The Perfect Lover

10

Portia stared at the muscled expanse of bare chest suddenly on display. Her mouth dried; her logical mind was fighting to pay attention to what he’d asked-why he’d asked… the rest of her mind didn’t care.

This, after all, was what she’d wanted to know. To learn.

The rush of uncertainty, of mild panic when his hands fell to his waistband and he flipped the buttons free, was, she lectured herself, only to be expected. Yet it seemed wise to focus on other things-she was warm and cozy, comfortable… she shifted, acutely conscious of the caress of her chemise against her skin, of the rougher texture of the sheets.

He turned and sat on the bed; it bowed beneath his weight as he wrenched off his boots and let them fall. His face seemed a study in single-minded determination, set in concentration.

A concentration shortly to be focused on…

A shiver slithered down her spine. Her senses leapt when he stood, stripped off his trousers, then turned.

Her eyes locked-not on his. She was conscious of her lips parting, of her eyes growing wider, rounder.

She’d touched, but hadn’t before seen.

The visual was even more impressive than the tactile-at least to her mind. In fact, her mind wasn’t at all sure-

“For God’s sake, stop thinking!”

She blinked; he grabbed the covers and slid beneath. She refocused on his face in the instant he reached for her. Drew her to him.

“Si-”

He kissed her-hard. Arrogantly commanding. Domineering. Instinctively she responded with her own brand of aggression; he immediately gentled-gentled her as she stiffened, shocked by the sheer heat of his skin against hers, of the reality of the heavy, muscled body, tense, naked, and intent, suddenly surrounding her, more than capable of overpowering her.

Despite all, it was a shock-a real, in some ways frightening, shock. In this arena, too, theory was one thing, reality another.

He kept his lips on hers; she couldn’t breathe but through him. She tried to break away, to free her mind enough to think-he wouldn’t allow it. And then, quite abruptly, she was drowning, being dragged inexorably down into a sensual sea.

Above her, angled over her, his legs tangled with hers, his hands spread over her skin, fingers flexing, he held her senses captive, ruthlessly submerged them, held them down until all thought of resistance faded.

Until her mind was filled, not with pleasure, but with anticipation, with yearning. He didn’t let her resurface, but kissed her even more deeply, ravaging her mouth with not even the thinnest veil to screen his intent, his possession. On a gasp, she yielded, not just her mouth, but to the welling need to assuage, to give, to surrender. To appease by offering her body, her self.

And he took. She hadn’t before realized how much he had wanted-quite what he wanted of her. As she glimpsed the reality, a long shudder shook her.

His possession of her mouth eased, but didn’t cease.

He turned his mind to other conquests.

To her breasts. Heated and aching, they swelled beneath his hand. Artful as ever, his fingers teased, kneaded, stroked, caressed. Squeezed.

Heat lanced through her, spread beneath her skin. She moaned, the sound trapped in their kiss; he didn’t stop, didn’t cease his excruciating play.

Only when she arched beneath him and cried out did he release her lips. His hand left her breast; he tugged up her chemise.

“Raise your arms.”

She did, dragging in a huge breath as he drew the chemise up and off. Before she could lower her arms, he caught first one wrist, then the other, shackling them in one fist, anchoring them in the pillows behind her head, lightly bowing her spine.

His chest met her sensitized breasts; she gasped. Fiery delight sliced through her. He bent and took her mouth again, ravenously, then slowly moved his shoulders, back and forth across her, the raspy crinkly hair abrading her breasts, teasing the tight peaks, creating a pleasure that was close to pain.

She was beyond gasping when he finally released her lips to trail hot, openmouthed kisses down the curve of her throat, over the thudding pulse at its base, possessively tracing one collarbone before bending his head and feasting. Trapped as she was, hands above her head, her body bowed, displayed for his delectation, she couldn’t avoid, couldn’t duck the towering wave of awareness that crashed through her-that he ruthlessly sent rushing through her.

It caught her, lifted her up, opened her senses wide. So the reality poured in-the hot wetness of his mouth as he suckled her, the hard heaviness of muscle and bone holding her down, the rampant ridge of his erection pressed to her hip, ready to claim her.

The promise-the certainty-of what was to come overwhelmed her-and she let it.

Stopped fighting. Let him teach her. Show her.

