The Perfect Lover

9

They walked side by side across the gardens, then on via the path through the woods. She didn’t take Simon’s arm, he didn’t offer it, yet despite the lack of touch, she was very much aware he was with her. Beside her, not crowding her. Given the turmoil her temper was in, she appreciated the fact and was grateful.

He, of course, was the last person she’d actually wanted to meet, given the subject she wanted-needed-to think about. To dissect, examine, ultimately to understand. Given the nature of that subject, given he was so intimately involved, literally as well as figuratively, she’d expected to feel some degree of… not shyness, but uncertainty when alone with him. When close to him.

Instead, all she’d felt, still felt, was safe, both now and throughout the day. Not necessarily completely comfortable, but assuredly not trepidatious. She was absolutely certain he would always behave predictably, that he, all he was, would never change; he would never be, could never be, the source of any threat to her.

Not physically. Emotionally might be a different tale.

Mentally grimacing, she kept her eyes down and walked steadily on. Aware of him prowling beside her.

Aware she drew comfort from his presence.

It was Kitty and her doings that had once again distracted her, this time disturbing her in a more profound way. In response, it was doubtless only natural to draw close to those she understood and trusted. Like Lady O.

Like Simon.

They emerged onto the side of the ridge, a stretch of path where the wood fell back and the winds blew up from the distant sea. A breath of freshness reached them, the first stirrings of the storm still far away. The waft of cooler air lifted the curls from her nape, sent others dancing about her face.

She halted, tucking the wayward strands back, lifting her face to the faint breeze.

Simon stopped by her shoulder, raised his head, looked out over the fields to the black clouds roiling on the distant horizon. Then he let his gaze swing back to Portia’s face.

He hadn’t been surprised to find her in the gardens. Any other lady would have been resting, recuperating from the exertions of the day. Not Portia.

His lips twitched at a mental image of her listless and die-away, lethargic on her bed. She was the most energetic woman he knew, full of restless, seemingly boundless energy, one facet of her that had always attracted him in a flagrantly physical way.

He’d never known her to pretend to a delicacy with which she wasn’t afflicted. Her unflagging zest had always been enough to keep up with him.

Quite possibly in any sphere.

He let his gaze sweep down, over her supple, slender figure, down over the length of her long, long legs. Poised as she was, she vibrated with vitality, with vigorous life.

Definitely a point in her favor.

Currently, however, she was as distracted as he’d ever seen her.

“What’s the matter?”

She glanced at him, searched his face briefly, confirming what she’d heard in his tone-that he wasn’t about to be fobbed off with anything short of the truth.

Her lips twisted; she looked back at the view. “Kitty’s pregnant. This morning, I overheard her telling Winifred-trying to get Winifred to think the baby was Desmond’s.”

He made no effort to mask his distaste. “How very unappealing.”

“The baby isn’t Henry’s.”

“So I would suppose.”

She glanced at him, frowned. “Why?”

He met her gaze. Grimaced. “I gather she and Henry have been estranged for some time.” He hesitated, then continued, “I suspect what we overheard the other night between Henry and James was discussion of a possible divorce.”

“Divorce?”

Portia stared at him. He didn’t need to spell out the implications for her; a divorce would mean scandal, and in this case total ostracism for Kitty.

She looked away. “I wonder if Kitty knows?” She paused, then went on, “Just now, I heard Mrs. Archer and Kitty discussing the matter. What Kitty intends to do.”

It wasn’t his child, yet his gut chilled. “What was she proposing?”

“She doesn’t want the child. She doesn’t want to grow fat and… I think she simply doesn’t want anything to get in the way of what she calls excitement-something she considers her due.”

He was out of his depth. With a slew of sisters, older and younger, he’d thought he had at least a passing acquaintance with the female psyche, yet Kitty was beyond his comprehension. Portia turned and headed on; he followed, ambling beside her.

Knowing full well that whatever had been bothering her was still exercising her mind. He let her wrestle with it as they trailed along the crest, and through the next section of the wood. When they emerged onto the final open stretch along the ridge above Ashmore village, and the vertical crease between her brows was still there, he stopped. Waited until she realized and turned to look at him questioningly.

“What is it?”

