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