Simon knew when she acquiesced, when she stopped trying to judge-to think. To manage. Her body, nowhere near as strong as his yet with its own supple strength, eased beneath him. A sign he was too much a conqueror not to recognize and relish; he lifted his head, took her lips, her mouth-now his to savor as he wished-and shifted over her.

Let her feel his weight, let her know and learn, as she assuredly needed to. When she tugged, he released her hands, lowered his to her breasts, then slid them lower, tracing her curves, pushing between the sheets and her silken skin to close his hands over the globes of her bottom and angle her hips against him.

She murmured, deep in her throat; inwardly gloating, he caught her senses, dragged them deeper yet into the kiss.

When he released her lips and trailed his down her body, licking, laving, kissing his way to her breasts, she didn’t try to stop him. Her hands lay on his shoulders, fingers clenching then easing as he sampled her bounty; her breathing was ragged, her eyes, when he glanced at her face, were closed. A fine line of concentration lay between her brows.

He licked one tight nipple, curled his tongue about it and drew it into his mouth, then suckled, deep, deeper-until her concentration fractured and she gasped.

Shifting lower, he let his reins slide-knew better than to imagine he could control his baser instincts, not tonight, not with her. He’d wanted her-not just, he could now admit, for the days they’d spent here, but for much, much longer. Her body was a prize his rakish soul had long coveted, even if he hadn’t admitted it.

Tonight she would be his. More-tonight, she would give herself to him completely, without reservation. If they were to have a future, there was no point pretending he was not what he was, that he wouldn’t demand, and command that of her.

How she would react-that was something else, but he’d never known her courage to falter.

Deep in his heart, he knew he could ask of her everything, and she would-knowing and knowingly-give. It was, ultimately, impossible for him to hurt her. She knew that as well as he.

He sent his lips cruising the taut skin of her stomach, and she caught her breath, restlessly shifted. His hands closed, locking about her hips; he shifted lower, spreading her thighs, with his shoulders wedging them wide.

She guessed. Her fingers clenched in his hair. He felt her haul in a breath as he bent his head, and set his lips to her softness.

“Simon!”

She uttered his name on a fractured scream; the sound seared him to his very soul. He licked, probed, then settled to savor her, sucking lightly, then more explicitly tracing the swollen folds. Her slick honey flowed as he feasted; she tasted of pippins, tart yet sweet. He found the tight nubbin erect and swollen beneath its hood, and lightly sucked, his every sense locked on her, on her reactions.

Step by step, he pushed her on, until her fingers curled to claws, until her head pressed back and her hips tilted, wordlessly surrendering. He opened her, tauntingly probed her entrance, then slowly, deliberately, penetrated her with his tongue.

She fractured, broke apart; he gloried in her soft cry, savored her contractions, but the instant they eased, he rose over her. Spread her thighs even wider, sank his hands into the bed on either side of her, set his erection to her slick, swollen folds.

Found her entrance. Nudged in.

Then drove home.

She cried out, arching wildly beneath him. He didn’t stop, but drove deeper yet, fighting to absorb the sensations-of her heated sheath yielding, then encasing him, so tightly, of the firmness of her body, the cushioning feminine flesh, the succulent heat clamping about him. Battling desperately to savor all that, yet not let the moment sweep him away, not let his most primitive instincts have their way. He could-and would-plunder later, once she’d agreed, once she understood.

Trapped beneath him, she’d stilled. Head bowed, he could feel her panting breath close by his ear. Could feel, where they joined, where she’d clamped tight about him, the thudding tempo of her racing heart. Every muscle locked against the almost overpowering urge to ride her, he lifted his head and looked into her face.

From beneath heavy lids, from behind the black lace of her lashes, her eyes glinted-glittered-into his. Her lips, swollen, slightly parted, seemed to firm. He felt her draw breath.

“I thought you promised never to hurt me.”

Not quite an accusation-her lips twisted briefly in the lightest grimace; to his immense relief, her body was already easing beneath his, the defensive tension slowly seeping away.

He bent his head, brushed her lips with his, made them cling for an instant. “I think,” he murmured, shifting very slightly within her, “that you’ll find it’s not a lasting hurt.”

He lifted over her again; eyes locked with hers, he withdrew a fraction, then slid home once more.

She blinked. “Do that again.”

