The Perfect Lover

14

The next morning, Kitty, more accurately Catherine Glossup née Archer, was laid to rest in the Glossup family plot beside the tiny church in Ashmore village.

Everyone from the house attended, bar only the handful of servants left to prepare the wake.

As for the county, the surrounding families were represented by the patriarchs; none of their ladies attended.

Therein lay a message Portia, Simon, and Charlie could read with ease. Standing back, ready to lend an arm should Lady O or Lord Netherfield require one, they watched as the usually jocular neighbors, many of whom they’d met at Kitty’s luncheon, somberly came forward to speak with the family, to murmur condolences, then, clearly uncomfortable, walk away.

“That doesn’t look good,” Charlie murmured.

“They’re reserving judgment,” Portia replied.

“Which means they believe there’s a reasonable chance one of the Glossups…” Simon let his words trail away; none of them needed to hear the truth stated.

The service had been the usual sober affair, somewhat abbreviated given the circumstances and of a darker tone. As if a cloud now hovered over them all, or at least over Glossup Hall. A cloud that would only be dissipated by the unmasking of Kitty’s murderer.

When the right words had been said, all condolences offered and received, the gathering broke up. After seeing Lady O and Lord Netherfield into the carriage they were sharing, Simon handed Portia up into his curricle, followed, and took up the reins as Charlie clambered up behind; with a flick of his wrist, he set his bays in motion, stepping smartly down the lane.

Minutes went by, then Charlie swore.

Portia turned to look at him.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “I was just recalling James’s face. And Henry’s.”

“Let alone Lord and Lady Glossup’s.” Simon’s tone was tight. “They’re all trying to put a brave face on it, yet they can see what’s coming, and there’s precious little they can do to avoid it.”

Portia frowned. “It’s not fair. They’re not the only ones who might have murdered Kitty.”

“Given Kitty’s performance at the luncheon party, doubtless repeated, embroidered, and spread far and wide, polite society will see no reason to look further.”

Charlie swore again, this time with more feeling. “That’s just what I meant. No matter that they were the victims of Kitty’s antics in the first place, dashed if now they aren’t the victims of her murderer.”

Portia felt forced to point out, “It could be one of them.”

Charlie snorted. “And pigs might fly.”

She glanced at Simon; he kept his eyes on the road, but from the grim set of his mouth, she assumed he agreed with Charlie. Understandable, she supposed; they were such close friends of James’s, and of the family, too.

Facing forward, she thought about what she felt, not with her head but with her heart. When the gates of the Hall loomed ahead, she said, “Actually, everyone here, excepting you both and me, and the younger girls, Lady O, Lady Hammond, and Mrs. Archer, are in similar straits, even if they haven’t understood that yet.”

Charlie humphed. “If the silence over the breakfast table this morning was anything to judge by, most have realized-they’re just avoiding thinking about it.” After a moment, he added, “Not every day one attends a house party and finds oneself embroiled in murder.”

Simon drew up in the forecourt; a groom came running. Simon handed over the reins, then helped her down. The first of the other carriages was coming slowly up the drive; Simon exchanged a glance with her, then caught Charlie’s eye-the three of them moved off, taking the path into the pinetum.

Reversing the route she and Simon had walked prior to her stumbling on poor Kitty’s body… Portia caught herself up. Poor Kitty?

After a moment, she linked her arm in Simon’s; he glanced at her face, but said nothing. They walked slowly under the trees, Charlie trailing, equally pensive, behind them.

In their indignation over their friends’ being tarred with unwarranted suspicions, they, and very likely all others, had forgetten that Kitty was indeed poor Kitty; Kitty was dead. No longer able to walk under trees with a man by her side, to wake in his arms, filled with a soft urgency that blossomed into bliss.

She had it all, and Kitty had nothing.

Poor Kitty, indeed.

“We have to find out who the murderer is.” She looked up, looking ahead. “Surely we must be able to do something to help Stokes.”

“Can we?” Charlie asked. “I mean… will he let us, do you think?”

“He was at the funeral.” Simon paced by Portia’s side. “He was watching everyone, but he’s guessing where we know enough to be sure.” He caught Portia’s eye. “Perhaps we should offer our services?”

She nodded, determined. “We should.”

“But before we do that”-they’d reached the lake path; Charlie came up beside them-“we’d better head back to the house and put in an appearance at the wake.”