Her eyes remained steady on his, then her lips twisted, and she looked away. He waited, silent; after a moment, she glanced at him. “You have to promise not to laugh.”

He opened his eyes wide.

She frowned, looked away, started strolling, paused until he joined her, then walked on but slowly, brows drawn down. “I’ve been wondering… later… after, if… well, would I-could I-turn out like Kitty?”

“Like Kitty?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine what she meant.

She glanced at his face, frowned harder. “Like Kitty, with her addiction to excitement.”

He stopped. She did, too.

He couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Not even her thinning lips, not even the fury flaring in her eyes could stop him.

“You promised!” She swatted him.

That only made stopping all the harder.

“You-!” She biffed him again.

He caught her hands, held them down, locked in his. “No-stop.” He dragged in a breath, his gaze on her face. The real worry and confusion in her eyes-clear now she’d lost her temper-hauled him back to sobriety with a thump. She couldn’t believe…?

He captured her gaze, held it. “There is no possibility in this world that you could ever be like Kitty. That you would ever convert to something like her.” She didn’t look convinced. “Believe me-none. No prospect at all.”

Narrow-eyed, from behind the black screen of her lashes, she studied his face. “How do you know?”

Because he knew her.

“You are not Kitty.” He heard the words, dragged in a breath and invested the next phrases with absolute conviction. “You could never-would never-behave like her.”

She held his gaze, her expression still unsure.

He suddenly realized just what they were talking about-all they were talking about. His lungs contracted, his throat tightened as he realized she-they-stood teetering on a precipice. He’d known, expected, would have been shocked if she hadn’t had reservations, if she hadn’t thought long and hard before giving herself to him.

Knowing her so well, her curiosity, her willful need to know, he’d been confident of her ultimate decision. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined Kitty would throw up a hurdle, let alone a hurdle like this.

He searched Portia’s eyes as she searched his. Hers were so dark, the color of midnight, only strong emotions were easy to define. Now, they were simply less sharp, clouded by uncertainty-an uncertainty that was self-directed, not, as he’d anticipated, directed at him.

She blinked; he sensed her retreating. Instinctively reacted.

“Trust me.” He gripped her hands tighter, captured her gaze anew, then he altered his grip and lifted her hands, first one, then the other, to his lips. “Just trust me.”

Her eyes had widened. After a moment, she asked, “How can you be so sure?”

“Because it…” Lost in her eyes, aware he had to speak the absolute truth, he couldn’t for the life of him think of words to describe all that they meant by that, the reality of what they were discussing. “This-all that’s between us, all that could be-not even that would ever be strong enough to change you. To make you into a different person.”

She frowned, but in thought, not rejection. He let her draw her hands from his; she turned and faced the fields, looking, perhaps, but not seeing.

After a moment, she swung around and walked on toward the lookout. He stirred, and followed on her heels. They reached the lookout and went inside. She stared out at the Solent. Two feet away, he shoved his hands in his pockets and waited.

He didn’t dare touch her, didn’t dare press her in any way.

She glanced at his face, then slowly ran her gaze down his frame, as if she could sense the tension investing every muscle. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she raised a brow. “I thought… expected you to be more persuasive.”

Jaw locked, he shook his head. “The decision’s yours. You have to make it.”

She was going to ask why-he saw it in her eyes-but then she hesitated, looked away.

A minute later, she turned from the view. He followed her out, ducking under the wooden archway; they headed back to the Hall.

They walked in silence, their usual easy, oddly connected silence. They were aware of each other, yet were content pursuing their own thoughts, knowing the other would not take umbrage, wouldn’t expect attention.

His thoughts were all of her, of them. Of what was between them, that suddenly broadening, deepening connection. It was developing in ways he hadn’t expected, yet now he saw them, far from reining back-something his rakish self was certain he should do-other instincts, deeper instincts, insisted he should press on, grab, seize, lay claim. That he should be pleased with the strength he sensed, with the emotional depth, with the strands that were being woven from elements unrelated to the physical, linking them in ways he doubted either had foreseen.

He’d recognized from the first that getting her to trust him enough to accept him as her husband would be a difficult task. Doing so against the backdrop of the disintegration of Henry and Kitty’s marriage was creating unexpected scenarios, forcing him to consider things, to evaluate aspects, feelings, expectations he otherwise would have taken for granted.