He would have grinned, but couldn’t; his features were locked, passion set. He did as she asked, letting out a little of the air locked in his lungs when neither her expression nor her body retensed.

Looking into his face, Portia struggled to assimilate the feeling of fullness, of being so full of him. Not in her wildest dreams… the sensations of intimacy, of having given herself to him, of having taken him into her body, were not only more powerful than she’d foreseen, but powerful in a different way.

A more fundamental, earth-shattering, soul-shaking way.

But she couldn’t stop and examine that now-neither her body nor his would permit it. Both were primed, coiled, ready. For what, she had only the vaguest idea.

Her hands had dropped from his shoulders to close, viselike, on his upper arms; releasing one, she raised her hand to his cheek, brushed back the fall of his silken hair. Drew his face, slowly, down to hers.

Opened her mouth beneath his, urged him on, invited him to take her-teach her more-in the only way she knew.

His lips closed over hers, his tongue filled her mouth, tangled with hers, thrust deep-withdrew as his body did, then echoed the surge as he filled her anew.

A surge repeated again and again until it caught her, drew her up, had her riding the wave of sensation again, with him, this time, as he rode her. Her body, no longer hers to command, following instinct, following him, rose to his until flames flared, until fire danced under her skin, until her bones were molten, her body a furnace into which his plunged, like a burning brand, deeper, harder, rhythmically, repeatedly stoking the flames.

Her senses were caught, locked in the moment; never had she felt so alive. So aware of herself, and of him. Of their bodies merging, giving and taking, of their skins, slick and hot, rubbing and sliding, touching, brushing, caressing. Of their breaths mingling, their hearts thundering in unison, their bodies striving, their wills as one.

Diving into the flames, bathing in the passion, in the hot furnace of mutual desire. Clinging, gasping, then stoking the flames to new heights.

Until they erupted in a towering wall of heat that fell on them and consumed them, that cindered all remnants of rational thought, poured in molten sensation down every nerve as wildfire flashed across their skins.

Desperate, they danced on, breaths fractured, hearts racing, fingers sinking deep.

He lifted his head, dragged in a gigantic breath-as did she. Their gazes met.

“Do something for me.”

She could barely make out the words. “What?”

“Wrap your legs about my hips.”

She wanted to ask why but didn’t, instead simply did as he asked-and learned the answer.

He drove into her-deeper, harder, faster-drove, it seemed, straight to her heart. She arched beneath him, gripped tight with her thighs, heard herself cry as her senses fractured-not as before but infinitely more intensely, shattering into shards, bright, sharp, gilded with glory.

She felt him hold still, buried deep within her, then he was with her, caught, trapped, swept up and away in the pure energy swirling around them, through them, that battered them, buoyed them. Ultimately fused them.

Fused their bodies, heated and damp-then imploded in a sunburst powerful enough to fuse their very souls.

She’d wondered what would happen after; no amount of wondering had prepared her for this.

For the sheer weight of him, slumped on top of her, for the thundering of their hearts, for the glory still coursing through their veins, the heat still pulsing under their skins.

Over. The raging storm had swept past and left them washed up, exhausted, tossed up by the waves on some deserted island.

Only they were real. In that moment, the rest of the world did not exist.

Boneless, she lay beneath him, stunned, yet at peace. He turned his head. Their breaths mingled, then, blindly, their lips met. Clung. Held.

“Thank you.”

His words feathered her cheek. Lifting a hand, she brushed back his hair, then stroked down, over the powerful lines of his torso, the long muscles of his back.

“No-thank you.”

For teaching her, for letting her see… possibly more than he’d intended.

She’d been right; there was something special between them, something worth fighting for. But there was also so much she’d yet to learn…

His lips cruised over hers, then he drew in a breath, and eased from her. The change was dramatic-the difference in sensations, in how her body felt when he was there, joined with her, and when he was not.

He lifted from her, then slumped on the bed beside her. One heavy arm reached across, settling her against his side, locking her there.

“Go to sleep. We’ll have to get you back to your room before dawn-I’ll wake you before then.”

She smiled. Refrained from telling him she was looking forward to it-to having him wake her up. Turning onto her side, she snuggled down, snuggled her back against him.

She’d never slept with a man before, but sleeping with him seemed perfectly natural. Perfectly normal.

Perfectly meant to be.

Dawn came too soon.