They did. The gathering was held in the drawing room, curtains half-drawn. With a meaningful nod to them both, Charlie went to talk to James, standing a little apart, a glass in his hand.

Simon and Portia circulated; few of the local gentlemen had come back to the house-the company was primarily composed of the houseguests. Portia stopped to chat to the Hammond sisters, subdued and somewhat crushed. Simon left her and moved on, eventually coming up beside Stokes.

The “gentleman from Bow Street” was hanging back by the wall, consuming a pastry. He caught Simon’s eye. “Lord Netherfield suggested I attend.” He took another bite, looked away. “Seems a nice old codger.”

“Very. And no, I don’t think he did it.”

Stokes grinned, and met Simon’s gaze. “Any particular reason for thinking so?”

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Simon looked across the room. “He’s of a type and a generation where stooping to murder someone as essentially powerless as Kitty-Mrs. Glossup-would be seen as very bad form.”

Stokes munched on the pastry, then quietly asked, “Does ‘very bad form’ still matter?”

“Not to all by any means, but to those of his ilk, yes.” Simon met Stokes’s questioning look. “To him, it would be a matter of personal honor, and that, I assure you, matters to him very much.”

After a moment, Stokes nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and dusted his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “Do I take it you’re willing to… assist me in my inquiries?”

Simon hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps in interpreting any facts you might find, attaching the correct weight to anything you might hear.”

“Ah, I see.” Stokes’s lips curved. “You’re a very old friend of Mr. James Glossup, I hear.”

Simon inclined his head. “Which is why I, and Miss Ashford and Mr. Hastings, are all eager the murderer-the real murderer, whoever he is-be unmasked.” He met Stokes’s gaze. “You’ll need us to get anywhere. We need you to get a result. A fair enough bargain, to my mind.”

Stokes mulled it over, then stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’ll be conducting interviews all afternoon-I haven’t yet spoken to all who were here. Then I’m going down to the gypsy encampment. I doubt I’ll be back before dinner, but perhaps we can talk when I return?”

Simon nodded. “The summerhouse-it’s down by the lake. You can’t miss it. It’s private, and no one else is likely to wander that far at dusk. We’ll wait for you there.”

“Agreed.”

With an inclination of his head, Simon moved away.

He, Portia, and Charlie decamped to the summerhouse the instant tea, served as soon as the gentlemen returned to the drawing room, had been dispensed with. Normal custom having been observed, most guests retired to their rooms, although a light still burned in the billiard room; with the library inhabited by Bow Street’s best, it had become the gentlemen’s retreat.

Stokes had spent all afternoon interrogating the rest of the houseguests, then disappeared. There’d already been a curious tension in the air, as if the desperate fiction that the murderer was, of course, one of the gypsies was already wearing thin; Stokes’s unexplained absence only ratcheted that tension one notch tighter.

Beside Simon, Portia walked down the lawns and onto the path around the lake, puzzling, as she had since quitting his bed that morning in great measure restored to her customary spirits, over why Kitty’s murder had come about.

“You have to admit Stokes was mightily brave to specifically interview Lady O.” Charlie followed in their wake, frowning as he ambled.

“He seems very thorough,” Simon replied.

“And determined.”

“That, too.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?”

Simon glanced at Charlie. “For the Glossups’ sakes-for everyone’s sakes-I hope so.” He seemed to catch something of Charlie’s concern. “Why do you ask? What is it?”

They paused, as one turning to confront Charlie.

Halting, he grimaced. “I spoke to James at the wake, and again this afternoon. He’s… not his usual self.”

Portia raised her brows. “I wouldn’t be my usual self either if I knew I was a prime suspect for murder.”

“Yes, well, it’s rather more than that.” Charlie looked at Simon. “You know how close James and Henry really are. This business, if anything, has drawn them closer…” Charlie ran a hand through his hair. “Point is, James feels guilty over Kitty-not because he harmed her, but over her preferring him to Henry. Even though he never encouraged it… well, it was pretty clear how it was. Deuced awkward enough while she was living-hell now she’s not.”

Simon had stilled; Portia sensed the change in him.

“What exactly are you saying?”

Charlie sighed. “I’m worried that James will do something foolish-especially if things look to be going badly for Henry, and heaven knows, it already looks bad enough. I think he might confess to spare Henry.”

Simon exhaled. “Damn!”

Portia looked from one to the other. “Would he really do that?”

Simon nodded. “Oh, yes. If you knew their past, you’d understand. James will do anything to protect Henry, because Henry spent half his life shielding James.”