Like the fact he trusted Portia completely, unequivocally-and why. Why the thought of her turning into another Kitty was so ludicrous, why he’d laughed.

She couldn’t become another Kitty, and still be Portia.

Her strength of character-that backbone of steel he’d long known in his sisters and recognized long ago, even more intensely, in her-simply wouldn’t permit it. In that, he knew her perhaps better than she knew herself.

He had unwavering confidence in her steel.

Never before had he considered that attribute at all necessary in a wife.

Now he realized how precious it was.

Recognized in it a guarantee sufficient to reassure that deeply buried part of him that, even now, even despite his decision and his own rigid will, shied from the mere thought of accepting the vulnerability of the Cynsters’ Achilles’ heel, from the emotional commitment that, for them, was an inherent part of marriage.

They’d reached the gardens and the wisteria-covered walk. The house loomed ahead.

Putting a hand on her sleeve, he slowed; she halted and turned to him. Sliding his fingers down to her hand, he interdigitated his fingers with hers, looked into her dark eyes.

“One thing I will promise.” He raised her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, holding her gaze all the while. “I will never hurt you. Not in any way.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t move; for a long moment, gazes locked, they simply stood. Then she drew breath, inclined her head.

Placing her hand on his arm, he turned to the house.

It was indeed her decision; she was relieved he saw and accepted that.

On the other hand, she wasn’t at all certain how to interpret such uncharacteristic magnanimity on his part. Uncharacterisitic it certainly was; he wanted her, desired her-knowing him for the despot he truly was beneath the elegant glamor, Portia required some explanation for his restraint, his patience.

Later that evening, she stood before her window and considered what it might be. And how it might impinge on her decision.

During the half hour in the drawing room, Simon had found a moment to murmur, low enough so only she could hear, the precise location of the bedchamber he’d been given, just in case she needed to know. If she’d thought he was pressuring her she would have glared, but one look into his eyes had confirmed that he was, indeed, battling his own instincts not to do so, and to that point was still holding the line.

She’d inclined her head, then others had joined them, and their privacy was gone. Nevertheless, she remained highly conscious that he was waiting for some sign of her decision.

Throughout dinner, from across the table she’d watched him-covertly, yet if the other guests hadn’t been so intent on managing the conversation, keeping it strictly within bounds, someone would have noticed.

Kitty had for once been useful; not, of course, intentionally. She’d reverted to her earlier role, but with greater dramatic flair; tonight, she was a lady grievously misjudged, determinedly, heroically, keeping her chin high despite the slings and arrows of those who should know better.

The ladies had repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen about the table. No one had had any wish for a lengthy evening; the atmosphere remained close, the emotions swirling between Kitty and various others fraught and tense. The tea trolley arrived early; after one cup, all the ladies had retired.

Which brought Portia to where she was now, staring out at the darkness considering her decision, the one she and only she could make.

For all that, her decision hinged on Simon.

Despite their previous history, indeed in part because of it, she hadn’t been surprised when he’d stepped in and consented to act as her guide in her exploration of the physical interactions between a man and a woman. He hadn’t approved, not at first, but he’d quickly capitulated once he’d seen she was set on her course; he’d known very well that if he’d refused, she would have gone ahead with some other man. From his insistently protective point of view, her going forward with him was, regardless of all else, better than her going forward with another.

None of which mitigated the facts that he was a Cynster, and she was an Ashford; they were both of the haut ton. If she’d been younger, a more innocent and gentle sort of lady, or one he didn’t know well, she would have wagered her pearls any unintentional intimacy would have resulted in a “now I’ve seduced you, I’ll have to marry you” decree.

Luckily, that wasn’t the case between them. He did know her-very well. He wouldn’t have aided her in her quest for knowledge if he’d believed that in so doing he was committing any dishonorable act; she felt ridiculously pleased that he’d accepted she had as much right to sexual exploration as he.

That right, she assumed, was enough to absolve him of any moral responsibility, any requirement to indulge in high-handed interference and paternalistic disapproval. He’d acted always at her behest, and subject to her active consent.

He wasn’t seducing her in the customary sense; he was merely agreeable-available-should she wish to be seduced.