She was dimly, dreamily aware when Simon left her side, when his weight left the bed. She grumbled, turned over, grabbing the tangled sheets and comforter to her to hold in his warmth, and slid back into bliss-filled slumber.

She was floating, boneless and content on some warm and gentle sea when a hard hand closed on her shoulder and shook.

“Come on-wake up. It’s getting light.”

Cracking open an eye took serious effort; squinting up, she saw Simon, fully dressed, leaning over her. It was light enough to see that his eyes were blue, his expression concerned.

She smiled, closed her eye, reached up and curled her fingers in his lapel. “No one else will be up for hours.” She tugged. “Come back in here.” Her lips curved as the memories washed over her. “I want to learn more.”

He sighed. Heavily. Then the hand that had risen to close about hers locked about her hand and wrist-and he straightened, yanking her unceremoniously from her warm cocoon.

Her eyes snapped open. “Wha-?”

He caught both her arms and half lifted, half wrestled her to her knees. “We have to get you dressed and back in your room before the servants are everywhere.”

Before she could say a word, he dropped her chemise over her head. She struggled to get her arms up through the delicate armholes, then tugged the fabric down. Scowling came easily; she fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “This is not what I expected.”

He stood looking down at her; he was having trouble keeping his lips straight. “So I’d gathered.” Then his jaw firmed. “However, we’re only here for another two days, and we are not going to cause a scandal in that time.” He tossed her dress at her.

She caught it, tilted her head, and considered him. “As we do have only two more days, wouldn’t it be wiser to-”

“No.” He hesitated, studying her, then added, “We can continue your lessons tonight.” Turning, he sat on the bed and reached for his boots. “Don’t think to learn anything more before then.”

Mulling that over, she struggled into her gown, then wriggled around to sit and pull on her stockings. “Why,” she eventually asked, “do we have to wait until tonight?”

Her tone reflected honest curiosity, but also an underlying uncertainty; Simon heard both. He glanced at her, watched, his body slowly tensing as, one long, long leg extended, she-with transparently guileless grace-drew on her stocking. He blinked, struggled to remember her question.

He managed it; he lifted his gaze to her face, met her eyes. His instinct was to slide around the topic, avoid it.

She raised her brows, waiting. Jaw setting, he stood, gave her his hand and helped her from the bed. She looked down, sliding her feet into her evening slippers.

“Your body…” He spoke to the top of her head. “You’ll need a little time to recover.”

She looked up, blinked-was about to argue-

“Trust me, you will.” He shepherded her to the door.

To his immense relief, she went-still thinking. She halted before the door; he reached around her for the knob. Shifting, she leaned her shoulder against his chest, traced his cheek with one fingertip.

Met his eyes. “I’m not exactly a fragile flower. I won’t break.”

He held her gaze. “I’m neither small nor gentle.” He bent his head and brushed her lips. “Trust me-tonight, but not before.”

Her lips clung; he felt her sigh.

“All right.”

Gripping the knob, he opened the door.

He insisted on seeing her back to her room. In order to reach it, they had to traverse the length of the main wing. The oldest part of the house, it contained numerous reception rooms, many opening one into the other; he used that route to avoid the tweenies scurrying about the main corridors.

They were close to the east wing, slipping along a rarely used gallery when Portia glanced out of the mullioned windows, and stopped. Tugged back when he tried to tug her on, then stepped closer to the window.

He looked over her head, and saw what she had.

Kitty, in a peignoir that did nothing to hide her charms, standing on the lawn in full sight, remonstrating with Arturo and Dennis. She was talking, gesticulating.

He drew Portia back; Kitty was facing away from them, but Arturo or Dennis might see them if they glanced up.

Portia met his gaze, shook her head as if to say it was all completely beyond her, then let him hurry her along.

They reached her room. Brushing a quick kiss on her fingertips, he urged her inside. The minute the door closed, he headed back to his room.

A pair of giggling maids forced him down the east wing stairs; safe enough-he could cut through the ground floor of the main wing and reach the west wing that way. Swinging down off the stairs, he stepped out-

“Well, well-what have we here?”

He halted, swung around-to face Kitty.

Clutching her peignoir about her, she locked her eyes, widening as full realization struck, on his face, then her gaze traveled slowly down, narrowing.

Simon inwardly cursed; he’d thrown on the same clothes he’d worn last night.