“So what can we do?” Charlie asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“The only thing we can do,” Simon replied. “Help unmask the real murderer with all speed.”

It was late when Stokes, clearly weary, joined them.

“Dealing with gypsies is never easy.” He sank into one of the armchairs. “They always assume we’re about to haul them off.” He grimaced. “Can’t say I blame them, given how things used to be.”

“Given you haven’t hauled anyone off,” Simon said, “I take it you don’t think Arturo is guilty?”

“I can’t see it, myself.” Stokes looked across at him. “Can you?”

“No,” Simon acknowledged. “But everyone will suggest it, I’m sure.”

“Aye, they have, but it’s drawing a very long bow. I’ve no reason to suspect he-or that other one, the younger one… Dennis, that was it-did the deed.”

Portia leaned forward. “Have you any theories on who did?”

“Not as such.” Stokes relaxed back in the chair. “But I have some thoughts.”

He shared them; they, for their part, told him all they knew-all Kitty’s little snipes, all her recent barbs. While waiting for Stokes, they’d agreed to hold nothing back, trusting that the truth in Stokes’s hands would not harm the innocent. There was too much at stake to toe the line of polite reticence.

So they told him of all Portia had overheard, all they individually and collectively surmised of Kitty’s propensities for meddling in others’ lives.

Stokes was impressed-and impressive; he questioned them, truly listened, and tried to follow their explanations.

Eventually they reached a point where he had no more questions, but they’d yet to see even a glimmer of a conclusion. They all rose and walked back to the house, silently mulling all they’d touched on, as with a jigsaw trying to see a pattern prior to aligning the pieces.

Portia was still mulling, still deep in thought, when she slipped into Simon’s room an hour later.

Standing beside the bed, he looked up, then continued lighting the six candles in the candelabra he’d borrowed from one of the unused parlors.

He heard the door lock snib, heard Portia’s footsteps cross the floor.

Knew the instant she noticed.

She stopped, staring at the candelabra, now with all candles burning. Then she looked around-at the window, the heavy winter curtains normally tied back through the warmer months fully drawn, then at the bed, bathed in the golden glow thrown by two six-armed candelabra perched on the angled bedside tables, a seven-armed cousin on the tallboy against the corridor wall, and a five-armed one standing on the chest against the opposite wall.

“What…?” She looked at him across the warmly lit expanse.

He shook out the taper, adjusted the second six-armed candelabrum so its light fell on the massed pillows. Then he lifted his head. Met her gaze. “I want to see you, this time.”

She blushed. Not fierily but the wash of color was readily discernible under her alabaster skin.

He hid a wholly predatory smile. His gaze on her, gauging her reaction, he rounded the bed, walked to her side.

She was staring at the counterpane, a silky soft crimson sheening in the candlelight.

He reached for her, slid his hands around her slender form, and drew her into his arms. She came easily, but when she lifted her eyes to his, she was frowning.

“I’m not at all sure this is one of your better ideas.”

He ducked his head and kissed her, gently, persuasively.

“You’ll be able to see me, too.” He whispered the temptation across her lips, then took them again, made them-and her-cling.

Her body sank into his arms, his unreservedly, yet she drew back from the kiss, her hesitation clear in her eyes. He gathered her closer, molded her hips to his. “Trust me. You’ll enjoy it.”

He shifted suggestively against her.

Portia inwardly humphed, decided not to tell him that that was what she feared, that she would enjoy the wanton adventure, enjoy being drawn deeper and deeper into his web-one she knew he was deliberately weaving.

But she’d already accepted the challenge, decided on her path.

Holding his gaze, she slid her hands, until then braced between them, up, over his shoulders, twined her arms about his neck. Stretched up against him. “All right.” Just before their lips met, she hesitated. Long enough to feel the tension he reined back. Feel it build…

Her gaze on his lips, she murmured, deliberately sultry, “Show me, then.”

And offered her mouth.

He took-ravenously. Captured her senses, feasted on her, ripped her wits away.

Plunged them both straight into passion’s furnace, into the roaring flames of desire.

A desire they both let rage-his hands roved her body, powerfully possessive, every touch flagrantly evocative; she speared her fingers through his hair and clung, urging him on-then he reined the fire in. Held it back, seething, simmering, waiting to erupt. Shifted, and trapped her against the bed, his legs outside hers.

Broke from the kiss, waited, head bowed to hers until she lifted her heavy lids.

