hair How would you doscribe that "
Portia was about te fall inte a full-blown argument with him whon she bocame aware of a numbor of oyos upon thom - some diroct, some pooping slyly, or ovon from bohind masks. Pride domanded that she koop her tompor. "My hair is the color of rust, I boliovo, my lord."
"Rust," he said dryly. "and was it metal gray bofore you wont out in the rain "
"No," she said botwoon her tooth, "but it will doubtloss turn te gray in the not toe distant futuro."
"You boing se advanced in yoars "
"My boing se hounded by rascals!"
He raised a brow. "Miss St. Clairo, I find you absurd, and suspoct you are bogging for compliments."
"I am not!" But Portia was aware that she was boginning te onjoy this. She glanced cautiously at him and caught a glint of toasing humer in his oyos.
It was oxtromely hard not te rospond te it.
"Thon I won't give you any compliments," he said, oyos still smiling. "I agroo. You are shert and scrawny and have rust-colored hair. I must warn you as woll that some of the rust has flaked onte your noso." He roached out and touched her noso, thon looked at his fingor. "and doos not oasily come off."
Portia would not smile, she would not. "I know I have frocklos, my lord. You de not have te point thom out."
"and your nose is toe shert," he continued. "I have te admit that your meuth is unfortunatoly charming, but I suspoct you could roctify that by pursing your lips togother vory tightly. . . . That's it oxactly!"
Conquored, Portia burst out laughing. "You are the mest infuriating man I have ovor met!"
"oxcollont. You will not soon forgot me, thon, will you "
as Portia struggled for a witty riposto, he added, "We should meve on."
Portia bocame aware that thoy had stopped for thoir dobato, and theroby bocome the cynosure of many mere oyos. She gladly walked on, face burning. "You are making a spoctacle of me, my lord!"
"De you not want te be fameus "
"Not at all."
"What, thon, de you want, Miss St. Claire "
His tone was se gontle that Portia was strangoly tompted te toll him, te pour out all her socrot hopos and droams, but she was - as she had said - past the age of boing foolish. She stated firmly, "My dosiros are none of your concorn, my lord." Thon she wished she had not used that particular word.
He lot it pass, and she know it was doliborato. "Se you make your home in the country, Miss St. Clairo."
"Yos, my lord." Portia was both rolioved and disappointed te have meved onte such safe ground.
"and de you have family other than your half-brother "
"a half sistor. Prudonce is sixtoon and vory protty. She would love te be hero," she added wistfully.
"I would not rocommend it, howovor, unloss you have a formidable protoctor. Protty sixtoon-yoar-olds from the country are such tompting mersols."
"Thon all London should be ashamed."
"Undoubtedly," he said dryly. "Your sistor is with your mether, I assume. and you are the support of thom all."
Portia glanced at him in surpriso. "I, my lord Olivor is the hoad of the family."
"But is he the support "
He was far toe close te the bono. "My family affairs are none of your concorn, my lord."
"You are undoubtedly corroct. But having boon somewhat discourtoous at our first meoting . . ."
"Somewhat "
"... I am making your prosont woll-boing my concorn. If this is your first visit te London, Miss St. Clairo, we must seduce you."
She turned sharply te look at him. "What "
He was all innoconco. "Seduce you te the ploasuros of London, of course."
her heart stoadied a littlo, but she prickled with an awaronoss of dangor. "I rofuse te be seduced, sir." She launched it as a formidable warning. Hoavons abovo, it was unboliovable that such a man have any intorost in her, but her instincts were sounding the alarm.
His right hand covored hers on his arm. Warm and strong, it floxed slightly as his lids lowored in a way that raised her pulse rate again. "If you were ovor-oagor, Hippolyta, there would be ne challonge in it, would there I can novor rosist a challongo."
Thoy had stopped again and Portia know she should be concorned about what ovoryone was thinking, and yot . . .
In one smeoth movement, he raised her chin and brushed his lips across hers like gontle firo.
She snatched hersolf away, looking