Kitty looked up, her expression brittlely arch. “A trifle late to be leaving Miss Ashford’s bed, but then no doubt you were entertained to the point of distraction.”

The fury of a woman scorned rang in her tone; he’d turned her down any number of times-the malicious gleam in her eyes suggested she remembered every instance.

“Not so distracted as to imagine the local gypsies normally call at dawn to consult with the lady of the house.”

She paled, then flushed, with temper as much as guilt. She opened her lips, met his eyes-and thought better of whatever she’d been about to say. With an icy glare, she gathered her draperies about her, turned, and swept up the stairs.

Simon watched her go, his own eyes narrowing, a sense of danger tickling his spine. Her footsteps died; he swung on his heel and strode for the west wing.

“Can we go riding this morning, do you think?” Cecily Hammond looked around the breakfast table, her blue eyes hopeful.

All those present knew exactly what she hoped-that by organizing such an impromptu event now, in Kitty’s absence, they could avoid her presence for the morning at least.

James looked at Simon. “I can’t see why not.”

“A sensible idea,” Charlie pronounced. He looked at the others-at Portia, Lucy, Annabelle, Desmond, Winifred, Oswald, and Swanston. “Where should we go?”

Numerous suggestions were made; while discussion raged, Portia looked down at her plate. At the mound of food she was steadily consuming. She normally had an excellent appetite; this morning, however, she felt hungry enough to eat a horse.

She didn’t, however, think she could sit one. Not for any length of time.

Quite aside from the discomfort-the twinges and aches she’d ignored at first but which had progressively made themselves felt-if going riding were to worsen her condition such that her recovery was postponed beyond tonight… she’d rather not ride than forgo tonight’s lesson.

Tonight’s opportunity to investigate further-something she was determined to do.

The others settled on riding south down the old Roman road to the Badbury Rings, to view the ancient Iron Age fort. Chasing a forkful of kedgeree around her plate, she wondered what excuse she could give.

“I want to give my pair another run.” Simon spoke to James. “They’re eating their heads off, and after the last months, idleness doesn’t suit their temperaments.” He looked across the table at Portia, caught her eye. “I could take you up with me if you’d prefer?”

She blinked at him, then realized-as he already had-that no one there, bar Lady O who wasn’t about to hear, knew of her love of riding. No one would think it odd if she elected to be driven instead.

“Thank you.” She shifted slightly on her chair, realized he must have some inkling of her state… looked down before she blushed. “I would rather sit and watch the scenery.”

She didn’t look up to see if his lips quirked. A moment later, she felt his gaze leave her, and he spoke to James.

Fifteen minutes later, they all gathered in the garden hall, then set out for the stables. Sorting out horses and saddles took some time; Portia consoled the little chestnut mare while Simon’s bays were harnessed.

He came to fetch her, one brow rising as he walked down the aisle to her side. “Ready?”

She met his gaze, read the watchful concern in his eyes, smiled lightly and gave him her hand. “Yes.”

He led her out, handed her up, then climbed up beside her.

“We’ll see you along the road,” he called to James, still supervising the ladies’ mounts. James waved. The groom holding the bays’ heads leapt back. With a flourish of his whip, Simon sent the pair sweeping out into the drive.

They didn’t talk, didn’t need to. She looked around eagerly, keen to see a part of the country she hadn’t before explored. After they left the tall trees of Cranborne Chase behind, stands of beeches occasionally lined the road as it crossed the gently undulating heathland. Simon let the bays stretch their legs, then reined them in to a gentle trot. The others, riding cross-country, caught up with them close to their destination; they rode in convoy about the curricle, chatting, exchanging quips and stories.

About them, the morning waxed glorious-blue skies above, sunshine streaming down, and a breeze fresh enough to clear the stuffiest head. The party enjoyed themselves in innocent exploration, clambering up and about the three rings of defensive earthworks surrounding the old fort. Everyone was so relieved by the respite from the snarled tensions at the Hall, each and every one went out of their way to be gracious and charming-even Oswald and Swanston.

Throughout, Portia was aware of Simon watching her-watching over her. She was used to such attention from him; previously, it had invariably pricked her temper. Today… while she strolled beside Winifred and Lucy, lifting her face to the breeze blowing from the distant sea, even though he wasn’t near, she still felt his gaze, and, to her surprise, felt… cared for. Cherished.