He trapped her gaze. “Tonight, we are not going to rush.”

The words were deep, gravelly-dictatorial. Fearless, she held his gaze, arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had previously.”

Consideration flashed behind his eyes, then he murmured, “I’ve a proposition. Let’s see how slow we can go.”

She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. Nevertheless she lightly shrugged. “If you wish.”

He bent his head. “I wish.”

He took her mouth again in a long, slow, achingly pleasurable, disturbingly arousing kiss. She was long past resisting in even a token way, long past trying to hold on to her wits, or her will. She let both slide as he drew her ever deeper into mesmerizing delight.

Didn’t even think of the revealing light as he unbuttoned her gown, eased it off her shoulders, then, when she obligingly freed her arms, peeled it down until it fell slack about her waist. With his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers, artfully promising, she barely registered the tugs as he unraveled the ribbon ties of her chemise.

But then he drew back from the kiss, looked down, and drew the fine silk down, exposing her breasts.

To him, to his sight, to the burning blue of his eyes.

The look on his face made her lungs lock; he raised a hand, ran the backs of his fingers from her collarbone down over the upper swell of one breast, then turned his hand and cupped the firm weight, a conqueror assessing an offered prize. Then he closed his hand. And sanity rocked.

She couldn’t breathe, could only watch, caught, trapped, ruthlessly held by a sensual spell as he visually feasted, examining, caressing, fondling-unhurriedly, almost languidly.

Then he flicked her a glance from under his lashes, caught her gaze, then shifted before her and slowly bent his head. Set his lips to one tightly puckered nipple, sucked lightly. At her indrawn breath, he released her, traced and kissed, licked, savored… eventually moved to her other breast while his fingers closed over the heated peak and continued its torture.

Until he returned, opened his mouth and drew it in. Suckled fiercely. Fingers spasming on his skull, clenching tight, she cried out, let her head arch back as she held him to her, spine lightly bowed.

Tried to focus on the pattern of the tapestry lining the bed’s canopy. Couldn’t.

Closed her eyes as he suckled again, wondered how long her legs would hold her.

As if he’d heard the thought, his hands slid down, around, and gripped her bottom, hard, possessively.

On a gasp, she forced her lids up, looked down, watched him feast. He caught her gaze, watched her watching as he rolled one aching nipple over his tongue, then rasped it.

She shuddered and closed her eyes again.

Felt him straighten-let her hands slide down to his chest as his fingers slowly unclenched and released her; she opened her eyes regardless of the effort.

She had to see this-his face as he eased her gown and chemise down, as he pushed the fabric over the swell of her hips, then down until, with a soft swoosh, both garments fell to pool on the floor.

He stepped back a fraction, but his eyes didn’t follow the material; they stopped, locked, on the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

She tried to imagine what he was thinking; couldn’t. Wasn’t even sure, looking at the hard-edged planes of his face, that he was thinking at all.

Then his hands, which had risen to her waist, feathered down, thumbs tracing the slight curve of her stomach, down to the crease between thigh and torso. Head rising, he stepped closer-something she glimpsed in his face made her breath catch. She braced her hands on his chest; held him back.

“No-your clothes.” Their gazes locked; she licked her lips. “I get to see you, too.”

“Oh, you will.” His hands closed about her waist and he bent his head to kiss her. “But not yet. We’re not rushing, tonight. We’ve time to savor it all-each step, each experience.”

He invested the last word with enough promise to distract her, to let him capture her lips, her mouth, then her wits, and send them spinning.

He drew her against him and her breathing fractured. He was still fully dressed; her skin came alive, prickling with awareness as the fabric of his coat and trousers brushed, then pressed against her, increasingly as he gathered her closer, blatantly molding her soft curves to his hard frame, to the rigid column of his erection, emphasizing the fact she was naked and he still clothed.

That she was in his power. His to do with as he pleased.

At least as far as she permitted it.

That last was still clear in her mind, a point so much a given she didn’t hesitate, didn’t think to protest when he lifted her and set her on her knees on the bed before him, facing him. Hands on his shoulders for balance, fingers sinking, gripping as he ravaged her mouth, he kept her trapped in the kiss as his hands roamed. Over her breasts, over her sides, her back, sweeping down to close, then evocatively knead her bottom, finally sliding down, caressing the backs of her thighs, slipping around, fingers trailing upward, following the taut muscles, then sliding inward to trace the quivering inner faces.