Presumably his steadfast reticence, his determination not to pressure her, was some reflection of that, some convoluted male dictate of what was honorable in such circumstances. Perhaps that was the way a willing seduction was played out.

All that had occurred between them thus far was as she’d wished, as she’d wanted. The decision facing her was whether she wanted more-whether she truly wanted to take the final step, draw aside the last veil, and learn all.

The scholar within her wanted to rush ahead; her more pragmatic side insisted she weigh the pros and cons.

To her mind-even to most other minds-her age and status as an almost-confirmed apeleader freed her from missish considerations of virginity. If she didn’t, at some point, stick her toe in the water and learn what she deemed necessary, then she might well never marry, so what would be the point? For her, virginity was an outdated concept.

The risk of pregnancy was real, but acceptable, one she didn’t, in truth, mind running. Unlike Kitty, she wanted children of her own; given she had a strong and supportive family, given she cared little for the social world, there were ways such a circumstance could be managed. Provided she never admitted who the father was; her sense of self-preservation was far too strong to make such a mistake.

Otherwise, Simon’s certainty had slain her worry that, if the emotion growing between them proved to be lust, she might become addicted to the physical excitement as Kitty seemed to be; his sincerity and conviction had been too strong to doubt, and his reputation guaranteed he’d had ample opportunity to form an expert opinion on such a question.

All in all, no insurmountable cons presented themselves, not from personal considerations.

As for the pros, she knew what she wanted, what she wished. She wanted to learn everything about marriage before she committed herself to the institution; she needed to understand the physical aspects of what she might be getting herself into. The mess Kitty had made of her marriage only underscored the necessity of gaining a proper understanding before approaching the altar; if after all she’d seen this week she allowed herself to make ill-considered choices, she’d never forgive herself.

Understanding marriage in all its aspects had been her initial goal… but now there was more. She also wanted to know what the emotional link that had developed between her and Simon truly was-the emotion that made it not just possible, but so very easy to imagine herself going to his bed.

Given Kitty’s behavior, learning that, too, seemed wise.

As matters stood, the only risk she could see in going to Simon’s bed was an emotional one. And that was hypothetical, something she could only guess at, given she did not yet know what the emotion that impelled her to intimacy with him was.

That emotion and its effect were quite real. Likewise, the risk, one to which she couldn’t, with her extensive knowledge of him, close her eyes, nor yet pretend she couldn’t see.

What if the emotion growing between them proved to be love?

She had no idea if it might be; along with men and marriage, love had not featured on her list of subjects to be studied.

She hadn’t come looking for it; that wasn’t why she’d availed herself of his offer to teach her what she wanted to know. Yet she wasn’t fool enough, arrogant enough not to wonder, not to acknowledge that, strange though it seemed, the prospect, the possibility, might now be staring her in the face.

Once they’d indulged-once, twice, however many times it took for her to learn all she wished and to identify that emotion-if it wasn’t love, then they would part, her experiment concluded, her discovery made. That outcome seemed certain and straightforward. The danger did not lie there.

The threat lay on the other side of the coin. If what lay between them proved to be love, what then?

She knew the answer; if it was love, either her for him or him for her, or both, and he recognized it, he would insist on marriage, and she would not easily be able to deny him.

He was a Cynster, after all. Yet if he prevailed, where would that leave her?

Married to a Cynster. Possibly bound by love and married to a Cynster-if anything, that was potentially worse. If love ruled them both, then the situation might be manageable-she really had no idea-but if love affected one but not the other, the outlook was inherently bleak.

Therein lay the risk.

The question facing her, now, tonight, was would she chance it? In essence, was she game?

She blew out a breath, focused on the silhouettes of the trees outside.

If she didn’t pursue the question now-didn’t accept his offer to be seduced-they would go their separate ways within days. She would return to Rutlandshire, curiosity aflame; who else would she find to satisfy her need to know? Who else could she trust?

The chances of their meeting again this summer, let alone in suitable surrounds, were slight, and she had no guarantee that he would remain agreeable to teaching her all she wished next month, let alone in three.

