Portia should have made an excuse so she could have avoided coming to London, but the truth was that sooner or later she’d have to return and confront her demons. Sooner was better, get it behind her.

She’d had the coachman take her to a dressmaker’s—one of the more posh establishments that catered to ladies of nobility, according to the gossip rags—and told him to return for her in four hours. Once she’d been fitted for a lilac ball gown and another blue gown, she’d walked out and hired a hansom to bring her to the outskirts of London.

She regretted that the blue gown wouldn’t look exactly as the one before it, but what she had described to the seamstress didn’t look quite right when she’d finished sketching it out. Still, Portia couldn’t risk going to Lola, the woman she’d used before, couldn’t take a chance on someone recognizing her, spreading the word that she was here, and the truth of her past coming to light. Lola’s clients didn’t include noble ladies, but those for whom she did sew clothing kept quite a few aristocratic men company.

Which begged the question: What the devil was Portia doing slowly walking through her old neighborhood, strolling by her prior residence? She couldn’t linger, couldn’t stand on the corner and watch, hoping to catch sight of a new resident now. But she thought if she walked by she might be able to determine if someone else lived there, if Montie had moved on. If he’d replaced her, it was quite possible that even if he spotted her, he wouldn’t care. He’d ignore her. His pride would force him to.

He had so damned much pride. As much as her father. She’d thought all men were the same until Locksley. It would be so much easier if she hadn’t come to care for him. While she knew it had been wrong to marry him, he’d been so unpleasant when they’d first met that she convinced herself he deserved what he got: a woman of sin who had once belonged to another.

But now . . .

Dear God, she would sell her soul to Satan and gladly spend eternity burning in hell for the chance to go back in time, to have folded up that contract when he tossed it back into her lap, to have walked out of the residence, out of his life. She’d never expected him to want to appear in public—in London, among his peers—with her at his side. She’d stupidly thought he’d relegate her to the bedchamber as Montie had. That he’d keep her sequestered at Havisham Hall. That she would be his dirty little secret.

As she neared the townhome where she had lived for two years, memories assailed her. The joy, the happiness, the sadness, the heartbreak. She had grown up here in the presence of a man far more brutal than her father. Her father had struck at her flesh. Montie had struck at her young, vulnerable heart.

She’d thought it would forever remain shattered, but it had somehow pieced itself together and had fallen once more.

A door opened, in the townhome next to what had been hers. Portia froze, not even daring to breathe, as she watched the young woman exiting. Sophie. Portia didn’t know her last name. In this part of London, on this street in particular, women did not own up to their surnames.

Portia turned before she could be spotted and began walking in the other direction. The action shamed her. She’d once enjoyed tea with Sophie on numerous occasions. They’d pretended to be ladies of quality delicately sipping Darjeeling while chatting about tawdry things that ladies of quality would never discuss. Through Sophie—who had a reputation for being incredibly knowledgeable in the ways of men—Portia had learned the skills necessary to please a man, to act coy, to hold his interest. Although in hindsight, she had to admit she’d learned a great deal more from Locksley, yearned to please him more than she’d ever wanted to please Montie. It was a strange path she’d traveled to get where she was today. Sophie had been instrumental in helping her escape, and here Portia was running away from the only person she’d been able to call friend since the day she learned that her family refused to acknowledge her.

And here she was secretly snubbing that person for fear that she’d again be judged, that the one person she had trusted might betray her. She was stronger than this, better than this. Abruptly, she spun around.

But Sophie was nowhere to be seen. She hated the relief that swamped her. She was safe, her secret was safe. For now.

She wanted to wait here and see if anyone emerged from her former dwelling, but her curiosity, her possible peace of mind, wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, Montie’s possibly moving on didn’t guarantee that he would leave her alone. All she could do was hope that her plans weren’t on the verge of coming unraveled.

“I like your new blue gown.”

Tugging on her gloves at her dressing table, Portia glanced over to her husband standing in the doorway that joined the two bedchambers. Dressed in his evening finery that included a black swallow-tailed coat and waistcoat, pristine white shirt and a light gray cravat, he was no doubt the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.

“It’s not exactly like the one before it,” she said, wondering how it was that after all these months he managed to take away her breath.

“Close enough. A shame your previous seamstress closed up shop.”

A small lie she’d told to explain why she was going to a different dressmaker. “I like the new one I’ve found.”

“Good.” His stride was slow, lazy, as he approached. “Also a shame you must wear gloves.”

“It’s a proper ball. A proper lady wears proper gloves to a proper ball.” As though to demonstrate, she gave a gentle tug on the end of each glove where it rested just above her elbow.