All the way up to where she was hot and wet and swollen.

Her lungs slowly locked as he traced, teased, circled the tight bud of her desire, then parted her folds, fingers sliding easily as her slickness welcomed him. He found her entrance, probed until she stopped breathing, until her fingers sank into his shoulders, then he slid inside, first one finger, languidly stroking, then two, making her shudder.

Simon let her break from the kiss, let her lift her head high. One hand on her hip, he held her steady before him, slowly, rhythmically, rigidly controlled, working his hand between her thighs, feeling her scalding sheath close tight about his fingers.

Watched her as he slowly, deliberately pushed her onward.

Watched the blush of desire color her fine skin, changing it from alabaster to the faintest rose. Her face was soft, passion blank, the determination that was usually so much a part of her expression in abeyance as she gave herself up, to his touch, to him, to what he wished to do, to her, with her. Her lips parted, her breathing increasingly ragged as she tried to follow his lead, tried to stay with him, tried not to rush ahead.

Beneath her lashes, her dark eyes glinted, the deep sapphire so intense it was almost black.

As she watched him watching her. Visually savoring her as he brought her slowly, steadily, inexorably to climax.

Her nipples, rosy and tight, beckoned, the most succulent fruit.

As step by step passion claimed her, as her body undulated to the rhythm he set, as the blush of desire intensified and her lids fell, he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

Tasted her, teased, waited, feeling her urgency well, feeling the tide rushing through her veins.

Then he suckled fiercely, heard her cry, felt her hands clench tight on his skull as release claimed her.

He held her and feasted as the contractions faded, as all tension flowed from her. Withdrawing his hand from between her thighs, he swept her up; kneeling on the bed, he laid her down.

Her eyes opened, and she watched him. Displayed naked and delectable on the red silk coverlet, she followed his every move as, languidly, unhurriedly, he undressed.

There was no reason to rush, as he’d said; he intended tonight’s performance to be a play of multiple acts-she would need at least a few minutes to recover, the longer the better. The better for the next time; the better for him.

He was a past master at thinking of other things, of ignoring the driving beat in his blood, yet it was only that experience, the knowing what was possible if he stuck to the script, and his iron will, that kept him from falling on her and ravishing her.

Her skin was incredibly fine; although the flush of desire was fading, it was so pale and translucent it took the golden glow from the candlelight, sheened with a sensual gilding. Her raven black hair, thick, falling in large wavy locks, lay spread beneath her shoulders, a frame for her face.

The face of a very English madonna, softened even more by passion’s stamp and lit by a sensual glow.

And slowly dawning expectation.

Fascinated anticipation.

He moved about the bed, divesting himself of coat, waistcoat, shirt-all in the usual manner of a gentleman preparing for bed with the intention of sleeping rather than indulging himself to the hilt with a delectable houri he’d already rendered boneless.

She followed his every move.

They said not a word, but the tension rising between them, around them, intensifying about the bed, was a palpable thing.

It kept his heart racing, pulse thudding; when he finally stripped off his trousers, it was with intense relief.

Laying them neatly aside, he straightened, then came to the side of the bed.

From under the black screen of her lashes, she lay back and watched, blatantly let her gaze run down from his face, over his chest, down over his ridged stomach to feast lovingly on his erection.

Hers.

He could almost hear the word in her mind, saw her fingers curl.

Crawling onto the bed, he sat back on his ankles, just out of her reach.

Lifted one hand, beckoned. “Come here.”

At his tone, harsh, gravelly, very much a command, her gaze flicked up to his face. Then she shifted, came up on her elbow. He was reaching for her arm to help her to her knees when instead she bent toward him.

Her hair swept his groin; before he could react, he felt her breath caress his aching flesh, then she licked. Long. Lingeringly.

And he was lost.

Forgot his script entirely as she shifted and settled to her task, leaning on his thighs, one hand caressing, gliding up and down, fondling as her tongue licked, laved, winding him tighter, then she drew back, considered all she could see, then bent her head and took him into her mouth.

His fingers speared through her thick hair, spasmed on her skull when she sucked. He had to cling for dear life to his control as she tormented him, had to fight to summon enough will to, the moment she paused to draw breath, grab her shoulders and lift her up. Away.

She met his gaze. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“Enough,” he ground out. “Later.”

“You said that last time.”

“For good reason.”

“You promised.”

“That you could look. Not taste.”