Could she bear to retreat, to turn aside, draw back and not know? Could she live without discovering what, for them, physical intimacy truly represented? What it was that drove them to it? Never learn if it was love, whether both of them were affected by it, and what such an outome would mean?

Her lips twisted, wryly self-deprecating. There was no question there. Reckless, often arrogantly heedless, willful to a fault, she didn’t have the temperament to turn back. Regardless of the risk.

Yet as matters stood, going to Simon tonight might well be her safest, most sensible option. Others might label her reckless and wild, but that argument made perfect sense to her.

There was no sense wasting time.

In order to reach Simon’s room, she had to circle the gallery around the top of the main stairs. Luckily, with all the ladies already in their rooms, there was no one around to see her as she glided from shadow to shadow, past the stairhead and into the corridor leading to the west wing.

At the junction of the west wing and the main house, she had to cross the foyer at the head of the west wing stairs. She’d just entered the open area when she heard heavy footsteps plodding up the stairs.

Quick as a flash, she whisked around, back into the shadows of the corridor she’d just left. The steps came steadily on, two sets, then she heard Ambrose’s voice; Desmond replied. She sent up a quick prayer that their rooms were in the west wing and not in the main wing where she presently stood.

She listened; they reached the top of the stairs, discussing dogs, of all things. With barely a pause, they strolled on.

Down the west wing.

Hugely relieved, she hesitated, but knowing which rooms they were in would be useful. Easing from the concealing shadows, hugging the wall, she peeped around the corner.

Both Desmond and Ambrose were well down the corridor; they were nearly at the end when they parted, each entering a room, one to the left, the other to the right.

Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she straightened. Simon had said the third door from the stairs, so she wouldn’t need to risk passing Ambrose’s or Desmond’s doors.

She set out across the foyer. As she passed the stairwell, the clink of billiard balls reached her. She paused, glanced around, then went quickly to the stairhead. Straining her ears, she could just hear the murmur of voices rising from the billiard room.

Charlie’s light voice, James’s quick laugh-and Simon’s deep drawl.

For one instant, she stood there, eyes narrowing, lips thinning, then she turned on her heel and continued to his room.

Opening the door, she swept in, recalled herself enough to shut the door quietly. Given the number of rooms available, it was unlikely any of the others would be quartered immediately next door, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks.

She surveyed the room, cloaked in shadows, irritated that Simon wasn’t there waiting to greet her. To distract her from thinking about what she was doing. Still, how long could a game of billiards take? She thought, then humphed. Presumably, he’d at least have the sense to come up and see if she’d made use of the information he’d oh-so-subtly imparted.

She moved into the room, ruthlessly quelling the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She’d made her decision; she certainly wasn’t about to change her mind. Her courage was more than up to the challenge.

The west wing rooms were not as large as those in the east wing. This wing seemed older; the ceilings were just as high, but the rooms were narrower. There was no armchair by the hearth, no window seat, no dressing table and therefore no stool, just a tallboy. Two upright chairs flanked the shoulder-high chest of drawers, but they were narrow, hardly comfortable.

She looked at the bed. It was the only sensible place to sit and wait. Sweeping forward, she turned and sat. Bounced, approving the thickness and comfort of the mattress.

Wriggling back to lean against the pillows piled against the headboard, she crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on the door. There was, she supposed, another perspective on Simon’s absence. He obviously hadn’t expected her, hadn’t taken her deciding in his favor for granted.

Given his Cynster arrogance, given his reputation, that definitely ranked as noteworthy.

The window was open; a cool breeze had sprung up. The storm that had threatened had blown past, leaving cooler air in its wake.

She shivered, shifted. She wasn’t cold, yet…

She looked at the comforter on the bed, then lifted her gaze, and frowned at the door.

Parting from Charlie at his door, Simon opened it and walked in. Shutting the door, he glanced at the window, noted the moonlight streaming in, and decided not to bother lighting a candle.

Stifling a sigh, he shrugged out of his coat. Slipping the buttons on his waistcoat free, he walked to the chair beside the tallboy and tossed the coat across it. His waistcoat went the same way. Plucking the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then set his fingers to the intricate folds, loosening them, untying the knot-studiously keeping his mind busy with mundane things rather than wondering for how many hours he’d toss and turn tonight.

Wondering how long it would take his obsession to make up her mind.