They’d been in London for a little over a week, not attending any social functions because he didn’t deem any of them grand enough for the unveiling of his wife. But tonight’s ball—hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon—was certain to be well attended, as they were one of the most beloved couples in all of London. Thanks to the gossip sheets, Portia knew all about them. The affair would be a mad crush of people. While she might be introduced to everyone who was anyone, it was also possible that she might be able to avoid running into anyone she didn’t wish to encounter. She rose. “Let me just get my wrap.”

She was in the process of taking a step and turning when he placed a hand on her bared shoulder. “Wait.”

He had yet to put on his gloves, and the warmth of his skin on hers caused her to melt just a little. How was she going to make it through the evening without giving away how badly she wanted him whenever he touched her? “Do we really need to go out?” she asked, offering her most sultry look and placing a gloved hand so it rested partway on his waistcoat, partway on his shirt.

“Introducing you to Society was one of the reasons we came to London.”

“I thought you came here because you had matters to see to.”

“I did, and one of those matters involves tonight. I’ve been fending off questions about you since we arrived. At the Lovingdon ball, the curious will be appeased.”

“I worry that I’ll embarrass you.”

“Good God, Portia, where’s the woman to whom I opened the door, the one who mistook me for a footman?”

That woman hadn’t cared about him, hadn’t wanted to make him proud, had cared only about her own needs. She angled her chin. “I was under the impression that you weren’t too keen on me that day.”

He trailed his finger along her collarbone. “Still, you managed to win me over, didn’t you?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. As much as she craved his love, she could think of nothing worse than obtaining it.

“Here, a little something to commemorate the night.”

Glancing down, she saw the black velvet box he extended toward her. Where had that come from? A jacket pocket obviously. Her emotions were already raw, her nerves frayed. A gift from him would only fill her with more regrets. She shook her head. “You’ve given me enough. A new gown, a dressing table, the piano tuned—”

“Let’s not argue about this.”

“But it’s jewelry, isn’t it? It’s too much, too personal.”

“You’re my wife.”

“Not because you wanted me to be.”

“I want you to be tonight.” With his free hand, he cradled her cheek. “Tonight you’ll be the most beautiful woman there, the most generous, the most mysterious, the cleverest, the boldest. And the only one without a piece of jewelry.”

Her stomach loosened. “So this is for you, so your wife doesn’t appear to be a pauper.”

“We’ll say that’s the case if it’ll allow you to take it.”

Which meant it wasn’t the case. “Was it your mother’s?”

“No. I purchased it this week. It occurred to me that I’ve never seen you wear jewelry.”

“I wear a ring.”

“Then wear this as well.” He took her hand and closed it around the velvet. “One is always supposed to be grateful for a gift.”

“I’ve never known one not to come without strings.”

“No strings, Portia. You’re the wife of a lord and as such, you should wear jewelry.”

So it was his pride. Easier to accept knowing that. But when she opened the case, when she saw the beautiful pearl necklace and matching bracelet, she couldn’t refrain from releasing a sigh of pleasure.

“You like it?”

It was strange to hear the doubt in his voice, to know her opinion mattered.

“It’s perfect. Simple yet elegant. I didn’t realize you had such good taste.”

“I married—” He stopped, cleared his throat and took the velvet box from her.

She could only surmise that he’d been about to say that he’d married her as a sign of his good taste, and then thought better of it. It showed his bad taste whether he knew it or not. Taking the necklace, he moved in behind her and secured it at her throat.

Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t believe how the small pearls transformed her, at least providing the illusion she was a lady. He placed her bracelet at her wrist.

She touched his jaw. “I don’t deserve you, and you certainly deserve better than me.”

“I’m not so certain then that we’re not well matched if we both think the other deserves better.”

She was devastated with the realization that he thought she deserved better than him. All she could do was ensure that she was worthy of him. She touched her fingers to the cool pearls at her throat. “I’m the luckiest woman in all of London to have you as my husband.”

Placing his hands on her shoulders, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck, he held her gaze in the reflection. “After we return home, I’m removing everything from you except the pearls. When I’m done with you, I promise you will consider yourself the luckiest woman in all of Great Britain.”

While a husband had the right to sit beside his wife in the coach, Locke preferred sitting across from his because it afforded him the opportunity to gaze on her more fully, to watch her more closely. Every now and then the light from the streetlamps they passed would reflect off the pearls. He’d bought them because he wanted to lavish her with gifts, wanted her to have everything she’d ever desired.

It was crushing him to realize how much he cared for her.