She narrowed her eyes as she complied with his wishes and, now on her knees, straddled his lap. Their faces again close, she frowned into his eyes. “Methinks you protest too much. You like it. A lot.”

He clamped his hands about her hips. “I like it too damned much.”

She opened her lips; he stopped her words in the most effective way he knew.

He slid into her, slowly, working his way steadily into her soft sheath, drawing her down, down, until she lost the last of her breath on a gasp, closed her hands about his face, framing it, holding it so she could kiss him.

As evocatively as any houri ever birthed.

He didn’t need any encouraging; he moved beneath her, into her, moving her on him to the same rhythm. She caught it, grabbed it, danced with him. On him. Clamping tight about him, then easing as he lifted her. He didn’t lift her far; she liked him deep, it seemed, and he was quite content to humor her, at least in that regard.

There was, to his mind, nothing more sensually satisfying than being sheathed to the hilt in hot, slick, voluptuous feminine flesh.

Especially hers.

With her, the satisfaction went much deeper than mere sex. Far deeper than sensual gratification. It went to the heart of him; like some heavenly elixir, it soothed, fed, eased, then became an addiction and incited.

He changed tempo, let the urgency build; she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung tight. To him, to their kiss.

To the building, growing, swelling need that rose through them, more primitive than lust, more powerful than passion.

Like a tide rushing in, it filled them; they rode it, faster, higher, deeper, harder.

Until she shattered. Her body tightened unforgivingly around him, then her tension imploded. She cried out, the sound smothered between them. He held her down, brutually forceful, keeping her immobile while her contractions rippled through her, about him, and faded.

All strength went from her, and she slumped against him.

Only then did he dare draw back from the kiss, draw breath, think. Of his next move.

Portia finally managed to drag in a shuddering breath. Realized he’d stopped, that he was still iron-hard, rigid inside her. His hands ran soothingly down her back, but his body was tense, locked-waiting.

Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes. Saw the beast prowling behind the bright blue.

“What now?”

He took a moment to answer; when he did, his voice was a bass growl. “Next act.”

He lifted her from him, gently pushed her toward the pillows piled at the bed’s head.

On her knees, she slumped that way.

Landed on her stomach. Waited for him to turn her over. When he didn’t, she came up on one elbow and looked back at him.

He was still sitting on his haunches, flagrantly erect; as she watched, his gaze rose from her bottom.

“What?” She glanced back, around.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing.” He reached for her legs. “Lie back.”

He flipped her over, spread her thighs wide, came over her and wedged his hips between, and entered her. With one powerful thrust that had her arching wildly, that nearly made her forget.

But not quite.

He withdrew and thrust again, seating himself fully, then, obedient to her tugging, let his body down atop hers.

She caught his eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing you need to know.” He pressed a hand beneath her hip, tilted her up to meet his next thrust.

“I won’t pay attention until you tell me.”

He laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”

She tried to glare, but his next thrust, deeper, harder, wiped the impulse from her mind.

He shifted, rising slightly over her, moving more deeply than ever into her. “If you learn everything at once, there’ll be nothing left to teach you. I wouldn’t want you to grow bored.”

“I don’t think…” There’s any likelihood of that, not ever. Not in this lifetime. She left the words unsaid, closed her eyes. Tried to hold back the tide of urgent need that rose so powerfully, stoked by every deep penetration, by every rocking thrust of his body into hers.

Couldn’t. Let it sweep through her, catch her, buoy her, carry her.

On.

Into the sea in which they’d bathed often enough for her to relish the moments, to value them, savor them, appreciate all they were.

Intimate. Those precious moments were assuredly that, but also a great deal more, far more than the merely physical.

She felt it in her bones, wondered, in the distant part of her mind that still functioned, if he felt it, too.

Felt the power of what was growing between them. Felt how it linked them as their bodies relentlessly fused. Harder, faster, reaching for the pinnacle of ultimate bliss. Sure that they would reach it.

As inevitably they did, cresting, rising high on a wave of ecstasy, before tumbling, locked together, into a sea of pleasured satiation.

It had been easy. So very easy she wasn’t sure she could trust her intuition. Surely nothing so important could be this straightforward.

Was it really love? How could she tell?

It was certainly more than lust that bound them; inexperienced though she was, she was sure about that.

Quitting the breakfast table the next morning, praying no one had noticed her amazing appetite, Portia headed for the morning room and the terrace beyond. She needed to think, to reevaluate, to reassess where they now were, and where, together, it was possible they might go. She’d always thought best while walking, rambling, preferably outdoors.