Wondering how much longer he could manage to play the role of nonchalant seducer. He’d never previously attempted a role so totally foreign to his nature-but he’d never before seduced Portia.

Flicking the ends of the cravat free, he drew it from his throat, went to drop it on the other chair-

A silk gown of some pale shade lay draped neatly across the chair. Apple green silk-his memory supplied the color of the gown Portia had worn that evening. The shade had made her skin appear even whiter, thrown her black hair into sharp contrast, made her dark blue eyes even more startling.

He reached down, trailed his fingertips across the folds-in truth, to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. His touch disturbed a pair of diaphanous silk stockings, laid over two lace-trimmed, ruched silk garters.

His mind leapt-to a vision of Portia clad in nothing more than her silk chemise.

Slowly, hardly daring to believe what his rational mind was telling him, he turned.

She was asleep in his bed, her hair a black wave breaking over the pillows.

Soft-footed, he moved closer. She lay on her side, facing him, one hand beneath her cheek. Her lips were fractionally parted. Her lashes lay, ebony crescents against her fair skin.

He could smell the scent she wore; a light, flowery fragrance it rose from her warmth, wreathed through his brain, sank sensual claws into him and tugged.

All he could sense, all he could see, left him giddy.

Triumph soared-immediately he grabbed hold and reined it in. Set his jaw, waited a moment, feeling the blood pound beneath his skin. He’d spent all evening warning himself not to expect this-that with Portia, nothing was ever straightforward and simple.

Yet here she was.

He couldn’t quite grasp it-he felt almost winded. Sucking in a breath, he blew it out softly, reminded himself he shouldn’t overinterpret, read too much into her presence. This was definitely not the moment to let his instincts loose and simply seize.

Yet it had to have taken courage to come to his bed.

She knew him-no other lady he’d bedded knew him as she did. She knew his character, his personality-knew what he’d be like as a husband. Or could make a very well-educated guess.

He’d agreed to teach her all she wanted to know; they’d never spoken of anything more. Anything more binding. Regardless, she would have recognized that in coming to him-in accepting his offer to introduce her to intimacy-she was risking, trusting him with, a great deal more than her maidenhead.

Her independence was a vital part of her, of who she was; to toss something so fundamental on the scales took precisely the kind of reckless courage with which she was so well-endowed. But she wouldn’t have taken the decision lightly, not Portia.

She wouldn’t have missed seeing the danger, even though he’d disguised it as much as he was able.

He had no idea how they-he and she-would make a marriage work; by no stretch of the imagination would it be easy. But it was what he wanted.

All he had to do now was lead her to convince herself that it was what she wanted, too.

Without revealing that marrying her had been his aim all along.

No matter that he trusted her, that was one piece of information she did not need, one vulnerability he had no intention of revealing.

He stood looking down at her as the minutes ticked by, plotting, planning, far too wise to rush in. Once he had the best approach clear in his mind, he girded his loins, stepped to the bed, and sat on the edge beside her.

She didn’t stir. He raised a hand, twined his fingers in her hair, let the silky strands slide. He studied her face, innocent in sleep, then bent and kissed her awake.

She roused slowly, warm and sweetly feminine, then she murmured something unintelligible, shifted onto her back, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him back.

Invitingly.

He drew back, looked into her eyes, darker than night behind the screen of her lashes. Looked at her lips. “Why are you here?”

Full, sensuous, her lips slowly curved. She drew him back down. “You know perfectly well. I want you to teach me-all.”

On the last word, she kissed him, her tongue sliding between his lips to find his and stroke, caress, taunt. Passion rose, spread like wildfire beneath his skin.

His reins started to slide-he caught them. Pulled back, met her gaze.

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” When she raised her brows, faintly mocking, he growled, “You’re sure you won’t change your mind come morning?”

Even as the words left his lips, he realized their idiocy; this was Portia-she never changed her mind.

And, God above, he didn’t want her to.

“Never mind-forget that.” He held her gaze. “Just tell me one thing-does this mean you trust me?”

She didn’t answer immediately-she actually thought. Then she nodded. “In this, yes.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God for that.”

Pulling out of her arms, he stood, yanked his shirt from his breeches, then hauled it off over his head.