She was gorgeous in the blue. Whenever she looked at him, there was always a sultriness to her gaze that caused his body to react as though she’d stripped herself bare. But it was more than the sex that appealed to him. It was her generosity of spirit, the way she was uncomfortable accepting something as simple as pearls.

Those who met her tonight would be captivated. She could hold her own. Of that he had no doubt.

“It didn’t occur to me to ask if you danced,” he said.

Her lips curled up into a soft smile. “I attended a country dance or two. And I’m quite adept at following.”

“I hadn’t noticed you being quite so docile as all that.”

“You wouldn’t care for me much if I were docile.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He liked that she was strong, knew her own mind, went after what she wanted—even if it had brought her to his father’s door.

“Are you friends with the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon?” she asked.

“I know them relatively well. You’ll like them, and they’ll like you. I chose their ball because the duchess is particularly kind when it comes to easing people into Society. Neither of them have any prejudice against commoners since a good many of their close relatives aren’t nobility by birth.”

“I don’t think the aristocracy is what it once was.”

“I fear you’re right. I suppose it goes without saying that you’re not to discuss my role at the mines.”

“Work is nothing of which to be ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed—” Except maybe he was. He hadn’t told Ashe or Edward that he’d taken to digging alongside the miners. “I simply prefer that my business remain private.”

“I’m proud of you, you know. Proud to be your wife.” She glanced quickly out the window as though she’d revealed too much.

He was grateful that she was absorbed in the passing scenery rather than the shock and relief that had no doubt crossed his features. He was usually so good at keeping his thoughts, his feelings to himself, but she somehow always managed to unman him.

“It takes a great deal of courage to do what one must when it goes against the grain.” She peered over at him. “I know you’d rather not be working the mines.”

“All gentlemen prefer a life of leisure.”

“Only you’ve never had one, not really. It can’t have been easy growing up without a mother. Then all the traveling you’ve done. You went on expeditions that pushed you to your limits. You returned home to care for your father, the estates. Nothing easy in that. I’ve come to admire you, Locksley. I wish . . .”

Her voice trailed off, her attention went back to the window.

“You wish what?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Portia?”

“I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

Under different circumstances, the moment he’d have deduced she was a woman he might come to like or admire, he’d have walked away in order to protect his heart and his sanity. “Is there any other situation under which we might have met?”

A sad, hollow burst of laughter echoed throughout the coach. “Not anything particularly ideal, I’m sure.”

The coach slowed, stopped. She leaned closer to the window. “It appears we’re here. There’s quite a queue of vehicles.”

“It tends to move quickly. Shouldn’t take us long to get to the front.”

Portia bobbed her head, released a long sigh, and touched her fingers to the pearls, torn between wishing to get all of this over with and hoping the ball might have ended by the time they arrived. But Locksley was correct. The coach pulled to a stop in the curved drive sooner than she’d expected. A footman leaped into action, opening the door, handing her down. Once she was standing on the drive, she could see that they weren’t unloading a single carriage at a time but were unloading several so they could make way for the next group.

So many people dressed in glorious finery were climbing up the wide steps that led to the open door.

“Try not to gawk,” Locksley said, offering his arm.

“It’s an incredibly large residence.”

“It’s just a residence.”

“That’s rather like saying the queen is just a woman.”

“To Albert, she probably was.”

“It is said she ruled his heart. Do you think he could forget that she ruled an empire as well?”

“I should think love would demand it, but then it’s not my area of expertise.”

They walked into the foyer and Portia was struck not only by its magnificence but by the sense that it was truly a home. Love resided here.

They were guided into the front parlor where they deposited her wrap, his hat, and his cane. Then they followed the line up the stairs. Locksley acknowledged those standing nearest to them, introduced her, but she was too in awe of her surroundings to remember names.

She’d once dreamed of this, of attending an affair such as this one. She’d thought when she’d left Fairings Cross that this was her future, only she’d anticipated standing beside a different man, one who loved her, one whom she loved. She’d finally arrived but not at all as she expected.

They walked through a doorway and onto a landing. A gentleman was announcing guests, who would then descend into the ballroom. The mirrors glistened; the chandeliers sparkled. She imagined the ballroom at Havisham would have held its own against this one.

One couple was before them. She was keenly aware of Locksley leaning down, brushing his lips over her ear. “I’m equally proud to have you at my side this evening, Portia.”

Gratitude washed through her, even as guilt pricked at her conscience. Before she could utter so much as a syllable, he’d straightened, stepped forward, and handed the invitation to the majordomo.

“Lord and Lady Locksley!” he announced.

Then her husband was escorting her down the stairs that would lead her into either heaven or hell.