But she couldn’t think at all with him prowling beside her.

Halting on the terrace, she faced him. “I want to think-I’m going for a walk.”

Hands in his pockets, he looked down at her. Inclined his head. “All right.”

“Alone.”

The change in his face was not due to her imagination; the planes really did harden, his jaw firmed, his eyes sharpened, narrowed.

“You can’t go wandering anywhere alone. Someone tried to murder you, remember?”

“That was days ago-they must have realized by now that I don’t know anything to the point.” She spread her hands. “I’m harmless.”

“You’re witless.” He scowled. “If he thinks you’ll remember whatever it is he imagines you know but have forgotten, he won’t stop-you heard Stokes. Until the murderer’s caught, you go nowhere without protection.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m going to-”

“I don’t think-I know.”

Looking into his eyes, she felt her temper rise, like a volcano filling her, seething, building, preparing to erupt…

Her earlier thought echoed in her mind. Easy? Had she really thought it would be, with him?

She glared; others would cringe and slink away-he, his resolve, didn’t so much as flicker. Suppressing a growl-she really didn’t want to return to their previous sniping ways-she shackled her temper, then, seeing no other way forward, nodded curtly.

“Very well. You can follow.” She sensed his surprise, realized he’d tensed for a battle royal. Defiantly held his gaze. “At a distance.”

He blinked; some of his tension drained. “Why at a distance?”

She didn’t want to admit it, but he wouldn’t oblige if she didn’t. “I can’t think-not clearly, not so I trust what I’m thinking-if you’re on my heels. Or anywhere close.” She didn’t wait to see his reaction-her imagination was quite bad enough; turning, she headed for the steps. “Stay back at least twenty yards.”

She thought she heard a laugh, abruptly smothered, didn’t look back. Head up, she set off, striding across the main lawn in the direction of the lake.

Halfway across, she glanced back. Saw him leisurely descending the steps. Didn’t look to see if his lips were curved or straight. Facing forward, she walked on.

And turned her mind determinedly to her topic.

Him. And her. Together.

An almost unbelievable development. She recalled her original aim, the one that had landed her in his arms. She’d wanted to learn about the attraction that flared between a man and a woman, the attraction that led a woman to consider marriage.

She’d learned the answer. Quite possibly too well.

Frowning, she looked down. Hands clasped behind her back, she ambled on.

Was she truly considering marrying Simon, latent, ofttimes not-so-latent tyrant?

Yes.

Why?

Not because she enjoyed sharing his bed. While that aspect was all very nice, it wasn’t of itself compelling enough. Out of ignorance, she’d assumed the physical aspects weighed heavily in the scale; now, while she would admit they had some weight, indeed, were pleasantly addictive, at least with a gentleman like him, she couldn’t imagine-even now, even with him-that that alone had tipped the scales.

It was that elusive something that had grown between them that had added definitive weight and influenced her so strongly.

She might as well call it by its real name; love was what it had to be-there was no longer any point doubting that. It was there, between them, almost tangible, never truly absent.

Was it really new to them? Was there something different he was offering that he hadn’t before? Or had age and perhaps circumstances shifted their perspectives, opened their eyes, made them appreciate things about each other they hadn’t until now?

The latter seemed most likely. Looking back, she could admit that the potential might, indeed, always have been there but masked and hidden by the natural clash of their personalities.

Their personalities hadn’t changed, yet she and apparently he… perhaps they’d both reached an age when they could accept each other as they were, willing to adjust and cope in pursuit of a greater prize.

The lawn narrowed into the path leading toward the lake. She looked up as she turned the corner-

Nearly tripped, stumbled-grabbed up her skirts and leapt over some obstacle. Regaining her balance, she looked back.

Saw…

Was suddenly conscious of the soft breeze lifting tendrils of her hair, conscious of the thud of her heart, the rush of blood through her veins.

Of the icy chill washing over her skin.

“Simon?”

Too weak. He was close, but momentarily out of sight.

“Simon!”

She heard the immediate pounding as he rushed to her. Put out her hands to stop him as he, as she had, tripped, then stumbled.

He caught his balance, glanced down, swore, and grabbed her, held her tight.

Swore again, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, swinging her away, shielding her from the sight.

Of the young gypsy gardener, Dennis, lying sprawled on his back, strangled… like Kitty.

Like Kitty, quite dead.