There was something quite different in how he watched her now.

Intrigued, she stopped walking, let the others go ahead, then turned and looked across to where he stood, idly listening to Charlie and James arguing. Across the green dip between two of the rings, he met her gaze, then, taking his hands from his pockets, he left the others and walked to join her.

As he neared, he searched her face. He stopped beside her, holding her gaze, screening her from the others. “Are you all right?”

For one instant, she didn’t answer, too busy reading-savoring-the expression in his eyes. Not his face, that was set in its usual arrogantly austere lines, but his eyes were softer, his concern quite different-of a different nature-to what it had been in years past.

The sight warmed her. From her heart outward, like a sudden upwelling of joy.

She smiled, inclined her head. “Yes. Perfectly.”

A cry reached them-they looked across to where Oswald and Swanston had engaged in mock-battle for the entertainment of the Hammond sisters. Her smile deepening, she put her hand on Simon’s arm. “Come-walk with me.”

He did, keeping by her side as they ambled. Words were superfluous; not even glances were needed to maintain the connection.

Her gaze on the horizon, Portia sensed that connection’s shimmering touch, felt her heart swell as if to accommodate it. Was this what happened? That somehow a link grew between two people-a channel of understanding independent of all things physical?

Whatever it was, it felt special, precious. She glanced at him briefly, too wise to imagine he didn’t sense it, too. He didn’t seem to be fighting it, or denying it; she wondered what he truly thought.

After an hour of simple pleasures, in complete and relaxed accord, they reluctantly returned to the horses and curricle and headed back to the Hall.

They returned just in time for luncheon, just in time to be treated to another petulant performance by Kitty. The lighter mood the morning had engendered rapidly dissipated.

The seating was not specified at luncheon; Simon claimed the chair beside Portia, sat, ate, and watched. Most of the company did the same; if Kitty had possessed the slightest sensibility, she would have noticed the distancing, the guardedness, and muted her behavior accordingly.

Instead, she seemed in the oddest mood, pouting, threatening to sulk over the news of their morning’s outing on the one hand, on the other brittlely excited, eyes alight with almost frenetic anticipation-an expectation of something desperately significant no one else knew of.

“Why, we’ve been to the Rings many times before, dear,” Mrs. Archer reminded Kitty. “I declare it would be quite fatiguing to have to see them again.”

“Indeed,” Kitty averred, “but I-”

“Naturally,” Mrs. Buckstead joined in, smiling benignly down the table at her daughter and the Hammond girls, “the younger ones need to get out in the fresh air.”

Kitty glared at her. “Winifred-”

“And, of course, once one’s married, gadding about on morning adventures does lose its appeal.” Unperturbed, Mrs. Buckstead helped herself to more iced asparagus.

For one instant, Kitty was dumbfounded, then her gaze swung down the table. To Portia. Unaware, Portia continued eating, her gaze lowered, a faint but definite smile-a gentle, abstracted, in many ways revealing smile-curving her lips.

Eyes narrowing, Kitty opened her mouth-

Simon reached out, picked up his glass. Kitty glanced at him-he caught her gaze. Held it as he sipped, then slowly lowered his glass to rest it on the table.

Let Kitty read in his eyes what he would do if she dared vent her jealousy on Portia-if she made the slightest allusion to the morning adventures she suspected he and Portia had enjoyed.

For an instant, Kitty teetered on the brink, then sanity seemed to reassert itself; she drew breath and looked down at her plate.

Elsewhere about the table, Mr. Archer, to all appearances oblivious of his younger daughter’s shortcomings, continued a discussion with Mr. Buckstead; Lord Glossup was talking to Ambrose, while Lady O chatted to Lady Glossup with superb disregard for all else about her.

Gradually, with Kitty sunk in silence, other conversations commenced, Lady Calvin claiming James’s and Charlie’s attention, Desmond and Winifred trying to draw out Drusilla.

Simon exchanged light comments with Annabelle Hammond, on his other side; inwardly, his mind raced. Kitty’s discretion was nonexistent; who knew when, provoked, she would blurt something out? If she did…

The meal drew to a close; he bided his time. The instant Portia set down her fork, he reached out and stroked a finger over her wrist.

She glanced at him, raised a brow.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Her brows rose higher; he could see the thoughts-the speculation-whirling through her mind. Lips twisting, he clarified, “I want to talk to you.”

