. She collapsed, sinking back onto the support of the balustrade. Relief and a fierce, hot joy blossomed in her chest.

‘Give me a name,’ he demanded. ‘Where do I find this man and his deed of conveyance?’

It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts. A great weight had been lifted from her. For the first time in months she felt…light. Hopeful. Happy. She sucked in a breath, wanting to smell and taste and wallow in it.

‘Portia? Dear, are you all right?’ Dorinda eyed her with concern.

She breathed out. ‘Of course. Mr Rankin is his name,’ she said to Mateo. ‘He has offices in Newbury.’

‘How far?’

‘Less than an hour’s ride.’

‘I’ll see him tomorrow. You can be sure that I will only ask questions, scope the lay of the land. I’ll not make a single decision,’ he said sourly, ‘and I’ll call when I return to tell you of the outcome.’ He turned away from her and sketched a brief bow in Dorrie’s direction. ‘Miss Tofton, it was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ Without hesitation he turned and strode for the steps.

‘But…Mateo, wait!’ Portia crossed the veranda in a hurry and leaned over in the exact spot he had so recently vacated.

‘No. By God, I have no patience for any more today.’ He paused and looked up at her. She recoiled at the annoyance and frustration suddenly visible in the depth of his dark gaze. ‘I do not know how you do it, Portia, but always you poke and stir in just the right spots to send my temper flaring. I leave now, before either of us gets burned.’

Abruptly silenced, she pursed her lips and watched him stride away.

Chapter Four

Better a serpent with two heads than a man with two minds. It was advice that his nona had always delivered earnestly to his female cousins. Mateo had suddenly developed a more perfect understanding of what she had meant.

He’d been horrified at Portia’s flat refusal to sell him back her portion of Cardea Shipping, and then he’d nearly shouted out his pleasure and relief at her proposal. Of course he had. It was a good solution—one that he would likely have come up with, had he found himself thrust into her unenviable predicament.

Cardea Shipping would be his again. Soon enough he’d have the freedom of the open sea before him, and the streets of Philadelphia underfoot. And then, at last, the autonomy to steer the business where he believed it needed to go. He clenched his fists. The family’s docks would be a hive of activity again, their warehouses full to bursting. And those who had long scorned his ideas and lately laughed at his misfortune would soon be eating their words. He would prove to the merchant community of Philadelphia at last that they must let go of their past to secure their future.

His elation would be complete—were it not for the delay. Time was of the essence. Cardea Shipping had been on the brink of their most important venture in years when his father had died, and Mateo was going to have to hurry to salvage what he could of it. He could only hope that this business with Stenbrooke would go quickly.

And truthfully, something else had him swallowing a bilious rush of anger, even as he left the gloom of the inn and stood blinking in the bright morning sun. In his head he understood and even empathised with Portia’s position, but he could not completely subdue the small, ugly ball of resentment churning in him.

She didn’t trust him—and, oh, how that stung. The wound of his father’s mistrust still lay open and now she rubbed it raw.

Purposefully, Mateo breathed deep and brushed such small thoughts aside. Where was his mount? The sooner he set this devil’s bargain in motion, the sooner he’d have his business back on course.

He turned back and opened the inn door. Impatient, he called for the innkeeper. Abbott, he’d discovered the man’s name to be, an irony which he found to be humorous on several levels.

‘Abbot!’ he called. ‘I thought you’d sent word to the stables?’

The man came from the kitchens, brushing his hands on a stained apron. ‘Yes, sir, I did. It’ll be just a minute, though. We had a late customer come in. He was up early and bespoke my last nag for hire. I’ve sent to the livery in town for another.’

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