On the subject that, courtesy of Kitty, could no longer safely be left unbroached.

She studied his eyes, saw he was serious; curious, she inclined her head. Lifting her napkin to her lips, she murmured, “Slipping away from the others might not be that easy.”

In that, she was correct; although the table broke up and in the main the guests scattered to spend the afternoon in various ways, Annabelle, Cecily, and Lucy clung to Portia, clearly expecting to follow her lead. Excusing himself from a billiard match with James and Charlie, Simon followed the four females out to the terrace, wondering how to lose three.

He paused in the doorway from the morning room, considering and discarding various options, then he heard stumping behind him. He turned as Lady O came up; she grasped his arm as he instinctively offered it.

She looked out at the four young ladies standing in a group by the balustrade. Shook her head. “You’ll never manage it.”

Before he could think of any suitable rejoinder, she shook his arm. “Come on-I want to go and sit in the shrubbery courtyard.” A distinctly evil grin curved her lips. “Seems like a place where one hears all sorts of things.”

Assuming she had some scheme in mind, Simon led her out. They crossed the terrace, and he helped her down the steps. When they reached the lawn, she abruptly stopped.

And turned back. Waved to the young ladies. “Portia-fetch my parasol, if you would, my dear.”

Portia had been watching them. “Yes. Of course.”

Excusing herself to the other girls, she went indoors.

Lady O turned and stumped on.

He was settling her in the shrubbery courtyard, on a wrought-iron garden seat set beneath the spreading branches of a magnolia, when Portia joined them.

She looked at the tree. “You won’t need this after all.”

“Never mind. It’s served its purpose.” Lady O took the parasol, then settled her many layers and leaned back, closing her eyes. “You may go, the pair of you.”

Simon looked at Portia; she opened her eyes wide, shrugged.

They turned.

“Incidentally,” Lady O said, “there’s another exit from this place.” They turned back. Barely opening her eyes, she pointed with her cane. “That path. From memory, it leads through the back of the rose garden to the lake.”

She closed her eyes again.

Simon looked at Portia.

Smiling, she returned to the seat, bent and kissed Lady O’s cheek. “Thank you. We’ll come back-”

“I’m perfectly able to get myself back to the house if I wish.” Cracking open both lids, she fixed them with her best basilisk stare. “You two take yourselves off-no need in the world to hurry back.”

When they didn’t immediately move, she lifted both cane and parasol and shooed them. “Go! Go!”

Smothering grins, they went.

“She’s incorrigible.”

Gazes touching, they ducked through the archway into the rose garden.

“I don’t think she’s ever been anything else.”

He reached for Portia’s hand, twined his fingers with hers. They walked on, swiftly leaving the rose garden for the less structured gardens above the lake.

Ten minutes later, they paused where the path they’d followed crested the rise above the lake. He looked out over the water; not another soul was in sight. “Come on.” He led Portia down the narrow path and onto the wider path circling the lake.

She fell into step beside him. He kept hold of her hand; he was reasonably sure none of the others was likely to wander this way, not in the next hour.

When he led her past the front of the summerhouse, she glanced at him. He could sense her thoughts, but instead of asking where they were going, she went straight to the heart of things. “What did you want to talk about?”

Now the moment was upon him-them-although he knew what he needed to say, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Thanks to Kitty, he hadn’t had time to plan what was, in truth, a most crucial engagement in his campaign to win Portia to wife. “I ran into Kitty after I left you this morning.” He glanced at her, met her widening eyes. “She’s guessed, more or less correctly.”

She grimaced, then turned thoughtful. Frowned. “So she may cause problems.”

“That depends. She’s so caught up in her own games, she’ll only lash out and mention us if provoked.”

“Perhaps I should speak with her.”

He stopped. “No! That’s not what-”

She halted, looked at him questioningly.

He glanced about the lake path, heard a high-pitched girlish voice float down from the gardens above. They’d reached the pinetum; a path led on, winding beneath the specimen trees. Tightening his hold on Portia’s hand, he drew her on.

Stopped only when they were surrounded by tall trees, cloaked in dappled shade-totally private.

He released her, turned, faced her.

She watched, waited, mildly curious…

Ignoring the constriction about his lungs, he drew breath, met her midnight blue eyes.

“I want to marry you.”